Quality Time

Receiving the Day: Christian Practices for Opening the Gift of Time.

By Dorothy Bass. (Jossey-Bass), 142 pp., $20.00.

Driven by her conviction that "the practices of living religious traditions have great wisdom to impart," Dorothy Bass examines Christian practices in "both their ancient grounding and the fresh and vibrant forms they take today." A historian of American religion and the director of the Valparaiso University Project on the Education and Formation of People in Faith, she here tackles the problem of time.

This is not another self-help book on how to use time more efficiently or successfully. Bass's emphasis is not on the quantity of time and how to squeeze the most production out of it, but on its quality. She invites her readers into Christian practices that heighten both the spiritual and relational dimensions of time, so that we may live with greater authenticity as people created in God's image -- with an awareness of time as a gift rather than a burden thrust upon us by our daily planners, and with a sense of being "attuned to the active presence of God." Many of Bass's suggested activities for "opening the gift of time" are embedded within the shared activities of communities, not all of them Christian.

As Bass asserts, solutions for dea1ing with the increasing pressures of time -- pressures that mar our days -- will not be found in the writings of historians, economists or sociologists. Nor will the demands to get more and more done be met by e-mails, cell phones, faxes, palm pilots or any of the other inventions that lure us into thinking the workday has no end. Our trouble with time is a matter of the spirit, an issue of identity and conscience. Bass tells us that we have embraced a false theology. "We come to believe that we, not God, are the masters of time. We come to believe that our worth must be proved by the way we spend our hours and that our ultimate safety depends on our own good management."

Bass asks us to see time in a new way, not as something that controls us, but as God's first gift, as the medium of God's presence and activity and as the place of sabbath. To know time as gift is to know it as the "point of rendezvous with God," "the habitation of blessing"; it is to know that its rhythms and passing are beyond our control.

Through glimpses into her personal and communal life, Bass shows us her own, sometimes painful transformations as she learns to "live well in time." Many of the most important evolutions in this process were nurtured by the rhythms of the liturgical year. She also relates practical and theological insights from acquaintances and scholars who have likewise tried to receive each day as the gift of God. Many of these deeply moving illustrations will be appreciated by parents, pastors, counselors and anyone else who tries to teach others to live with an awareness of God's active presence in our lives. For example, there is the parent who, at the end of each day, asks her children, "Where did God meet you today?" There is Eugene Peterson's reminder that the day begins not at dawn but at dusk, with God's long night of work within us as we rest. Morning is when we join in God's labor -- when we join a work that has already begun. There is the wisdom of Martin Marty's morning practice of making the baptismal sign of the cross upon his body. That act places one firmly in the present day, letting go of guilt about yesterday and anxiety about tomorrow. There is the suggestion that families and communities mark with rituals "gifted pieces of time," especially a child's baptismal anniversary.

We also recognize time as God's gift when we respect the daily needs of the body, when we offer attention to the people and experiences of the immediate present, when we set aside a portion of each day for attention to God, when we remove impediments to the authentic use of time, and when we practice the sabbath, a practice that receives considerable attention in Bass's book.

Bass presents practicing the sabbath as a countercultural habit of claiming a weekly day for resting in God's blessings. When we live in the rhythms of the sabbath, "we begin to sway to a beat that runs counter to some of the other rhythms of our busy lives." We begin to "open creation for its true future," in Jurgen Moltmann's words. "This kind of time nourishes an alternative vision of how things could be. It sows seeds of resistance to the unjust arrangements that deny freedom both to those who must work without respite and to those who choose to do so." To keep the sabbath is to "practice, for a day, the freedom that God intends for all people." During the sabbath, we rest from consumerism and from worry-inducing activities, and we grant the creation a day of ecological rest. On the sabbath the meaning of God's work as Deliverer spills "over from worship into all the hours of a day."

The gift of sabbath is best received in community: "the stories, the meals, the gatherings, and the songs that prepare us to cherish creation, to resist slavery in all its forms, and to proclaim new life all week long." She loves the rhythm and complex framework of the liturgical year. Unable to open the gift of time with our own resources, unable to help ourselves, we enter the story and time of God by the Christian practice of living through the liturgical year, "a means of participation in the life of God." This practice reforms us through "a set of deep convictions about what time is for.' Time is for repairing, serving and sharing, for "journeys that train us for living and dying."

Bass relates how the darkness and light of God's story "met and matched" her own. She was changed by "being drawn into a story in which life prevails over death." Bass writes, "Again and again, God has met me [through the practices of the Christian year], receiving my experience, embracing it, and giving it back to me renewed." She describes what all worship leaders hope to offer: a contemporaneous experience of redemption mediated by word and sacrament and located in the rhythms of God's story, in the themes of God's time.

Wine Tasting (2 Corinthians 3:1-6; Mark 2:13-22)

As the gusty winds of change blow unpredictably through the church, Jesus provides an intriguing sound bite in the Gospel lesson: "One puts new wine into fresh wineskins." Fresh wineskins, as faith communities experiment with alternative worship rituals. Fresh wineskins, as local congregations adopt new administrative structures. Fresh wineskins, as denominations reshape their organizational patterns and purposes.

The image isn’t exactly indigenous to contemporary life. Not many wineskins turned up in post-Christmas sales this year. Few folks know that grape fermentation produces gases which can burst an aging and worn-out skin. Even Jesus’ analogy of patching an old cloak with a new piece of cloth is unfamiliar in today’s world of preshrunk and synthetic materials. Eugene Peterson recasts the passage to offer a contemporary slant: "No one Cuts up a fine silk scarf to patch old work clothes; you want fabrics that match. And you don’t put your wine in cracked bottles."

The meaning shines through. Old containers won’t suffice for the dynamic and life-transforming Jesus who is present with us today. God continues to "make all things new." Christ invites us beyond the ruts we’ve worn, the truncated lives we’ve settled for. Embrace the new; relish God’s continuing creative energy!

Many who heard and followed Jesus found their lives transformed. Others found his presence too radical and threatening. He stirred up controversy in the religious community when his followers no longer observed the cherished tradition of fasting. Their aberrant behavior challenged the daily ritual which had been an expression of faithfulness for generations. This change was a dramatic demonstration of Christ’s message: the messianic community cannot be contained by old patterns, or be defined by past rituals, no matter how treasured they are. God is indeed doing a "new thing." The Messiah is here, and business as usual, even spiritual business, needs to be interrupted.

The disruption of revered patterns spawns anxiety in any age. The congregation I serve has been wrestling to discern what changes in the church, what fresh wineskins, are needed to keep us faithful and open to the Spirit. A new organizational structure has emerged, using clusters and teams rather than committees. Though traditional worship services continue in our simple 19th-century sanctuary, we will soon offer an option. A band (no organ, please!) and the latest in sound and video technology will make the old building rock.

Some people are not sure that they approve. They feel displaced by contemporary music, lost without familiar structures. I understand those responses, and sometimes wonder myself where we’re being led.

The anxiety can drive us to seek protection: shut out the new, intensify efforts to sanctify the status quo. But the churning uneasiness can also fuel creativity, engender excitement, nudge us toward a fresh appreciation of the Spirit’s guidance. The quest for new wineskins can open doors to fresh ministries and vibrant witness that might never have emerged if discomfort hadn’t mobilized us.

The postresurrection faith community discovered this truth. Acts 15 chronicles the controversy that swirled around the Jerusalem church. Could its structure be reshaped as a "new wineskin" inclusive enough to welcome the gentiles? As the leaders leaned into that debate, their resounding yes sent the good news spilling into far corners of the world. Today too we need to keep searching, testing, experimenting, praying. Though we don’t always know whether the wineskins are the right size and shape and sturdiness, we do have some clues. Are lives being changed in our midst? Do emerging structures/ministries/programs carry and pour out the new wine of Jesus’ sacrificial love?

Are we drawn to care not only for ourselves, but for the world? The challenge of new wineskins draws us out beyond preoccupation with innovative worship and redesigned organizational charts. Jesus kept company with tax collectors and other marginalized folks. He antagonized his skeptical questioners. They didn’t much like his behavior.

Functionally, it appears that we don’t much like it either. Instead of embracing those beyond our doors who are hungry for good news, we often remain contained within our traditions, focused on in-house concerns. Who is truly righteous, who can be ordained to what position? We burrow into the rules, comb the books of discipline. Preoccupied with high-profile church dramas, we find our energy drained, our passion chilled.

Meanwhile, the world waits for some redemptive sign from us. The church prays for the 20 percent of our population left unprotected with no health insurance, but its voice is muted. Community food pantries are well stocked, but we have precious little experience living with and loving those people who have to fill their grocery bags there. Nor have we found a way to modify our economic priorities so that no one needs to go begging for food.

Seeking fresh wineskins for this new wine challenges us all. The journey can release ingenuity and open doors to new ministries. It may also reconnect us with God’s dynamic, transforming movement within each of us. Paul’s image captures it well. He reassures us that our identity is not defined by traditions, patterns, rules. "You are a letter of Christ . . . written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God."

Twice Healed (2 Cor. 1:18-22; Mk. 2:1-12)

When the congregation I serve initiated a prayer chain several years ago, its participants were amazed at the response: healing intercessions requested for all manner of illnesses and ailments -- physical, emotional, 1 spiritual, societal. The calls poured in from members and nonmembers alike.

Why so well received? In part, because those seeking out intercessory prayer know that they will be surrounded by a cadre of faithful folks who already know firsthand the healing presence and power of the Holy One. They join together in seeking wholeness, and those in need draw confidence through this shared connection.

The Gospel lesson introduces us to a "mobile unit" prayer chain. These friends of the paralyzed man come equipped with sturdy legs and strong arms as well as prayerful posture. Their confidence in Jesus' healing power mobilizes them (accompanied by others, we're told) to pick up their disabled companion and transport him to the feet of the Master. Determined and focused, they're not afraid to dismantle a portion of the roof to gain access to this teacher and healer for their immobilized friend.

Jesus' response to this bold interruption must have surprised many in the crowd. He speaks to the paralyzed man not as a result of any direct request from the patient himself, but in response to the faithfulness of his confident companions. Even more startling, Jesus doesn't heal him, not just yet. Indeed, he doesn't even mention the affliction that is so obvious to everyone else.

Instead, Jesus focuses on the disease at the core of the man's being: a broken, incomplete relationship with God. He offers healing through words of forgiveness, so this man may find free access to the love of God that will carry him through all of life -- a wholeness that a dysfunctional body cannot deny him.

The physical healing, the "take up your mat and go home" drama, occurs only at the very end of this encounter. It seems almost tacked on, an afterthought utilized as a teaching device. Yes, the crowds are awed by Jesus' miraculous power as the man gathers up his portable bed and heads home. Yes, the religious leaders are confounded. They have already been outraged because this rabbi presumes to speak words of forgiveness as if he were God. Now, once again, they see that he can truly effect physical healing. No wonder the hierarchy is threatened, even in these early days of Jesus' ministry. It's a fitting conclusion to Mark's vignette.

But we first meet the radical, life-transforming power of the Christ in the middle of the story, not at the close. That's where most of us are, mucking about in the messy middle, still grappling with thorny issues and unsolved problems. Rancorous relationships remain stuck in destructive patterns. Building bridges across the centuries of mistrust and hostility in Ireland or the Middle East continues to be a precarious and fragile venture with uncertain outcome. Bodies fail us; physical wholeness eludes us. Often we cannot yet fold up the mat and gladly walk, skip, dance or run home.

Recently I've discovered afresh the reality of inhabiting the unresolved middle of Mark's story as opposed to its healing conclusion, as I might wish. The doctor explained that a liver transplant offers the only treatment for my rare disease (a disease that also affected my fellow Chicagoan Walter Payton). Due to a shortage of organ donors, he continued, only about one-third of those needing livers will receive them. The others die.

In the aftermath of that nearly paralyzing news, I was awed to find spiritual companions gathering around me, bringing great blessing. Their faithfulness lifted me, carried me, toward the Healer when I couldn't find my way alone. A wise counselor helped me quiet my spirit, so I could listen to and cherish my errant liver, instead of feeling betrayed by its failure. A faithful spiritual friend guided me toward the rich promises of scripture and the written wisdom of the saints. Many folk joined in continuing prayers for healing. Together, each in his own fashion, they have buoyed me up and continue to transport me into the transforming presence and healing power of Christ.

Their faithfulness has helped me experience a reality that I suspect the paralyzed man discovered as well. Even without being free of physical disease, we are offered God's transformative gift of love that can mean more than healthy bodies. As Paul insists in his letter to the Corinthian church, every one of God's promises is a yes. Sometimes, the no that we hear from elsewhere opens the door to hear a divine yes with fresh clarity and profound gratitude.

In the opening portion of his Spiritual Exercises, Ignatius helps reframe priorities: "In everyday life . . . we must hold ourselves in balance before ill created gifts . . . We should not fix our desires on health or sickness, wealth or poverty, success or failure, a long life or a short one. For everything has the potential of calling forth in us a deeper response to our life in God. Our only desire and our one choice should be this: I want and I choose what better leads to God's deepening [God's] life in me."

Jesus' words of forgiveness to the paralyzed man turn out to be God's most transforming yes, thanks to his friends. And we are invited to be the friends who carry others to the feet of the Master so they, too, can hear the good news.

The Significance of Mircea Eliade for Christian Theology

Introduction

I formulate my experience of reading Eliade as a student engaged in the study of Christian theology particularly that of New Testament with a purpose of making use of his insights in the search for developing new perspectives and paradigms to do theology. NT discipline is one of the fields of study within 'Theology' and NT subjects are part of theological curriculums. It is nourished by those scholars, who have had competence in philology, historical criticism, literary criticism, Philosophy, Sociology and History of Religions. The study of NT, however, still remains as a branch within the intellectual tradition of the Western Enlightenment era. The developments in this discipline, as pointed out by J. Riches, are also due to the 'wider cultural shifts, which have their complex roots in major political and economic changes in our (western) societies'.

i) History of Religions School in NT Scholarship

In the past half-century, Christian Theology and History of Religions functioned with little mutual influence. There were serious attempts to study NT from History of Religions perspectives. Scholars of repute W. Wrede, A. Hilgenfeld, O. Pfleiderer, H. Gunkel, G. Dalman, A. Deissman, W. Bousset, R. Reitzenstein, J. Weiss, R. Bultmann made significant contributions. Equally influential were scholars such as J. Wellhausen, A. Harnack, A. Jülicher, P. Feine, G. Heinrici, K. Deissner who opposed the new methodological principle, i.e. History of religions, for the study of the history of early Christianity. Space does not permit me to evaluate the contributions made by all of them or even any one of them. The main characteristic of the History of Religions School was 'to interpret primitive Christianity within the framework of the religions of the time'. It sought to explain Christianity as a product of the development of the spirit of classical antiquity. It was argued that the designation "History of Primitive Christian Religion" and not "New Testament Theology" is more suitable to refer to the study of the New Testament. Hence the task of New Testament scholarship was regarded as an attempt to depict primitive Christian religion. Its questions, therefore, were rightly concerned with the relationship between early Christianity and contemporary religious phenomena found in Judaism, Hellenism and what is being called 'Orient'.

Jewish and Hellenistic antecedents were uncovered by many studies. The significant contribution made by the History of Religions School was that it brought to light the role played by oriental religion and piety in the formation of NT religion. However, many scholars regard Oriental religions as detrimental to Christianity and describe them in pejorative sense as being syncretistic, polytheistic and idol worshipping. Some even understand and interpret New Testament Christianity as a triumph achieved over the eastern/oriental religions. As a student of History of Religions School within NT studies, which remains largely Occidental in its approach and conclusions, I look for further inspiration from History of Religions scholars, particularly from the contributions made by Eliade to the study of religious dimensions of NT religion. It is hoped that my reading of this historian of religion will help to create an interest among NT students to incorporate some of his insights into the study of New Testament. The streams of both disciplines should flow closely to each other so that there might take place a creative interplay of their perspectives.

ii) Towards an Indian Attempt

The second objective of my reading the works of Eliade is that India has left an indelible mark in his spiritual quest, which actually received its impetus and animation from Eliade's brief period of stay in India. Eliade devoted himself fully to the task of learning Indian religion and philosophy. He regarded Surendranath Dasgupta as his master and guru. Eliade drank from the wells of Indian religious heritage. His knowledge of Yoga, Indian philosophical systems, Indian epics, Vedas, Upanishads, Buddhism, Jainism, Indian folklore, art, alchemy, popular myths and rituals has made him one of the best Indologists that the West has ever produced. He also has shown a sympathetic attitude towards India's struggle for freedom from colonial rule. These have generated within me kindred feelings towards Eliade and hence the question I would like to ask is, 'Is Eliade showing the way for an Indian student who is engaged in the study NT history and Theology?'

1) Is Eliade a Christian Theologian?

Eliade did not undergo a formal theological training. In many places, he begins a discussion or an explanation of a religious phenomenon in a theological fashion but, to the disappointment of the theologians, he does not take them further. The following words are his typical reaction: 'I am not speaking theologically, for which I have neither the responsibility nor the competence'. Yet, one can catch a glimpse of theological reasoning underpinning his writings. Eliade's sources, which gave theological coating to his creative work, came largely from the writings of the early Church Fathers. Nonetheless, he feels that the polemical stance taken by the Church Fathers against other religions is not strictly necessary 'in our own day'. Biblical references are found very rare in his writings. Yet, he deals with the biblical themes such as God, Christ, Cross, Baptism and symbols and images in the Bible.

i) Death of God Theology - Sky and Sky Gods

Eliade wrote about 'sky and sky gods' when Christian theology was shaken at its very foundations by the 'death of God' theology. He spoke of 'God up there' when theologians such as J. A. T. Robinson were busy with erasing the mythical language of three-storied universe that underlies the early Christian thought and experience. Robinson argued in favor of 'the detaching of the Christian doctrine of God from any necessary dependence on a 'supernaturalistic' worldview'. He understood this as a prophetic aspect of the Church's ministry to the world. It was at this time atheism was regarded as the Christian Gospel that should be preached to the world. J. J. Altizer, for example, maintained boldly by stating, 'Throughout its history Christian theology has been thwarted from reaching its intrinsic goal by its bondage to a transcendent, a sovereign, and an impassive God'. Eliade criticized the Death of God theology and argued that the theology of death of God was based on an understanding of God who was withdrawn from the earth and was forgotten by human beings (deus otiosus). For Eliade, God is indefinable and the moment we attempt to define God in clear-cut language we then lose the mystery of God. The second chapter in Patterns in Comparative Religion provides a good treatment on the subject of 'The Sky and Sky Gods'. There is almost a universal belief in celestial divine being, which created the universe and guarantees the fecundity of the earth and protector of life. Sky is associated with the wealth of mythological and religious significance. '"Height", "being on high", infinite space - all these are hierophanies of what is transcendent, what is supremely sacred'. The Supreme Beings associated with sky hierophanies are creators and they give life. The sky-gods phenomena were subjected to monotheistic beliefs. Such motifs are found in the speeches made by Paul and Barnabas in Lystra (Ac. 14: 15-18 ) and the famous proclamation by Paul before the Areopagus in the multi-religious city Athens (Ac. 17: 22-31).

ii) Cosmic Christianity

The Letters to Ephesians and Colossians make reference to 'Cosmic Christ' (Eph. 1: 17-23; Col. 2: 5-11). There are theologians in India who spoke of 'cosmic Christ'. Eliade's idea of cosmic Christianity has some interesting theological features. He understood Christianity not in terms of the categories of the Western Europe. He observed that the myths and symbols of pre-Christian Europe survived in Christianity in Central and Western Europe as St. Georges and St. Eliases. Whereas in South and Southeastern Europe, Church has been imbued with so many cosmic symbols. The religious experience peculiar to the rural populations was nourished by what he called, "Cosmic Christianity". Cosmic Christianity, for Eliade, is a peasant-centered religion with its array of cosmic liturgies and religious folklores. It is not a paganization of Christianity and is not expressed by a scholastic theology. It is a popular theology that is built on the meaning and significance of seasonal festivals and religious folklore, which reflect the life of the common folk. Thus, cosmic symbols of folkloric themes such as Water, Tree, Vine, the plough and the axe, the ship, chariot etc which have been already assimilated by Judaism are passed on to the Church, which gave them sacramental meaning.

iii) Christology

Christology has received a new dimension in Eliades' popular theology, which has cosmic dimensions. His Christology, in one sense, is local and is bound with the social and political realities in Romania. Romania's literary creations and religious observances, according to Eliade, are entrenched in devotion to Christ. Eliade then goes on to claim that the images of Christ in the Gospels stand in no contradiction to images of Christ in religious folklore. But he does not go on to demonstrate it, which a NT student would have liked him to do. For a Christian, Eliade considers the incarnation of God in Jesus Christ as a supreme hierophany, a manifestation of the sacred. In Christian folklore, Cross is conceived as Cosmic Tree, a universal symbol of hierophany. Tree constitutes religious life and is seen as i) an alter, ii) an image of the cosmos, iii) a cosmic theophany, iv) symbol of life, v) centre of the world and support of the universe, vi) mystical bond between tree and men and vii) the tree as symbol of resurrection of vegetation of spring and of the 'rebirth' of the year. Theology of the Cross is a theology of Cosmic Tree, an ideogram in several cultures but particularly in Mesopotamia and Vedic Writings. The idea of cosmic renovation symbolized by the World Tree is continued by the Salvation from the Cross. Eliade explains Cosmic Christianity of the rural population as being dominated by 'nostalgia for a Nature sanctified by the presence of Jesus'. This nostalgia has social and political dimensions as it is for the restoration of Nature from wars, devastations and conquests. It also refers to the state of liberation from the exploitation of the peasants by various classes and masters. For Eliade, liberation is 'a passive revolt against the tragedy and injustice of History…'.

Hence, social justice and liberation are central to the popular Christology envisioned by Eliade. He sees in Marxist Communism a messianic Judaeo-Christian ideology at work. According to Eliade, the great eschatological myths of Asia-Mediterranean world and millennialist structures underlie Marxism. Thus, Maxism is embedded in Judeo-Christian eschatological hope of an absolute end to History. The content of this hope is: i) Marx ascribes soteriological function to the proletariat, ii) the apocalyptic conflict between Good and Evil in society and iii) the final victory belongs to Christ. Eliade, brings sacredness to peasant struggle in History and sees a Christological basis for achieving victory at the end.

Perhaps, Eliade's political affiliation too here becomes apparent. He clearly sees a role for Marxism, which, he thinks, has enriched the myth of Golden Age found in many religious traditions by working towards building a classless society. It is doubtful whether these remarks of Eliade should be taken as his political allegiance to Marxism. What is to be noted here is that Eliade sees some religious basis for Marxism but he has had no hierophanic explanation for what he calls, 'the racist myth of "Aryanism"'. He does use the word 'Aryan' in his writings but the sense in which it was used during the Second World War is not to be found. Eliade contends that Nazism replaced the Judeo-Christian eschatology with Nordic paganism. Christian values were abolished in order to rediscover the spiritual sources of race. When this was translated into political realities, Eliade described it as 'a pessimistic vision of the end of history'.

Whatever his political affiliations were in Romania and whether his political ideology backfired or not, it should be said that Eliade probably was a nationalist who had a cosmic vision. Eliade was a nationalist to the extent that he desired freedom for the peasant communities of Eastern Europe from oppression and invasion. In his own words, 'As for the rural peoples of eastern Europe, they succeeded in bearing disasters and persecution principally by virtue of the cosmic Christianity….The conception of a cosmos redeemed by the death and resurrection of the Saviour, and sanctified by the footsteps of God, of Jesus, the Virgin, and the saints, made possible…' The terror of history was the time in bondage for Romanians who were in the hands of the oppressive forces, which invaded Romania time and again. He sums it up thus: 'There is no effective military or political defense against the "terror of history", simply because of the crushing inequality between the invaders and the invaded peoples….Small political groups of peasants could not long resist the masses of the invaders' But the folk genius gave the most effective response through folk-lore which transformed these misfortunes into moments of joy and happiness. This quest and longing for freedom, according to Eliade, was sustained by their devotion to cosmic Christianity.

Cosmic Christianity transcends narrow nationalism. Eliade affirms that it exists not only in places like 'rural Romania, but is also to be found in India, in the Mediterranean religion, in Negro spirituals…' It injects solidarity among the suffering masses whoever they are and wherever they happen to live. It is in this struggle for identity, which cuts across geographical and ethnic boundaries, Eliade finds the true meaning of Christianity. In this sense, Eliade can be seen as a theologian of cosmic Christianity.

3) M. Eliade and P. Tillich

What does Christian Theology has to do with History of Religions? There are those who advocate the meeting of the two in a manner which will benefit both. There are, on the other hand, those who think that the concerns of the two are not compatible with each other. Relationship between the two disciplines is discussed from the point of view of theology providing the normative base to the study of Religions. D. Allen is of the view that History of Religions must be 'aided by and dependent upon a normative discipline such as theology'. J. Kittagawa, a colleague of Eliade, admits that a theological history of religions is legitimate and admissible but it should be kept distinct from the 'humanistic' History of Religions, which develop sufficient understanding of classical forms of religious phenomena. For Kittagawa, Religionswissenschaft and theology can interact but they remain separate. E. J. Lott, one of my mentors, stresses that Christian theology should be dependent upon Religious Studies. He suggests, 'For theology cannot function reflectively and contextually in an isolated state of independence from other religious traditions and ignorant of the findings of religious studies.'

The main concern was with regard to theologian's attitude toward other religions and this was deeply challenged by the History of Religions research. H. Kraemer, for example, took Bible as the basis for judging the value of other religions. He argues that 'theology is fully entitled to formulate the case and to say its personal word on the problem of religion and religions, on the basis of its peculiar presuppositions' Kraemer considers Hindu spirituality is antagonistic to Biblical revelation. He maintains, 'It is impossible, from the Indian standpoint, to understand and interpret true Christianity adequately. It can, in principle, only be a rock offence, "foolishness"'. Certainly, one will find that Kraemer's views are at odds with Eliade. The most effective criticism against Theology comes from K. W. Bolle. In his article, 'History of Religions with a Hermeneutic Oriented toward Christian Theology?' criticizes the form of theological hermeneutic, which operates along the lines of certain fixed contrasts. They are, "the others" and "we", "paganism/heathens" and "the true religion", "natural religion" and "the revealed religion" etc. Most NT studies are based on such fallacious distinctions and premises. He points out, 'An extraneous contrast between the "pagan" and the "Christian" does not come up in the major (theological) arguments'. Bolle advocates deprovincialization of Christian theology so that theology incorporates the idea of universality. He observes, 'It is a ghastly symptom that some modern Christian theologians, paying attention to religious man, can consider the subject closed with a few lines on Buddhism and Hinduism, the only concern being to safeguard the Christian faith on an intellectual plane by comparing it to the other, superficially conceived religious notions'. Bolle concludes his article rather pessimistically by pointing to the inevitability of retaining the question mark in the title of his article with the suggestion that separation of Christian theology and History of Religions could be seen as strength rather than as weakness on the part of each discipline. For Bolle, it is perhaps a gain to History of Religions.

Paul Tillich, a distinguished Systematic Theologian, who was the personal friend of Eliade, responded most positively to the challenges that History of Religions posed to the theologians. He too criticizes, like Bolle, theologians' viewpoint of the 'other'. Tillich argues that the significance of History of religions for Christian Theology can only be grasped if the theologian is willing to accept and work on the basis of five presuppositions. They are: i) revelatory experiences are common to all religions, ii) revelation is received under finite human condition, iii) the three types of criticisms, mystical, prophetic and secular help to address the distortions that crept into revealed religions, iv) History of Religions makes 'a concrete theology that has universal significance' possible and v) an acknowledgement that 'the sacred is the creative ground and at the same time a critical judgement of the secular'. These are the fruits of the interchange between a theology and a History of Religion. These should be pursued and possibilities of further interpenetration should be explored. Tillich still sees possibilities for interaction and collaboration between History of Religions and Christian Theology. The following remarks made by Paul Tillich are worth noting:

'I now want to return my thanks on this point to my friend Professor Eliade for two years of seminars and the co-operation we had in them. In these seminars I experienced that every individual doctrinal statement or ritual expression of Christianity receives a new intensity of meaning. And in terms of a kind of apologia, yet also a self-accusation, I must say that my own Systematic Theology was written before these seminars….Its purpose was the discussion or the answering of questions coming from the scientific and philosophical criticism of Christianity. But perhaps we need a longer, more intensive period of interpenetration of systematic theological study and religious historical studies…. This is my hope for the future of theology'

Every student of Theology and Religion should cherish this hope and work towards its realization.

4) Eliade's Critique of Theologians

Eliade lived and wrote at a time when theological writings urged for the separation of 'religion' and 'Christianity'. When Bonhoffer called persistently for 'Religionless Christianity' and when Karl Barth declared that Christianity was not a religion, Eliade was occupied with validating religious inquiries in the study the religious phenomena. He insisted that religious phenomena can be interpreted only if they are studied as something religious. 'To try to grasp the essence of such phenomenon by means of physiology, psychology, sociology, economics, linguistics, art or any other study is false; it misses the one unique and irreducible element in it- the element of the sacred'. Perhaps, one should understand here the two basic distinctions made by Eliade in the methodology of the study of religious phenomena. One concentrates on the characteristic structures of religious phenomena, i.e. the essence of religion and the other on their historical contexts in order to discover and communicate their history. Eliade interprets Christian experience on the basis of cross-cultural parallels irrespective of their historical contexts, which divide humanity on the basis of language, geography and religion.

Eliade sees differences in the roles of historian of religion and a theologian. He maintains that the very procedures of the historian of religion are dissimilar to that of a theologian. A theologian aims to see in the content of a religious experience the clearer and deeper understanding of the relationship between God-Creator and man-creature. Whereas, a historian of religion concentrates primarily on religious symbols completes his/her analysis of religious phenomena as phenomenologist or philosopher of religion. Eliade's challenge to the theologians should be taken seriously. Eliade criticizes theologians for two reasons. He comments that theologians are 'suspicious of historico-religious hermeneutics that might encourage syncretism or religious dillettantism or worse yet, raise doubts about the uniqueness of the Judeo-Christian revelation'. He recognizes the importance of Judaism from which many of the antecedents of early Christian myth and understanding of history came from. Unlike an anti-semitic theologian, Eliade stresses the firm historical connection between Judaism and Christianity. He acknowledges that 'Christianity is a historic religion, deeply rooted in another historic religion, that of the Jews'. Judaism, for him, has had a long religious history and pre-history and is resplendent with myths and symbols, which are acquired by Christianity. This did not leave Judaism exhausted of its meaning and significance. However, Eliade hesitates to assign a privileged position to the Judeo-Christian tradition as he argues that there are images and symbols in Christianity, which are common properties of the entire religious history of humanity.

His second criticism is that many contemporary theologians work on the premises of sociology of religion and accept the inevitability of technology. Science and technology treat religions and religious behavior something other than superstition and ignorance. Sociologists, Weber and Durkheim, made religion central to their theory of society. They drew their definition of religion from the point of view of its impact on society. This sociological definition restricts and at times eliminates other dimensions of meaning of religion.

Thirdly, Eliade observes that theological study seeks to study selected data from monotheistic religions rather than from the so-called primitive materials and, moreover, secondary importance is accorded to religions of the Mediterranean world. This is very much the case with the section of NT studies, which deals with the description of early Christianity. An accurate knowledge of the broader and heterogeneous Mediterranean cultures is fundamental to that description. NT scholarship ignores the Afro-Asiatic landscape of the Eastern Mediterranean in favor of western Mediterranean world, which is regarded as the sea-bed of European civilization. Alice Bach in her article argues that a biblical scholar assumes a divinity, which is congenial to and arises out of the myths of Greece and Rome, the Mediterranean roots of European culture. The discarded aspects of Rome and Greece, Egypt and Ethiopia had oriental elements derived from the religious and cultural traditions of Indo-Iran landscape. As a result we have an account of early Christianity which is Occidental in nature and is opposed to the other, the Orient. This created the Christian/pagan distinction in the reading of NT.

One of the contributions of Eliade, which will have great significance for study of NT history is that Eliade sees cultural contacts and reciprocal influences between Indo-Iranian, Mesopotamian, Mediterranean worlds. Once this cultural bond is recognized then NT world need not be narrowly defined. Quite rightly, Eliade considers in his second volume of A History of Religious Ideas, Vedas, Upanishads, Yoga, Buddhism, Jainism, Mahabharata, Bhagavad Gita, Greco-Oriental Mysteries, Iranian religious synthesis as forerunners of Christianity. The fact that they are prolegomena to NT religion should be applied as one of the most important criteria for historical interpretation in NT studies. The Eastern civilization can be proud of the contribution it has made to the make-up of the world of thought that saw the birth of NT Christianity. It will enable an Indian student of NT to find his/her rightful place in NT scholarship. Eliade understands syncretism not in a pejorative sense but as something inherent in culture and religion to influence each other. It is not a sign of weakness but strength. We need to re-examine the methods of history and categories of theological interpretation in the light of the criticisms of Eliade.

5) Creative Hermeneutics of Eliade

History of Religions has found its powerful formulation in the writings of Eliade. We shall now identify some of its key principles, procedures and methods that can be assimilated into the methodological frameworks to the study of NT. History of Religions should be governed by, what Eliade calls, a 'creative hermeneutics'. There are two important aspects to it. A) Eliade urges that Western thought should be open to new perspective by breaking the confinements of provincialism. He writes, 'Western philosophy cannot contain itself indefinitely within its own tradition without the risk of becoming provincial' Western consciousness should recognize 'only one history, the Universal history, and that the ethnocentric history is surpassed as being provincial'. The works of historians of religions in the nineteenth century failed to be creative and to achieve 'interpretive cultural syntheses in favor of fragmented, analytical research'. This suggestion of Eliade is vital for NT hermeneutics too as we seek to intermingle Western and Eastern modes of inquiries to acquire a holistic vision.

B) Eliade's creative hermeneutics changes man. It prepares man to encounter with 'foreign' worlds, their myths and rituals. The world hitherto remained unknown to Western consciousness is making inroads into history. Eliade acknowledges the value of freedom from western rule attained by countries such as India and stresses the need for incorporating a wider world, Oriental, Australian, African and Oceanian, and into the scope of History of religions. Europe has had dialogue and exchange with extra-European spiritualities but mainly in the field of arts. A creative encounter is to happen between scholars not just among artists. This is not merely an attempt on the part of Eliade to create a new methodological principle but a demand for a change in the attitude and approach of the historians of religions towards 'foreign' religious forms. D. Allen is right when he observes that Eliade derives "much of his methodological framework from religious phenomena of the more 'inclusivistic' Eastern traditions".

There are attempts in NT studies to devise methods, which will introduce new forms of exegesis informed by social scientific input. Theological education is involved in an effort to try out, practice and establish necessary norms of hermeneutics. A theological student in India cannot ask, consciously or unconsciously, western questions and to undertake research which will be meaningful only to Westerners. The elements of Creative hermeneutics as proposed by Eliade can pave the way for dialogue to create a wider cultural base to study NT which has hitherto been dominated by European and North American worldviews.

6) Eliade and R. Bultmann

Another important aspect of Eliade's contribution is found in his critical response to Existentialism of the twentieth century. Existentialism was one of the preferred dialogue partners for NT theologians. M. Heidegger's existentialism had a strong impact on Rudolf Bultmann's (1884-1976) thinking and it played a formative role in modern NT theology. The disciplines represented by Eliade and Bultmann though different and yet they found their hermeneutical contexts same. Both wrote in a context of Existential philosophy, which gripped the Western thinking. Bultmann began writing in the early decades of twentieth century, that is the time between the first two world wars. To both of them, philosophical concerns, particularly Existential philosophical issues posed important challenges. Eliade and Bultmann chose to walk by two divergent paths and arrived naturally at two different conclusions.

i) Demythologization

Bultmann argued that the existential language provides a frame of reference that will help us to understand the myths and symbols. He contends, 'The contrast between the ancient world-view of the Bible and the modern world-view is the contrast between two ways of thinking, the mythological and scientific'. Literary criticism and existential philosophy are the tools applied by Bultmann to study the myths. They have damaged the nature and the essence of myths and showed them as primitive errors, which need to be adapted to suit the modern thinking. The result was that a large portion of NT was consigned to mute existence that they have lost capacity to say anything meaningful. ‘Too much of the New Testament is thus condemned to silence; and this is precisely what happens to the New Testament when Bultmann's principle of interpretation is applied to it'

Eliade, on the other hand, took the diametrically opposite view. Eliade emphasized the myths and mythical thought in the religions. He holds that images, symbols and myths cannot be translated into concepts. They have many frames of references and multivalent meanings and hence any attempt to limit them to one meaning or one frame of reference ought to be discouraged. In a quite un-Bultmannian way, Eliade states, 'To translate an image into a concrete terminology by restricting it to any one of its frame of reference is to do worse than mutilate it-it is to annihilate, to annul it as an instrument of cognition'. Eliade sums it up thus: 'These few cursory observations have shown us in what sense Christianity is prolonging a "mythical" conduct of life into the modern world. If we take account of the true nature and function of the myth, Christianity does not appear to have surpassed the mode of being of archaic man; but then it could not….It remains, however, to enquire what has taken the place of the myth among those of the moderns who have preserved nothing of Christianity but the dead letter'. This forms a fitting reply to those who pursue demythologization as one of the ways to make NT intelligible. Bultmann's demythologization is found congenial to the current antipathy to religious questions, which has crushed out the mythical aspects of Christian spirituality.

ii) Understanding of 'Man'

The other most important difference between Bultmann and Eliade is to be found in their understandings of 'Man'. Understanding 'Man' for Bultmann and for Eliade is to ascertain the meaning of 'human existence'. But Bultmann views man as historic being and history stands under transitoriness. 'Man' implies finitude, 'our being toward death'. Death stands as a threat to man's life. 'Man rebels against death and knows that as one who is fallen under it he is not in his authenticity'. For Eliade, Man is not purely a historical being. Man is not an entity bound to situation and time. Man cannot be explained by his hereditary and social conditioning. This unique understanding of man separates a Existentialist historian and a historian of religion. A historian of religion takes into account authentic factors of human life other than his historicality experienced in given point of time in history. Bultmann emphasized the latter. Mere historic awareness in man does not make him fully human, Eliade asserted. The unconscious sector of his humanity Eliade's humanism provides a new scenario for understanding human beings. His contention is that man cannot be reduced to his historical dimension. Man cannot be regarded as being imprisoned to historical conditionings. Religious structures, for Eliade, are non-temporal and non-historical. The Bultmannian idea of personal history that defines human existence and its authenticity are criticized by Eliade. 'His (man's) authentic existence is realising itself in history, in time, in his time-which is not that of his father. Neither it is the time of his contemporaries in another continent, or even in another country. That being so, what business have we to be talking about the behaviour of man in general? This man in general is no more than an abstraction: he exists only on the strength of a misunderstanding due to the imperfection of language'. There is a non-historical portion of every human being, according to Elide. Man attains to the primordial humanity through images and symbols. "Dreams, waking dreams, the images of his nostalgias and of his enthusiasms,etc., are so many forces that may historically-conditioned human being into a spiritual world that is infinitely richer than the closed world of his own "historical moment."' True History and the history of human condition belongs to the primordial myth and 'it is in this,' affirms Eliade, 'that one must seek and find again the principles and the paradigms for all the conduct of life'.

Eliade contrasts between existence of archaic man and existence as 'modern man'. He understands 'modern man' thus: '"modern man" is such in his insistence upon being exclusively historical; i.e., he is, above all, the "man" of historicism, of Marxism, and of existentialism'. Eliade does not recognize himself in such a man. A historicist view denies existence of archaic man. The 'archaic man' and the 'historical man (modern man) represent two types of humanity. The former, Eliade calls 'man of the archaic cultures', 'man of traditional civilizations', 'primitive man', 'man of premodern socities' etc. In his work, The Myth of the Eternal Return (1949), Eliade deals with the major concern of 'valorization' of human existence. It discusses the problem of the position of 'historical man' in relation to 'archaic man'. Eliade argues that historicism, Marxism and existentialism taught men to cope with history, to tolerate it. But archaic men defended themselves against history 'either by periodically abolishing it through repetition of the cosmogony and a periodic regeneration of time…' The profound insight that Eliade places the problem of human existence and history within the horizon of archaic spirituality and not within the modern Existential framework. It is a spirituality in which myth and archaic man belong to each other. Primitive man did not think in terms of history. Myths were re-actualized continuously through rituals and ceremonies. He felt the need for returning to that mythical moment which was ahistorical. In this archaic man experienced regeneration and renewal as if he entered into a newly built house for the first time. This unique experience enacts a primordial unity, the joy of existence that existed in creation.

NT theology can find valorisation and one can hear the message of NT afresh when a new way of reading NT is made possible which will preserve the myths and symbols and redeem one from the modern myths of Science and Technology.

7) Eliade's Orientalism and New Humanism: Homologization of Western and Eastern Religious Thoughts

E. Said has made a powerful critique of Western Orientalism. These are some of the attacks made against the Orientalists of nineteenth century who continue to copy the same thing also in the twentieth century. He observed that a western orientalist could be regarded as a special agent of western power as it attempted a colonial policy vis-à-vis the Orient. He observed that in the West, the Orient was located in a comparative framework with Occident, as if the Orient remained beyond the Occident, and interpreted the Orient standing from a distant. He also observed that the Orient was overvalued for its pantheism, its spirituality, its stability, its longevity, its primitivity and so forth'. Such an overesteem, according to Said, was matched by an undervalue of the Orient as backward and barbaric. So unequal are Oriental to European achievements with stereotypical portrayal of the East: Orient in itself was subordinated intellectually to the West. Western Orientalists reduced the model of the Orient suitable for the dominant culture and the general picture of the Orient was that it was associated with escapism of sexual fantasy and the familiar clichés such as harems, slaves, dancing girls and boys, ointments and so on. Said decries the unequal partnership between East and West. A Western Orientalist did not live like an ordinary citizen in the Orient. For him, to live in the Orient was to live the privileged live of 'a representative European whose empire (French or British) contains the Orient in its military, economic, and above all, cultural arms'.

The above criticisms do not match what Eliade's experience with the East and particularly when he had a close and positive encounter with Indian spirituality not for the purpose of ruling, subduing and exploiting but to discover the true humanity. Eliade stresses the need for developing a scholarly interest to the cultures of the non-Western peoples which is different from study conducted in the nineteenth century. Eliade criticizes the nineteenth century attempt of Indologists as detached and reductionistic. First and foremost, Eliade did not subscribe to the origin of Aryan Race theory in the study of Oriental religion and culture. Through his knowledge of Indian religion and culture, he did not submit himself to a racial theory of any kind which will fit into the scheme of 'human origin' advocated by the Naturwissenschaft school. Max Müller, a renowned Indologist from Germany is credited with the popularization of the Aryan racial theory in the middle of 19th century. Though he argued that Aryan meant only a linguistic family and never applied to race, the damage was already done. Eliade neither agrees with the view that Hinduism belongs to the family of Aryan religions nor does he define the relationship between Christianity and other religious traditions on the basis of what was known as a 'progressive history of religion'. According to the latter, each religion is placed in a sequence according to some qualitative differences between them arbitrarily established. In this line which constantly moves upwards Christianity occupies the highest and last point and it is called 'revealed religion'. Eliade argues that in Hinduism one finds a synthesis of two spiritual traditions, the tradition of Aryan language Indo-Europeans and Dravidian with Harappan elements. Indo-Europeans contributed to the pre-Aryan Indus civilization its patriarchal structure, pastoral economy and the worship of sky gods. Indo European was thoroughly Asianized and Hinduism represents the resultant victory of the Indian soil. This estimation of Eliade is in complete contrast to what other Indologists thought about the role of Indo-European tradition within Hinduism.

The nineteenth century research in Indology reflected different spirit of man, which failed to see the cultural heritage of the non-Western peoples as 'an integral part of the history of human spirit'. Their estimation of others as 'inferior societies' was largely 'derived form the positivistic, antireligious, and ametaphysical attitude entertained by a number of worthy explorers and ethnologists who had approached the "savages" with a ideology of Comte, Darwin, or Spencer. Among the "primitives" they everywhere discovered "fetishism" and "religious infantilism" - simply because they could see nothing else'. He called for a widening of western consciousness with a new knowledge of Asiatic societies and cultures. They were all considered as 'outsiders' but there is no need any longer to see then 'foreign' and non-western spirituality. He urges, '…we shall have to consider the cultures of non-Western peoples in their own right, and try to understand them with the same intellectual passion that we devote to understanding the Homeric world, the prophets of Israel, or the mystical philosophy of Meister Eckhardt. In other words, we must approach-and fortunately a beginning has already been made-Oceanic or African myths, symbols and rites with the same respect and the same desire to learn that hitherto we have devoted to the cultural creations of the West'.

For an Indian student, Eliade forms a mediating ground between Western and Eastern schools of thought because of his unique understanding of Orientalism. According to Eliade, the historian of religion will include the entire religious history of humanity, from Paleolithic to modern period, in his/her field of investigation without any pre-judgement. A true dialogue cannot be limited to discussing superficial elements of religions but must address the central values in each culture. This is vital as it will help the participants in dialogue to hear, see and touch 'the rich religious soil', which nourishes each culture. In this context, a historian of religion plays an important role in bringing cultures together to interact, speak to each other. The religious renaissance experienced by the West at the beginning of the twentieth century enabled the West to understand the spiritual horizon of the primitives, namely, 'the structure of their symbols, the function of their myths, the maturity of their mysticisms'. This new state of affairs Eliade calls as New Humanism.

For Eliade, this new awakening not only represents the strength of the West but also corresponds to the problems natural to European culture. Eliade's Western Indianism is not based on western superiority and knowledge over the weak and backward India. It denotes a confluence of West and East in which the West touches upon the strength of Indian philosophy. For Eliade, this process is culminated in India beginning to assert its place in the consciousness of the West. Amidst the problems that confronted the West the interaction with Indian spirituality takes place. 'We may, however, remark that the problems that today absorb the western mind also prepare it for a better understanding of Indian spirituality; indeed, they incite it to employ, for its own philosophical effort, the millennial experience of India'. The learning is not one-sided. Eliade is not proposing that both cultures learn from each other. It is not philosophical syncretism. He rather calls both Westerners and non-westerners 'to think in terms of universal history and to forge universal spiritual values'.

Eliade proposes a comparative method, a new way in which any culture or civilization compares itself with the other. 'We propose to reverse the terms of comparison, to place ourselves outside our civilization and our own moment of history, and to consider these from the standpoint of other cultures and other religions'. He urges an European reader to acquire a vision of an extra-European civilization'. 'If we can homologize the two philosophical horizons-Indian and Western- Hinduism constitutes the traditions of Aryan speaking Indo-European and that of the aborigines including Dravidians and Harappan cultural elements. It is a synthesis between the two in which the Indo European elements merged with those of the mysticism that was germane to the Indian soil. Eliade sees not much contradictions and incompatible elements between Indian and Western philosophy. Long before, depth psychology was the sages and the ascetics of India were led 'to explore the obscure zones of unconscious'. The problem of temporality and historicity of the human being, which is at the centre of European thought has preoccupied Indian philosophy from its beginnings.

Eliade, an advocate of the East to the West, writes,

'A number of Western investigators and philosophers may find the Indian analyses rather oversimplified and the proposed solutions ineffectual…Western philosophers may perhaps find the jargon of Indian philosophy outmoded, lacking in precision, unserviceable….The great discoveries of Indian thought will in the end be recognized, under and despite the philosophic jargon. It is impossible, for example, to disregard one of India's greatest discoveries: that of consciousness as witness, of consciousness freed from its psychophysiological structures and their temporal conditioning, the consciousness of the "liberated" man, of him, that is, who has succeeded in emancipating himself from temporality and thereafter knows the true, inexpressible freedom'.

The following quotation from Eliade's novel is also worth noting:

'But there is here [in India] a certain atmosphere of renunciation,…of control of the consciousness, of love, which is favorable for me. Neither theosophy, nor brahmanic practices, nor rituals - nothing barbarous, nothing created by history. But an extraordinary belief in the reality of the verities, in the power of man (sic) to know them and to live them by an interior realization, by purity, and above all be meditation'.

A welcome change is taking place in the NT studies that there is a new awareness to anti-semitism both within NT and in NT scholarship. A similar awareness towards the thought and practice of anti-Hamitism (anti-Orient) needs to be brought about by post-colonial readings of NT. But I am optimistic that the new humanism propounded by Eliade has more positive edge over any post-colonial attempt to deconstruct Western Orientalism.

Conclusion

NT is immersed in a hermeneutical tradition nourished in Western thinking. The Historical methodology, which provides the concepts and tools for the study of NT, has largely ignored the questions concerning the 'Sacred'. Eliade's achievements will help to meet the deficiency created by historical positivism, which pervades the NT scholarship. There are several significant methodological contributions by Eliade to the hermeneutics of NT which we have outlined above. Generally speaking, NT student has to march backward into OT and forward into creeds and confessions of the Christian Church. Eliade, as a fine Historian of Religion, has made us see the wider spectrum of religious experience within which and against which NT can be read. The worldview of NT is far wider and broader that it includes East and its multi-dimensional religious history and thought. Eliade's deep interest in myths, symbols and in archaic and Indian (oriental) religions will have paramount significance, first of all, for opening up religious dimension of the NT Christianity. Secondly, it offers a firm foundation on which an Indian student can build with a view to restore some of the NT religious phenomena which are closer to oriental instincts and experience.

The field of Christian Theology should not be defined in a way that it can exclude the other. We ought to rethink our purpose and recast our basic concepts. Significant NT scholarship can develop beyond and beside the Eliadean ideas and perspectives. A student of NT in India will find helpful directives in Eliade. He/she is grateful to Eliade for maintaining that myths and symbols communicate their messages even though modern (European) mind can claim not to have understood them. The NT student is now free to conduct his/her hermeneutical work upon myths without having to ask the question whether myths are intelligible to certain society lived or living at a given historical moment. One can discern potential openings for more fruitful study of religious phenomena in the NT. It inspires new perspectives that will help an Indian NT student to preserve the spiritual aspects of NT Christianity. In this respect, I find Eliade as a most trustworthy companion. He has shown the way that an Indian can walk in his footsteps. He is a true dialogue partner for a student of religion from the Indian sub-continent. In Eliade, an Indian Christian finds a Guru who opens the eyes to see the wealth of Indian traditions and who has made Indian/oriental religious philosophy dialogue with Western/occidental philosophical thought. Eliade is asking the modern (European) man to enlarge his 'self' to discover that human aspect within him which will help him understand the myths in religion. He deplores the wrong image of India developed in the perception of the West that Indian metaphysics and philosophy devalue Life. The provincial modes of thought and expression have to acknowledge not as Universal in themselves. The method and function of history of religions can assist NT theologians to understand its universal claim.

Finally, Eliade venerates his Christian heritage but takes up a shy attitude towards Christian Theology. It will be very difficult to judge him as someone who 'stands in the periphery of every religion, by profession as well as by conviction'. But it will be unfair to call him 'a religious mind without religion'.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Authority or Idolatry? Feminine Theology and the Church

Just as Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, first published in 1792, challenged the structures of 18th century society, so does contemporary feminist theology call into question the structures of traditional Christian thought and practice. Wollstonecraft’s conviction that the position of women in society should be improved led her finally to a radical critique of the nature of Christian theology. Wollstonecraft’s thesis was influenced significantly by the ideals and aims of the French Revolution. The nature of power and authority became her overriding concern, and her discussion focused on the destructive aspects of power, both for those who are subject to it and for those who exercise it.

Questions about the role of women in the Christian church have raised similar issues for me. What is the nature of theological authority as it is bodied forth in tradition, church, persons and theological method? I find myself agreeing with Mary Wollstonecraft’s analysis of the structures of social power: any personal or corporate relationship that places some in the role of dependents on a supreme authority fundamentally dehumanizes the individuals involved -- whether husband and wife, parent and child, teacher and student, officer and soldier, king and subject, or imperial power and developing country.

Wollstonecraft’s analysis is also applicable to the Christian church today since most churches are still based, if not in governance at least in theology, on authoritarian relationships: God/people, pope/ church, bishop/priest, priest/laity, biblical revelation /natural theology, Christianity/other religions, tradition/modernity, theologians of the past/theologians of the present, etc. It is a system based on the presumed authority and power of the one and the dependent status of the other. Respect, obedience and love are the proper attributes of those in the dependent role. We are children of God; we are members of the flock. We must follow the example of Jesus; we must listen to the generations of Christian tradition.

Mary Wollstonecraft’s book was too radical to be accepted by the England of the 18th century. Feminist theology is likewise radical; it calls for an end not only to traditional theological language and imagery, but to a whole manner of reflecting theologically, an entire method and framework for perceiving the theological task and for understanding the nature of divine authority. It is the end, and those who feel threatened by the emergence of women in the church and in theology are in fact responding appropriately to the situation. The ecclesiastical trial of Father William Wendt in Washington, D.C., over the issue of women’s orders symbolized that once the nature of authority is challenged, even in church governance, the very basis of traditional Christian thought and practice crumbles.

The Language of Experience

Feminine theology is even more radical in its implications than those who articulate it have been able to see. Feminine theology, like other theological movements of the 20th century, raises questions concerning the use of language and symbols in a religious context and the worship of that which we call divine. Our imagery of God, whether derived from the ancient Hebrews or from Jesus, has been radically called into question as appropriate speech to express our relationship to the Holy. In that sense feminine theology shares Paul Tillich’s concern that theology must be a theology of correlation: the form in which questions of ultimate meaning are raised must be the form in which answers are articulated.

Feminine theology recognizes the symbolic import of language in religion. Since we have only one native tongue and thus only one structural framework within which we perceive reality, the "Good News" must be written in our language, if it is to address itself to our categories of understanding. The years spent in translating the Bible were an expression of this concern: each language reflects a perception of the order of reality, a form of personal and social self-understanding that is unique. However, a translation will always be inadequate since it represents an attempt to transform one framework into another.

Feminine theology claims that there is not only a language of nationality or tribe but a language of sex. There is a language of childhood and of adulthood and perhaps also a language that emerges from body structure. Feminine theologians suggest that women and men have different language based on distinctive physical, social and historical experience. The things that are holy to women must reflect their language, imagery and experience, and must be filled with their symbols.

It may appear a retrogressive step to admit distinctions in this age of finding unity between sexes and among races. Theologians often attempt to resolve the dilemma of divisions by speaking of the equality of all "persons" in the sight of God and by eschewing masculine or feminine imagery. Mary Daly represents such an attempt to get beyond patriarchal God-language by taking refuge in God-language about "Being." There are problems with making differentiations: if I say male, I must also say female; if I say black, then I must say white, red, brown, yellow. Nonsexist and nonracist language apparently solves this dilemma of divisions.

However, the fundamental error in using "person" language in religion, as in any institutional structure, is that it is unreal. I cannot become a "person." I am born a particular sex at a particular time in a particular place. My sexual, national and personal history radically affects my language, my accent and my perception of reality. My gender conditions my experience of myself and the world. I have common experiences with men, but there are certain words that reflect elements of my experience that a man can never express except "in translation." Some of those words are descriptions or names for exclusively female experiences: menstruation, pregnancy, childbirth. Other words, such as abortion and rape, mean something so different to women and to men that they may as well be using different words. The inability to achieve consensus on a legal level reflects the distinctive symbolic power that these words have for women and for men. My gender does alter my perception of reality and my language.

In attempting to communicate with persons from another culture, we strive to enter into their framework, learn their language, their slang, their symbolically powerful words. In this attempt to communicate, we delight in and respect the linguistic and, cultural framework of the other. Perhaps our problems between sexes and cultures arise when we presume to know what people mean.

The fallacy of "person-talk": Who is to say what a "person" or a "human" is? We are all limited in our perceptions of the "essentially" human and are unable to achieve a "transpersonal" perspective. We must relate to each other from within the context of our cultural, social and sexual predispositions and in so doing accept our limited perspective rather than believe that we have the universal blueprint for what it means to be human.

Feminine theology calls us to recognize our limited nature as human beings and as speakers of religious words. It suggests that we use the poor stuff of that which is closest to us -- our personal and social experience -- in order to express the meaning of our encounter with that which is holy. It calls us to recognize the limited nature of all Christian theology, all church structures, all theological imagery, all doctrinal statements.

The Judgment of Relativism

The Hebrew religious tradition, the imagery used by Jesus, Pauline theology, Aquinas, Luther, Barth, Tillich, contemporary women theologians, I myself stand under judgment -- the judgment of relativism. There is no absolute authority, no inspired word safe from the limitations of being conditioned by a human perspective. Each theologian, including Jesus, reflects the thought patterns of a time and expresses the meaning of the divine within the conceptual, spatial and temporal framework available to him or her. Feminine theology need not ask Christian theologians of the past to justify today’s changes in theology or church structure and practice. It does not matter whether Paul was a chauvinist or a liberationist. It is not our business to ask the past to see what we see now, to understand what we understand now. The revelation of truth is not limited to a particular time in history or to particular individuals.

We may accept the writings of Augustine, Aquinas, Luther and Barth -- and indeed, the Bible itself -- as the expressions of limited human beings attempting to articulate for their own time and in their own terms their experience of ultimate truth. Their genius and their "inspiration" lie in the very fact of their relativity. To be limited is to be concrete, to see some things clearly and to be blind to others. That we are selective in our vision, our words and our perception is both the promise of truth and the assurance of failure.

The danger of every word, but particularly theological statement or church law, is that it claims too much. Because we are attempting to speak of that which is ultimate, we think that our theology, our symbols and our institutions are themselves ultimate. We try as theologians, as ministers and priests, as popes and philosophers, to speak the truth for all time. We attempt to speak for all mankind or all women, or for all Lutherans, all believers, all Christians, or even for reason itself.

This is for me the meaning of "original sin": the making of limited things into that which is universal. We take leaders, images, books, customs, words, theologians, teachers, structures of governance, institutions and laws and turn them into that which is. We accuse people of being heretics, of having broken laws of God and of church. We declare that you may not ordain women, or that now you may ordain women according to law. We define actions as sinful or just, we excommunicate people, proclaim them to be chauvinists or liberationists. When we treat that which is human and limited as that which is ultimate, we create hatred and discrimination.

The church has for 20 centuries been full of division precisely for this reason. In speaking of the divine, we assume divine authority for our words and our practices. We appeal to a divine authority in the form of someone or something we respect, to justify our actions and statements.

To write theologically is, in academic circles, a matter of appealing to the right authority -- "right," that is, for the audience one has in mind. For some that authority is a biblical text: I can buttress my argument by an appeal to the words of a man called Jesus that "the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath." If I cite it in Greek, some may be more impressed by my point. If I say that I am speaking of something that Paul Tillich named as "idolatry" or that Reinhold Niebuhr called "acculturated religion," will my point be accepted more readily? I would not have people believe what I am saying because I cite some "authority" but because they see that what I am saying makes sense. I speak on my own authority, and that is limited. Writing and speaking theologically and naming the divine seem to me a most dangerous activity, for though we are quick to see the limitations of other religious groups or theologians, we fail to recognize our own limitations. Can we ever escape the fundamental tendency of all theology and church structure to claim ultimacy for itself or to be regarded by later generations as absolute authority or law?

The Idolatrous Word ‘God’

The problem of theology begins with the word "God." To use the word "God" is to imply that we have a referent in mind -- an Object, a Being, a Person and most probably, on the subconscious level, an image of a divine Father in the sky who guides, protects and punishes us. All Christian language in a biblical and in a theological context suggests such a referent. The word God "objectifies" the experience of holiness or transcendent power, and to that extent the word itself becomes idolatrous. We now worship the image and the concept implied by the word. We call upon God’s name or curse God. We speak of God’s "doing" this or that and in so speaking we have already limited ultimacy to a particular series of characteristics and conceptual categories. It is the danger of "objectification" that we make our religious images, even the word "God," into a fixed reality, an exclusive concept. God is good and not evil; God is rather than is not.

This tendency to look for fixed meanings, authoritative images, sacred words, divine revelation, ultimate moral norms, the truth, is finally the expression of our own insecurity with human relativity and a symbol of our desperate need for security. We need to know who God is, that God is and that there is a divine revelation in Jesus. We need to know that our beliefs are true, that our actions can be justified by an appeal to the Bible or church tradition or to inspiration or to the proper, theological authority.

Reverence for tradition, respect for the biblical word, and reliance on the authority of the church embodied in its priests and scholars are finally idolatrous because we look to a human word or institution to express ultimate meaning for all time. To call Jesus the "Christ" was to do him great disservice. We objectified him and his words, we worshiped him and the book that emerged from his followers, we held as holy the people who preached his word, we treated as sacred the laws and buildings and ecclesiastical customs -- and it was all idolatry.

It is of no value to say that "God" was in the man Jesus if we do not perceive in our own lives, in our own experience of personal and social relationships the dimension of existence for which the word "sacred" or "holy" or the term "God" might be appropriate. I feel that the term God itself is no longer useful; it has lost its power for contemporary people, or perhaps just for me, to express that element of ultimate meaning in existence. The word God in its supernatural context has become a block to the very reality it expresses since we believe "in" God rather than discover within our own historical context the experience of transcendence.

Experience as the Context of Faith

What, then, is left for us if the implication of feminine theology, among other movements in contemporary theology, is that our theological language, our churches and our conceptual imagery are always limited and unable to claim absolute authority? What is left is an acceptance of our own relativity and that of others and an attempt to discover within the context of our limited existence, bound by sex and culture and time, the reality to which people give the term trust or faith. There must be a time of silence in which to listen to ourselves. Perhaps it will be a time of tentative words or descriptions of experience.

Faith may be recognized as something having little to do with traditional Christian conceptuality or with the church. Faith may be experienced as a perspective on the meaning of the whole of existence. Faith may be experienced as an ability to trust life in the face of death, to see pain and evil and yet to affirm life and wonder. Faith may be having a trust in oneself and an acceptance of oneself despite all the limitations, and an affirmation of the meaningfulness of life and its goodness, though we die. Faith may be the ability to live without gods, without absolute truth and fixed authorities. Faith may mean having a loving attitude toward oneself and others, not being confused by an image of oneself as absolutely good or as ultimately sinful, but knowing one’s own tendency toward blindness and that of others as part of reality.

The "good news" in this context might be a realization that life itself seems to have a "healing" dimension, a wonder that seems to create unity and renewal between peoples where logically there should be none. Maybe this faith will be discovered in an ability to trust that the meaning of life is not identical with my success, my health, my survival or the "rightness" of my ideas. There is but a short time between birth and death, and from the very limited nature of my particular historical and social context I can discover, like every human being, a sense of the ultimate worth of it all. The things that define my life, my body, my relationships, the historical events and changes will be the opportunities I have for being reminded at some unique and particular times of an aspect of existence that I may call "sacred."

An End to Authoritarian Models

Feminine theology for me is therefore a threat to all traditional Christian theology and church structures. It is not an attempt to "justify" the position of woman in the church and add her to the traditional Christian framework. Feminine theology is more radical than that. It calls for an end to all authoritarian models of truth, including, in my mind, the model of the ordained minister or priest, who inevitably stands in the same relationship to the laity as does the divine image of God in Jesus to the followers of God. "Ordination" means accepting the authority of the traditional Christian framework and being licensed to carry on that tradition. I suppose that is why the ordination of women is finally, for me, an, inadequate expression of the essence of feminine theology, just as obtaining the vote in patriarchal societies proved illusory in terms of granting women civil liberties at the beginning of the century.

In the late 8th century Mary Wollstonecraft perceived that raising questions about the role of women in society raised the issue of the nature of structural relationships as a whole and the destructiveness of authoritarian models of social order. In the same manner feminine theology raises for me questions concerning the structural model of all Christian thought and patterns of institutional order. For me, feminine theology calls an end to the traditional Christian framework and asks us to return to the basis for all theologizing: the experience of the demonic and the holy within the context of our particular, limited existence. This is the ground from which all religious language, all symbols and all theology eventually arise. We can now only stutter and struggle to express to one another in incomplete words how we experience a dimension of life that we call graceful or loving, demonic or tragic, what we mean when we speak of the healing quality of life or our fears and hopes, what we mean when we describe how we can trust in life and trust in the death that awaits us.

Beginning Where We Find Ourselves

Perhaps one day we can read the writings of the religious thinkers of all times and in all cultures and appreciate how they too struggled to express within their language and personal and historical circumstances the life-and-death questions and the meaning of that which they called holy. We will not look to them for authority or for divine truth nor become angry over their limitations. We will read them and appreciate them as we do one another, as women and men deriving meaning from short lives and sharing with one another our visions of the value of life. Maybe the religious thinkers we will like best are those who speak clearly out of the concreteness of their own experience and who at the same time accept the limitation of their own framework. These people will be easy to engage in dialogue, since they will not claim ultimate authority for themselves nor fear to admit their own limitations.

Feminine theology then has marked the end of a traditional approach to theology and has offered the suggestion that we should begin where we find ourselves. In my case as a woman, it means taking seriously the experience and language that emerge from my female humanness as a necessary element in my attempt to articulate my experience of the sacred element of life. In any event, each of us must speak of faith out of the racial, sexual, personal and historical context in which we experience the ongoing process of life.

The New Testament and the Comic Genre

I think that I can begin to locate myself both personally and professionally by referring to a book published in 1970, Brevard Childs’s Biblical Theology in Crisis. Childs describes the biblical theology movement as a peculiarly American phenomenon which, though it owed something to European neo-orthodoxy, was also considerably influenced by the fundamentalist-liberal controversy in the United States. The biblical theology to which he refers emerged after World War II as a consensus with certain characteristics: (1) the Bible is assumed to be relevant for modern men and women; (2) biblical criticism is to be accepted; (3) the message of the Bible is a unity, if a unity in diversity; (4) revelation is historical encounter rather than right doctrine; (5) the biblical (Hebraic) mentality is distinctive.

Now, as Childs points out, most of the elements in this consensus have been questioned from within and have been made to appear irrelevant by the social and cultural upheavals of the 1960s. He seeks therefore to discern the shape of a new biblical theology which will link a concern for the Bible’s theological dimension and a healthy respect for the importance of biblical criticism. Childs is critical, however, of the efforts of the "new hermeneutic" in this direction; in his view, that hermeneutic has already been superseded.

Childs recognizes the need to establish an appropriate context from which to approach the Bible, and he takes as his context the canon. I appreciate the candor with which he acknowledges that the acceptance of a normative body of tradition is made from a standpoint of faith; I am sympathetic with him up to a point. But he also insists that biblical theology should deal with what a text means as well as with what it meant and that it should serve as a guide for ethical decision-making. These considerations point to the need for developing a way to bridge the hermeneutical gap between the biblical world and the present day, but Childs has not done this. He also maintains that biblical theology should deal with both the Old Testament and New Testament witness on a given question and then grapple with the reality that brought them both forth. This, it seems to me, entails invoking reflective categories from outside the Bible, but Childs has declined to look at the Bible from an external vantage point.

Childs has given us an insightful picture of the emergence and demise of the biblical theology movement and some helpful indications as to what a new biblical theology might be. But I believe that his hermeneutical reflections are not adequate to his own understanding of a proper biblical theology. It is the hermeneutical question which interests me.

Finding a Theological Home

I began my theological studies as a kind of nondogmatic near-fundamentalist. I did not come to this position by considering various options and making a clear decision in favor of this one. It was rather that I had never heard any other position clearly and explicitly articulated. I had been a near-fundamentalist too long to give it up with no pain at all. It was the reading of Emil Brunner’s Revelation and Reason in the early 1950s that enabled me to move with a good conscience from my first theological position toward something like the biblical theology which Childs described. And I shall always be very grateful for that book.

I did my Ph.D. in New Testament with W. D. Davies, who taught me to look at texts carefully, to value historical questions and considerations, and, by his own work and example, to respect responsible scholarship. I finished my graduate work in 1956 with a fair knowledge of the British tradition in New Testament studies, a theological orientation strongly influenced by C. H. Dodd and also by Cullmann, and an introduction to Bultmann.

The next decade was to be a time of immersing myself in Bultmann and his followers. I read existentialism and followed as many of the debates as I could ranging around Bultmann’s work. Here I think I found my theological home. Paul’s theology, as mediated through Bultmann’s Lutheranism and existentialism, is still for me the touchstone for what is meaningful, and it may always be. At a more methodological level I am still interested in posing existential questions to New Testament texts, though I may now have different kinds of existential questions and a different view of the nature of texts and of the relationship of language to history.

About 1965 I began to discover my American theological self and what really interested me personally as a New Testament scholar. Before trying to explain what that discovery has come to mean, I should perhaps say a word about my institutional connection. I understand myself to be some kind of New Testament theologian. That is, from the vantage point of various methodological possibilities and various contemporary understandings of humanity, I am interested in asking how the New Testament understood men and women in their relation to the world as they encountered a power from beyond themselves. I do not try to persuade my students that the New Testament answer should be normative for them. I rather hope that they will see that the New Testament offers a variety of answers and contains many tensions, that it is a very complex set of documents, and that there is no single or innocent access to what it has to say. But I do consider the New Testament to be canonical for the Christian faith, in whose circle I belong, if not the completely exhaustive basis for New Testament theology. That is what it means to me to be a New Testament theologian.

I can connect the discovery of my American theological self more or less with the writing of my book The Parables, published in early 1967. For several years prior to 1964 I had been teaching a course on religious themes in modern literature and trying to learn a bit about literary criticism. I was by natural inclination drawn to the Aristotelian emphasis on the importance of plot and was also fascinated and partly persuaded by the "new critical" emphasis on the organic unity and autonomy of the literary work.

The Internal Patterns of the Parables

And then one day in an introductory course on the New Testament I was just beginning to discuss the parable of the Wedding Guest (or the Wedding Garment) when a student asked me what "the proper wedding garment" meant. I replied that one of the best interpreters of the parables, in the light of rabbinic thought, held the wedding garment to be a symbol of repentance.

Then it occurred to me that this interpretation, despite the rejection of allegorizing by this and all other competent New Testament scholars, was really an allegorical interpretation. It brings a meaning from a frame of reference outside the parable, and it assumes that the audience would have to be aware of this symbolic meaning in order to grasp the real significance of the parable. But, I asked myself and the class, might it not be that the wedding garment takes its meaning from the parabolic story itself, from the internal connections within the narrative?

In 1964-65 I had a research grant and spent the year reflecting on the parables from that standpoint. I came to conclude that Jesus’ narrative parables have well-defined internally organized plots, episode patterns, crises, recognition scenes and other literary features which make them genuine works of art. They are organic unities with a certain, if not absolute, autonomy. Therefore, the meaning of a parable is not to be found, as most New Testament scholars had argued, in one point which has a direct connection with some aspect of Jesus’ historical ministry or nonparabolic preaching. Rather the meaning is to be found in the total patterned texture of the form and content of the story itself.

In The Parables I was trying to use a kind of literary criticism which could also be applied to "secular" literature in order to see what possibilities of existence the parables displayed. This confronting of the parables with existential questions is not allegorical interpretation -- at least not in the usual sense, if one agrees with Bultmann’s view that presuppositionless criticism is impossible in that one must always approach a text with some kind of question and preunderstanding. Or one may consider the position (held at one time at least) of the French literary critic Roland Barthes that a text is always read from some vantage point -- sociological, historical, philosophical, psychological or what have you -- and that the standpoint for reading is always chosen by the interpreter, reveals something about him, and is never innocent. Barthes also added that interpretations claiming to be the most historical are not necessarily the most objective, but may rather be the more timid or banal. Though I approached the parables with existential questions in mind, I tried to let the internal pattern of the story itself show what the existential possibilities were.

Interpreting in the Light of Contexts

From what context, then, was I considering the parables? I began with the stories themselves, and then I related them to the historical Jesus’ non-parabolic preaching and to his mission, insofar as these can be reasonably determined. But I was also interpreting them in the light of contexts provided by existentialist theology and a theory of language and literature. Perhaps the most important element here programmatically for the enterprise of New Testament theology is that I considerably relativized history as the primary context of meaning for one set of New Testament texts -- several parables of Jesus. If the parables -- or many of them -- are semiautonomous patterns of meaning, then the historical context contributes less to their meaning than New Testament scholars have usually believed.

Let me state here emphatically that I consider the historical criticism and interpretation of the Bible to be highly important and in fact indispensable. But historical criticism cannot do everything that needs to be done on biblical texts. There are certain questions which it cannot see or ask, by its very nature, and hence cannot answer. And what biblical scholars have called literary criticism -- source analysis, the search for the author and his intention, redaction criticism as usually practiced (with some recent exceptions), etc. -- are really forms of historical criticism. What is needed to supplement historical criticism is a genuine literary criticism of the Bible as a means to theological interpretation. And this is what I have found myself doing, at first almost by accident and now more self-consciously, both because I think that literary criticism can do some things that historical criticism cannot do and because I find it to be of compelling interest.

The Use of Structuralism

In my recent Kerygma and Comedy in the New Testament I have supplemented my existentialist-theological approach with the use of structuralism. Structuralism is a complicated method of explanation used in many fields, but I must confine myself to a brief and oversimplified description of it only as it is applicable to literary texts. Structuralism, or the structuralist activity -- or my version of it -- is not the attempt to clarify the outline or pattern or "surface structure" of the text. It may be the effort to articulate the unconscious or hidden logic or meaning system or semantic pattern which connects a set of texts or narratives; it attempts to define a genre. The genre may be constructed from the available texts, but the texts are also regarded as generated by the genre.

In Kerygma and Comedy I tried to show that the comedies of Aristophanes, some Pauline texts, the book of Deuteronomy, and the Gospel of Mark all belong to the same meaning system or genre. There is no effort to demonstrate a historical connection between these but rather an attempt to show that they have a semantic or logical relationship. They are generated by the same genre or meaning system. They are all expressions of a comic genre.

On the other hand, structuralism may concern itself with analyzing one text in order to discover the logic that governs the sequences and various levels of meaning. Therefore, I also did an internal analysis of the Gospel of Mark.

Now if there is an unconscious meaning system or structure which generates various related narratives -- I have been especially interested in the New Testament narratives -- where does this structure reside? I have argued that it resides in the human mind. The comic genre is a kind of expansion of a primordial image or archetype which lies deep in the human unconscious -- the image of death and resurrection. If the reading or hearing of a Pauline text about the death and resurrection of Jesus, or of the Gospel of Mark, elicits a positive response from someone, it is because the death and resurrection symbol in the New Testament text resonates with the death and resurrection archetype in the human unconscious and activates potentially the indeterminate bundle of possibilities for renewal and victory which that archetype contains.

The theological entailment of this is that the locus of revelation is not just the event of Jesus Christ or the word about him or, on the other hand, human experience, but is rather the intersection of the New Testament kerygma with the universal archetype of death and resurrection which underlies that fundamental human life rhythm of upset and recovery (Susanne Langer) and which generates comic narratives. Hence another context from which biblical texts must be read is a psychological understanding of the structure of the human mind and especially of the reservoir of formal literary structures resident in the mind. And the context of history is further relativized, though not eliminated. I suppose, therefore, that my New Testament theology or theologizing from the New Testament is some kind of natural New Testament theology.

It might also be noted that if we are really to understand and experience myth and symbol as such and not simply to translate them into concepts -- to demythologize them (which is also necessary) -- New Testament theologians must learn from Jung, from psycholinguists and from others how symbols are experienced.

A Hermeneutical Vantage Point

A word about the context of my present work: I still read British and German New Testament scholars and learn from them, but, without having made a conscious choice about it, I do not think that I read them as much as I used to, and except for people like Erhardt Güttgemanns, who also does New Testament theology from a foundation in literary criticism and linguistics, I am not sure that they are moving me in really new directions. Certainly at the methodological level, and sometimes materially, I have been influenced by the phenomenology of Merleau-Ponty and Ricoeur, by the philosophical reflections of Polanyi, and by the structuralist approach to texts practiced by Lévi-Strauss and especially by Barthes, Bremond, Todorov and Greimas. French has probably been a more important language for me recently than German. And of the highest importance have been my conversations, oral and written, with my American colleagues in the parables seminar of the Society of Biblical Literature and those with whom I have been associated in the founding of Semeia, a new journal established specifically to do biblical studies experimentally, drawing on tools from other disciplines.

During the next months -- or years -- I hope to take a comparative look at a few parables of Jesus again, certain texts from the Jewish wisdom tradition, a gnostic myth or two, and some folktales from the Hellenistic and later European traditions. My intention is to use structuralism for determining the dynamics of actions and persons within the texts and also the relationships between the texts and then to interpret them from the standpoint of Jungian psychology. That will be my hermeneutical question or vantage point. I want to discover whether the theological continuities and discontinuities existing among these texts have psychological correlatives. Is there a theological gain to be realized from using the concepts of the self in nonreductionist psychologies for theological purposes? Does the Self as understood by Jung have any less ontological status than the self as understood by Bultmann or Heidegger?

I do not know whether my way of doing New Testament theology will be really influential or not. I hope that it might help us to arrive at a broader view of the possibilities for New Testament hermeneutic and maybe even help in working out what the discipline of religious studies is. I do believe that the new and nonhistorical ways of doing biblical studies, manifested in the emergence of the journal Semeia, will be significant in this country, and that there is great vitality and creativity in American biblical studies.

The Narrative Quality of Existence

Of the many unanswered questions for which I would like to have answers, I will mention two. Does human experience at the deepest levels have a narrative quality? Does it have an order something like the temporal and causal texture of a plot? Is such an order the necessary presupposition for the radical discontinuities found in postmodern storytelling, or is narrative order something that we impose on an existence which is essentially and fundamentally chaotic?

Second, does the comic vision, comic storytelling, tell us something about the possibilities of historical existence itself? That is to say, is existence inescapably tragic and do comic endings only tell us that we may achieve a certain transcendence over the unrelieved tragedy of history in our minds? Or does comedy tell us that within the stream of historical existence itself there are actualized moments of victory and renewal, not just in the mind, but in whole selves and in communities of selves?

I believe that the New Testament suggests that existence does have a narrative quality (although that is to oversimplify the matter), and that comic renewal is a possibility at points within the stream of history itself. But we must reflect more on the New Testament affirmations in the light of ever-changing understandings of history, language and literature and the psyche in order to see how these affirmations might be substantiated.

The American Success Syndrome

Despite academic pretensions of rational discourse and objective standards, mythmaking is alive and well in American colleges and universities. For almost a decade Aphrodite reigned as goddess of the academic heaven. We danced and rejoiced over her virtues of refined and lustful love, and even introduced Dionysius for the sake of variety.

Yet lately a new goddess has surfaced in our midst. Athena, patron deity of crafts and professions, has emerged as an ideal to be emulated. She incarnates careerism. And for women and men alike she offers an ultimate promise and purpose for human living. Athena is not without divine rivals, but choruses of praise are offered increasingly to her both on American campuses and throughout the popular media. Athena, goddess of careers, is fast becoming the most admired deity in our contemporary American pantheon.

But America has regularly manifested an ingenious propensity for disguising and updating the myths of ancient Greece to create more palatable cultural stories. Thus our version of Athena has characteristically been packaged under the name of Horatio Alger, whose heroes embody the virtues and blessings of success through careerism. Alger’s heroes were aggressive, individualistic, lucky, hardworking, honest enough to secure the trust they needed to succeed, and, of course, male. A casual reading of such scintillating novels as Ragged Dick and Mark, the Match Boy reveals how Alger created a virtual American mythology of success, the praise of which surely rivaled the hymns sung for Athena in ancient Athens.

The word "success" summarized for Alger what is now commonly referred to as "the Good Life." The Good Life -- or, as I shall call it, the "American Success Syndrome" -- consists of having a lot of money, making the right kinds of connections, and achieving social power through success in the business world or one of the professions.

Purveyors of Success

At the outset, it should be emphasized that Horatio Alger was but one of many American writers who depicted in graphic and glowing terms the benefits of hard work at a good job and the ultimate rewards of achievement through wealth. His books are only one expression of a deep and pervasive tradition in our society -- a tradition which, for economic, social and psychological reasons, is surfacing with renewed force today in American life.

In modern history the work ethic was first given a great impetus by the Protestant Reformation, in which context Martin Luther and John Calvin argued convincingly that the great and good life was ultimately experienced not in the monastery or convent, but in working at one’s job in everyday life. The great American Puritan John Cotton declared in more than one sermon that it was God’s good will that men and women should spend most of their time and energy working. It was this kind of emphasis that prompted H. L. Mencken to remark that the Puritans were so thoroughly devoted to the work ethic that they proceeded to dig clams all winter so that they would have enough energy to plant corn all summer; and in turn they planted corn all summer so that they would surely have the energy to dig clams all winter.

It was none other than Benjamin Franklin who gave this work ethic a thoroughly all-American sanction. In Franklin’s mind, work virtually defined the successful and patriotic American. It was Franklin’s Poor Richard who bequeathed to us such tidbits of timely wisdom as "God helps them that help themselves," "The sleeping fox catches no poultry," and of course "Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." These phrases have been etched into the American character, if not on the doorposts of our public buildings.

Horatio Alger, Andrew Carnegie, the Episcopal Bishop William Lawrence of Massachusetts, and a host of other late 19th century figures regarded Franklin in essence as a patron saint and patterned their writings and lives according to his precepts. This tradition continues to live rather famously in our own time.

American religion always manages to reflect our cultural myths, and the great purveyor of the American Success Syndrome in our own era is the popular Protestant minister Norman Vincent Peale. Peale is variously known for such best-selling books as The Power of Positive Thinking (with 14 printings within two years of its 1952 release) and for his regular appearances at presidential prayer breakfasts. A typical Peale statement:

A . . . method for drawing upon that Higher Power is to learn to take a positive, optimistic attitude toward every problem. . . . There is a Higher Power, and that Power can do everything for you. Draw upon it and experience its great helpfulness. Why be defeated when you are free to draw upon that Higher Power?

This Higher Power is one of the most amazing facts in human existence. I am awestruck, no matter how many times I have seen the phenomenon, by the thoroughgoing, tremendous overwhelming changes for good that it accomplishes in the lives of people. . . . This power is constantly available. . . . It drives everything before it, casting out fear, hate, sickness, weakness, moral defeat, scattering them as though they had never touched you, refreshing and restrengthening your life with health, happiness, and goodness [The Power of Positive Thinking (Prentice-Hall, 1952), pp. 265, 267].

With the Higher Power of Peale one can blast all defeat out of life. Yield, White Whale of Hawthorne! Yield, tragedy and evil! Come, health, beauty and success! God becomes the Mascot of Careerism, the Guardian of the Good Life, who frees his people from all worry, business failure, ill health, fear of death, loss of vitality, and heartache. Peale emerges as the 20th century version of the patent-medicine man -- selling bottles of divine cure-all potion from the pulpit of his Marble Collegiate Church. His books are virtual paeans of praise to Athena.

These versions of the American Success Syndrome are essentially quasi-religious promises of salvation. Status, jobs, professionalism, and a dash of optimism and the Higher Power are said to lead to human wholeness, meaningfulness and happiness. Here there is faith -- faith in the promises accompanying the Good Life. Here there is hope -- hope in the belief that one shall enjoy the benefits of higher status and prosperity. And here there is love -- love for the system as it stands, with little if any concern for a transformation of values.

Exposing the Bogus Promises

But the American Success Syndrome cannot be denounced wholesale. It is a tradition filled with ambiguity, latent with both positive and negative human and moral values. People can make fine contributions through their careers. Dignity in American society often does accompany being paid, and paid well. So also influence. And we must be realistically conscious of the need to protect our security in a society that is individualistic and achievement-oriented. Yet without attempting to resolve these ambiguities, genuine critical light can be thrown on the presuppositions of the American Success Story.

In the, first place, as a holistic point of view, it simply does not work. It is patently reductionistic. A case in point is the real Horatio Alger. Alger himself was graduated from Harvard Divinity School and for a while served as a Unitarian minister. But despite the fact that his popular success stories brought him wealth and fame, his own life was little short of tragic. He never married or experienced the fulfillments of genuine mutuality with men or women, though he seems to have wanted these relationships desperately. He had two affairs with women who remained married to their spouses; he eventually suffered serious mental illness and spent his last days in the kind of boarding house which Ragged Dick and the other successful heroes of his novels had forever left behind. For Horatio Alger wealth and social prestige were hardly the marrow of salvation.

The human and moral inadequacy of the American Success Syndrome is yet more thoroughly discredited by the honest and timeless realism of the biblical literature. Excepting parts of Proverbs and Psalms and the tenth chapter of I Kings (in which the uncritical praise of "Solomon in all his glory" is based on his power, pleasure and wealth), the biblical literature exposes the American success dream as mythical and full of false confidence.

For the biblical writers life is tragic as well as successful. To experience life is to experience weakness as well as power, sickness along with death, anxiety as well as confidence, the abyss of Hades as well as the heights of Mount Sinai. This point is dramatically illustrated in the Book of Psalms, in which there is ecstatic celebration and joy: "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with singing." Yet the Psalms also contain, intense and profound laments over the miseries of life -- miseries which are seen as a genuine part of the world created by God:

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing;

O Lord, heal me, for my bones are troubled.

My soul also is sorely troubled

I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears;

I drench my couch with my weeping.

My eye wastes away because of grief, it grows weak because of all my foes [Ps. 6:2-7].

This full-fledged view of life is depicted beautifully and profoundly in the book of Ecclesiastes, the words of which expose the bogus promises of Athena’s cultus and of the Horatio Alger panacea.

For everything there is a season and a time for every

matter under heaven:

a time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

a time to kill, and a time to heal;

a time to break down, and a time to build up;

a time to weep, and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn, and a time to dance ...

a
time to seek, and a time to lose;

a time to keep, and a time to cast away [Eccles. 3:1-4, 6].

Biblical Models of the Good Life

We should seek, however, to push beyond a critique of the American success myth -- to move beyond criticism to construction, to formulate a set of positive redefinitions and affirmations. We might begin by asking a terribly simple yet exceedingly complex question: "What is my definition of ‘the Good Life’?" In seeking answers to this question, I suggest that we look at biography, at real-life models. Three biblical models, three remarkable lives, summarize much of what the Hebraic and Christian writers regarded as central definitions of goodness.

The first is that of David the King, who is referred to more than once as a "man after God’s own heart." David can be described briefly as a courageous creator. Finding Israel in a state of social disintegration and great political weakness, at a time when it was being brutally defeated by the Philistines, David became the creator of new institutions -- social, governmental and religious. These institutions helped Israel achieve new wholeness, purpose and, indeed, a viable political existence. Success for David was not primarily fame, fortune and wealth within a closed system, but rather creative leadership toward the remolding of a new and meaningful society. Despite his manifest imperfections -- of which the Bible speaks with amazing frankness -- David represents a Hebrew worthy of emulation.

A second model is Amos the Prophet. By any standard of the American Success Syndrome, Amos was a failure. He was poor and remained in poverty. He was not popular, or even well known. His only "job" was gathering fruit -- an occupation somewhat like that of present-day migrant farm workers. And the only power he possessed was latent in his words. Yet his words were filled with power -- the kind of power that transforms human life, crystallizing it into social and community action. He is supremely characterized by the words of the prophet Micah:

He has showed you, O man, what is good;

and what does the Lord require of you

but to do justice, and to love kindness,

and to walk humbly with your God? [Mic. 6:8;

emphasis added].

The Good Life for Amos was summarized in his concepts of love and justice, principles rooted in his devotion to community-creating, community-building virtues. It is the egalitarian life in the community that counts -- where the rich do not lord it over the poor (or in Amos’ words, where the "rich do not sell the poor for a pair of sandals"), nor men over women. The Good Life is shared with the other -- friend, husband/lover, wife/lover, child, the aged, the over-30, the under-30. The Good Life is a life of relationships and sharing -- of ideas, of possessions, of values, and of experiences of a thousand kinds. This perspective was captured beautifully by the English poet Thomas Hardy, who in the face of romanticism about nature said that human fulfillment could not ultimately be found among rocks and vines and trees.

Since, then, no grace I find

Taught me of trees,

Turn I back to my kind,

Worthy as these

There at least smiles abound,

There discourse trills around,

There, now and then, are found

Life-loyalties.

A Threefold Ideal

A third definition of the "Good Life" in the biblical literature comes from Jesus’ parable about the Good Samaritan. Putting Jesus to the test, a professionally accomplished lawyer asked for a definition of a "neighbor," the love of whom Jesus had set forth as the second great ideal for human life. Jesus defined the "neighbor" by telling the story of the Good Samaritan, in which, among other things, two ideals are apparent.

To be a neighbor is to be concerned for the other, concerned enough to seek self-fulfillment (I would not argue for "selflessness") by caring for the wounded, the robbed, the poor. We do that in part because we realize how very easily, save for the grace of God, we are the robbed, the beaten, the forsaken, the imprisoned and the infirm.

The Samaritan was also a person who risked himself. Quite obviously he might have been ambushed and beaten to the point of death by the same set of robbers who rolled the traveler in the first place. I suspect that it was precisely because of fear of just this sort of treatment that both the priest and the Levite refused to aid the traveler, but "passed on the other side" of the road. So to be a neighbor is to take risks, to have courage, to venture beyond the ordinary, safe norms of keeping to oneself and one’s small circle of friends.

Biblical redefinitions of success and "the Good Life" thus include a threefold ideal: to be creative, to help build and nurture human community, and to live as loving, risking neighbors. We are challenged to seek to shape our careers toward such redefined ethical goals. To decide to live by these ideals is surely also to decide to live with ambiguity, with possible career interruption and with no little degree of anxiety. Yet there are pleasures here that far surpass the promises of Americans like Alger and Peale, or the praises offered to Athena.

In the case of Jesus we find a person who lived by biblical standards of goodness. In so living he left those of us who are his disciples an ultimate ethical model. He represents an individual who became a creator, a community-builder, and a risking neighbor without surrendering his principles or losing his courage. We will need grace to live by his example.

The Ethics of Triage: A Perspective on the World Food Conference

Scarcity, it would seem, is responsible for a crisis greater than any the world has recorded in its collective memory. Nearly 500 million persons, most of them children, are close to starvation. Tens of thousands will die this week. Before the crisis resolves itself, countless millions -- perhaps as many as 1 billion persons -- will perish.

Yet there is no scarcity. Food is plentiful. Whether it will be shared depends upon how successful we are in penetrating the myths of development strategies that have failed in the recent past -- and how effectively we counter the masters of triage.

On the battlefronts of war, the wounded are divided into three groupings -- those who will survive without medical help; those who will probably survive with medical help; and those who will probably not survive even with medical help. Available medical supplies are assigned accordingly. The sorting process that determines how resources are to be allocated is called triage. "Will you and I as American citizens some day have to participate in the choice of ‘Food Triage’ similar to that facing a combat surgeon in war?" asks the report "Malthus and America" (subcommittee on department operations, House Committee on Agriculture, October 1974). The report brings to our attention the inequities of global food consumption:

In the less developed countries, approximately 400 pounds of grain per year is available to the average person, nearly all of which must be consumed directly merely to meet minimal food energy needs. . . .Contrast this example to the average North American who uses nearly a ton of grain per year. Of this ton, less than 200 pounds is consumed directly as bread, pastry, and breakfast cereal. The remaining 1800 pounds plus is consumed indirectly in the form of meat, milk and eggs.

Because America produces most of the food it consumes, it is often suggested that Americans are justified in their excesses. But, as the congressional report points out, the U.S., though it has only 5 to 6 per cent of the world’s population, consumes more than 40 per cent of the world’s total food and non-food resources -- most of it imported.

Our agricultural exports have assumed, therefore, a crucial role in our balance of payments. According to figures from the U.S. Department of Agriculture, farm exports in fiscal year 1974 totaled a staggering $21.3 billion. Soybeans, wheat, feedgrains and rice alone amounted to $14.3 billion. Over 100 million tons of farm products are exported annually. Who will be the recipients of this enormous bounty? "Countries who can pay," the congressional report admits. And countries that can pay often use large quantities of grain to support their meat consumption -- the result being enormous waste. Eight pounds of grain are required to produce one pound of beef.

I

A. H. Boerma, director-general of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the U.N., estimates that the critical shortfall next year will run from 8 to 12 million metric tons of grain in the five most severely threatened countries: Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka and Tanzania. Yet, as Dr. Boerma reminds us, the supplies do exist. America alone will have produced during 1974-75 over 212 million tons of grain. Dr. Boerma earlier warned that if help did not reach Bangladesh by Christmas 1974, 1 million persons would face imminent death. Referring to the major exporters and importers, he said: "I told them, ‘I don’t know whether you can bear the responsibility for determining who is to live and who is to die.’"

The U.S., by far the largest producer and exporter of food, provided 9 million tons of food aid to needy nations three years ago. Two years ago we committed 7.5 million tons. Last year, when U.S. commercial food exports were the largest in history, only 3.3 million tons were made available for aid. This year’s contribution is running slightly ahead of last year’s.

Explaining the U.S. government’s negative response to the urgent call from Rome for an emergency commitment of 1 million additional tons of grain to help close the 8-to-12-million-ton gap, Secretary of Agriculture Earl Butz said, "It would have a bullish effect on the market." Yet the commercial value of the 1 million tons is only $175 million. Presidential counselor Anne Armstrong, often described as a champion of women’s rights, announced the decision in Rome with the comment that "the American housewife is having a tough time meeting her own budget. American citizens are having a tough time feeding their own families." Must the American housewife accept the blame for the suffering of other mothers who watch their children starve? Are women’s rights a middle-class phenomenon? Or is the American housewife victimized by the same mechanism that has caused massive starvation elsewhere in the world? This is triage in a world of plenty.

II

Time magazine (November 11, 1974), concluding its special report on the world food crisis, explains its support of triage:

In the West, there is increasing talk of triage. . . .If the U.S. decides that the grant would simply go down the drain as a mere palliative because the recipient country was doing little to improve its food distribution or start a population control program, no help would be sent. This may be a brutal policy, but it is perhaps the only kind that can have any long-range impact. A triage approach could also demand political concessions. . . . Washington may feel no obligation to help countries that consistently and strongly oppose it. As Earl Butz told TIME: "Food is a weapon. It is now one of the principal tools in our negotiating kit."

Food, however, is not the weapon. The denial of food -- famine -- is the weapon. Under the terms of Public Law 480, the Food for Peace Program, food is given away only after all our commercial commitments are met. Only surplus food will find its way to those nations unable to compete in the market. But not even this paltry sum has been directed to the areas most in need. The Sahelian countries of Africa, where 100,000 persons were felled by famine last year, received relatively little of this surplus food. The decision as to where the food is shipped is based on cold war politics. Last year nearly half of our food aid went to South Vietnam and Cambodia. Our "defense perimeter" certainly did not include Chile under Salvador Allende. Three days before the military coup d’état, the U.S. turned down a request to sell wheat to Chile for cash. Yet one month after the junta’s putsch, with Allende dead, the U.S. granted the new regime eight times the total credit ever offered to Allende to purchase wheat. Food for Peace has been handled as an adjunct of our military assistance programs.

Further, the U.S. has consistently opposed the creation of internationally held grain reserves. The virtual depletion of world food stocks prompted the U.N. meeting in Rome; yet the U.S. government maintains that the private sector is best able to build reserves. In 1972, when the world suffered an exceptionally poor harvest, there were 209 million metric tons of grain, or 66 days’ worth, in world reserve. Last year saw record grain crops worldwide, yet the reserve was reduced to 25 million metric tons, or 37 days. This year there is estimated to be a 27-day reserve after exceptionally large grain harvests.

III

Writes George McGovern, chairman of the Senate Committee on Human Nutrition and Needs, in the preface to the committee’s "Report on Nutrition and the International Situation": "Private traders are in business to turn investments into profit as rapidly as possible. . . . In reality a reserve in private hands is no reserve at all. It is indeed precisely the same market mechanism which has produced the situation we face today." The mechanism of the marketplace is geared to scarcity, not to reserve. If prices begin to decline, produce is withheld to create an artificial scarcity and inflate prices. If prices increase, produce is withheld to force prices still higher. Furthermore, there is no accurate and mandatory grain-reserve reporting system maintained by the USDA. We may think there is scarcity; only the corporate traders know for certain.

One person who agrees with Senator McGovern is James McHale, an energetic farmer appointed by Governor Milton Shapp as Pennsylvania’s secretary of agriculture. McHale, who led the delegation from Pennsylvania (the only state in the Union to send one) to Rome to lobby the official U.S. delegation for a sane food policy, charged that 95 per cent of all grain reserves in the world are under the control of six multinational agribusiness corporations (Cargill Grain Company, Continental Grain Company, Cook Industries Inc., Dreyfus, Bunge Company and Archer-Daniel Midland -- all of them American-based companies).

These corporate middlemen have as much power over the small farmers of America as they do over sovereign nations in the market to purchase grain. The prices paid in the supermarket are determined to a large extent by these giants. The five top corporations are presently involved in class-action suits brought by wheat farmers in Oklahoma and Texas who accuse them of rigging grain prices.

Multinational agribusiness, primarily U.S.-based, controls more than the markets of world agriculture, as Jean Pierre Laviec of the International Union of Food Workers said in a statement released in Rome:

They decide the quantities of vital inputs to be produced, the quantities of agricultural products to be bought, where plants will be built and investments made. The growth rate of agribusiness has risen during the last ten years and . . . has been directly proportional to the increase of hunger and scarcity.

It is questionable whether genuine solutions to hunger and scarcity can be generated by private organizations whose first and last aim is to maximize profits. Technical solutions rely on multinational corporations for their design and implementation. Short of genocide -- or triage -- technical solutions, to the extent that they will be applied and at the cost of their purchase, will not work. For hunger, like no other issue, goes right to the heart of global injustice. Any "solution" that does not encompass structural change toward a just society is part of the problem.

Multinational agribusiness has clearly not been concerned with such change. Most Third World nations, even after they achieved political independence, continued to be economically determined by foreign corporations. These Western economic interests established symbiotic relationships with the ruling elites of the poor nations. Colonial structures of land tenure and exploitation of natural resources were carried over, with the elite accumulating economic and political fortunes at the expense of the impoverished masses.

Technical solutions for hunger do not attack poverty or its preconditions in exploitation. So long as Third World nations and the masses of the poor are seen solely as cheap sources of raw materials and labor and receptive markets for industrial products, poverty and hunger will continue to grow. Large capital investments in the Third World on the part of multinational business will increasingly require political commitments from the host nation -- and such commitments are most easily secured in such rightist dictatorships as Brazil and Chile. The impoverished world is politically volatile, and civil unrest may soon follow spreading famine. Only the most secure areas or those vital to our interests will continue to enjoy "development." The "Fourth World" of nations, devoid of purchasing power, political stability or personal hope, will implode under the enormous pressures of overpopulation and despair.

IV

Jay W. Forrester, professor of management at MIT whose sophisticated computer modeling of social and environmental issues led to the Club of Rome report on "The Limits of Growth," sees the political and economic stresses in the world as caused by the necessary transition from worldwide growth to equilibrium. Speaking at the prestigious Franklin Institute in Philadelphia (October 15, 1974), Dr. Forrester suggested that

the interrelationships become, for the first time, very tight between technology, economics, politics and even ethics. . . . If we grow more food, to reduce hunger, this may simply lead to more people and the continuation of the same control in the system which is the same percentage of the population hungry. More food leads to more population, not to less average hunger.

Recognizing that "the industrialized countries are living on the flow of energy and materials from all over the world," Forrester believes that the "threat of the whole concept of limits is much greater to the industrialized countries." He predicts that as these stresses make themselves felt in the industrial sector, our ethics of affluence will shift into an ethics of triage.

The editorial columns of ordinary newspapers in the United States are now using the word triage relative to the food situation. This is a measure of the changing nature of the situation; our ethics are very much tied up with technology and economics.

Probing the ethical implications of triage before the program board of the National Council of Churches’ Division of Overseas Ministries, Forrester maintained that

a vast new set of ethical and moral dilemmas now faces man as humanity begins to encroach on the physical limits of the world. . . . In the teaching of the church is often the implication that right is absolute, that it knows no compromise, that it is independent of the future time toward which one looks. These are fallacies. Generally, a system policy that is desirable in the short run is detrimental in the long run and vice versa. . . . The church has taken an overly simplistic view of right and ethics. As a consequence, it contributes to the goal conflicts between present and future [Zygon, Journal of Religion and Science, September 1972].

System-dynamics, developed largely by private corporations to solve management problems, may play a valuable role in the transition to the "technological steady-state," as other scientists call it. But multiloop diagrams and computer print-outs are fundamentally lacking if they are not infused with political vision. For what is equilibrium if it is not a new world order?

To stop the holocaust in the underdeveloped world, important moral choices have to be made in ours. The purveyors of triage do not challenge the economics of scarcity. Scientists can accept the verdict of management experts or can proceed on their quest and revolutionize the world with limitless, clean sources of solar and fusion energy. The ecological-industrial equilibrium can be built, like some island paradise, on the calcified remains of a billion beings or, beyond vested interest, on justice and mercy. "There is no way out for man," H. G. Wells observed, "but steeply up or steeply down." It’s gravity or grace, Simone Weil would say. And by her life and death we may glimpse the clue: "Belief in the existence of other human beings as such is love."

The Habit of Imagining

Something is fundamentally wrong with the golden rule, that much-quoted piece of advice formulated by Jesus in his Sermon on the Mount which has come into common speech as "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you." Its wrongness is not gross oversimplification; the amended version I’m going to suggest is almost as simple and very little longer. Nor is the problem that so many people rattle off the golden rule without trying to live by it, like the scribes and Pharisees whom Jesus criticized on the grounds that "they say, and do not"; probably glib rattlers-off of the revised rule could be expected to fail as frequently to practice what they preach.

It’s not even that Jesus’ version promises returns on the investment both heavenly and worldly. Altruists, like everybody else, always do what they want most to do, and have their reward in feeling good about themselves. No, the inadequacy of the golden rule is that its traditional phrasing provides no mechanism for arriving at a valid point of view from which to apply it.

The Letter of the Rule -- and the Spirit

In his essay "The Golden Rule in the Light of New Insight," Harvard psychoanalyst Erik Erikson comments: "systematic students of ethics often indicate a certain disdain for this all-too-primitive ancestor of more logical principles; and Bernard Shaw found the rule an easy target: don’t do to another what you would like to be done by, he warned, because his tastes may differ from yours" (Insight and Responsibility [Norton, 1964], p. 226). Whereupon Erikson dismisses criticism (unrejoined) to take up advocacy -- yet Shaw’s complaint is precisely what fatally weakens the golden rule as it stands: "his tastes" -- needs, cravings, likes and dislikes -- "may differ from yours.

Let me offer a personal illustration. My mother was brought up during the Depression by her own widowed mother and a clutch of spinster aunts, rigidly Victorian Southern Baptists all. She suffered acutely for the social pariahship inflicted by her family’s old-fashioned strictness. She had to wear long winter underwear and heavy overshoes in bad weather; she remembers vividly how in grade school her teachers would let her start getting ready to go home five minutes earlier than the rest of the class because of all the layers she had to put on. She was never allowed to use makeup, or go to movies and dances, or play cards. Her dearest wish during adolescence was to "be like everybody else," to be allowed to practice the outward and visible signs of social conformity. She grew up determined not to subject a daughter of hers to the needless humiliations she had endured -- a commendable ambition and a precise application of the golden rule.

Of the letter; but, alas, not of the spirit. My mother had overlooked the possibility that her own daughter might turn out to have different needs and wishes, and as it became increasingly clear that I wasn’t about to provide her with a vicarious "normal" childhood or adolescence in the natural course of things, she proceeded to force things out of their natural course. I was a tomboy. I had nothing against mud and coveted other kids’ rubber boots for years, but Mom had loathed them far too heartily ever to buy any for me. As soon as I turned 13, she presented me with my first tube of cherry-red lipstick and my first pair of high heels -- three-inch heels they were in those days, and I thought them not only uncomfortable but incredibly hideous -- and from then on made me go to church thus shod and painted, indistinguishable from the other eighth-graders whose arms hadn’t had to be twisted.

At ten I had objected so violently to the dancing lessons she’d wanted me to take that I escaped them -- but not the various junior high semiformal dances and high school proms where I spent each endless, unnatural, awkward hour dying for release. My poor mother, in short, applied the golden rule and treated me as she wished she had been treated, instead of trying to put herself in my very different place and asking herself what would be the fairest and wisest way of treating me.

The Amended Rule

Were the golden rule properly interpreted and applied, an acting script for conflicts like these would read simply: Let your children be themselves; don’t force them, overtly or covertly, to be the way you wish they were. But to construct the rule thus generally requires an ability to step one mental stride backward toward abstraction -- something that would never occur to most people. Much more sensible to rewrite the golden rule so that it needn’t be reformulated in order for dangers like these to be avoided.

To "do unto others as you would have others do unto you" implies that people are all alike, and that one proceeds by projecting one’s own preferences upon the rest of humanity, then treating everyone else as a replica of oneself. Now, all of us are alike in many basic ways, so the unabstracted golden rule works well quite a lot of the time. But a safer, sounder rule would read: Do unto every individual as you imagine you would want to be done unto if you really were that individual. Admittedly, desires conflict, and some people desire what is bad for them, and many people desire their own welfare at the expense of others’ welfare. Still, if the amended rule is imperfect, it is nevertheless more workable than the golden rule -- first, because it acknowledges that people are different, and second, because it provides explicitly for taking the other person’s point of view into account.

Into Other Worlds

In the act of putting oneself in somebody else’s place, it would be impossible to exaggerate the importance of an acrobatic imagination. Frank Chapman Sharp writes in his study called Ethics, "Why, it may be asked, is there so much more egoistic action in the world than altruistic?" His reply:

The answer turns on the cumulative effects of a number of well-known psychological forces. Of these the first in importance is the imagination. Of the many spurs to benevolence this is undoubtedly the most powerful, always excepting the influence of love upon altruism. The effect of any imagined state upon the will tends . . . to be in direct ratio to the concreteness (within certain limits) with which it is pictured. Now I can usually imagine my own future more effectively than the present or future state of another, simply because there are more data at the disposal of the imagination in one case than in the other. Suppose, for example, I am considering the purchase of a hundred-dollar rug. I am, of course, well aware that I might spend that money in helping to feed the starving in the war-ravaged districts of China. But I know precisely how my room looks now with that horrible bare space in the floor; I can easily imagine precisely how it will look covered with a handsome rug, especially if I have seen the rug in a shop window; whereas the sufferings of the Chinese -- well, I have never starved to death [Century Company, 1928, pp. 84-85].

There are ways to develop what is, after all, not very natural behavior in most people: the transcendent act of momentarily becoming someone or something one is not and has never been. Ken McLaughlin (Flicka’s friend) is a fictional example of the imaginative child who can do what Ken calls "getting into another world" at will, a talent which can be practiced:

On his way downstairs he stopped before the picture of the duck. It was a big black duck with white breast and legs and white bars on his wings. He was fierce and handsome standing on his rock, just about to launch himself into the waves of the grey, choppy lake. There was such a reaching in his eager beak and one lifted foot and the forward tilt of his body, Ken felt as if it dragged him in too. In another second he would feel the icy sting and shock of the water, the bitter cold, sharp, up-pricked waves, and the greyness of the misty air hanging over it, full of fear and loneliness. His skin went gooseflesh [My Friend Flicka, by Mary O’Hara (Lippincott, 1941), p. 58].

I’ve worked for several years in the Poets-in-the-Schools programs sponsored by arts councils in three states. A standard ploy in our efforts to loosen up and stimulate the kids’ imaginations is to get them wondering -- like Ken -- how it would feel to be some creature or thing they’re not: steam shovel, garden hose, vacuum cleaner, wild horse, 100-year-old turtle, old man on a park bench. For elementary school children the game is primarily physical, kinetic; but to older children I read my poem "Plaint of the Summer Vampires," which pretends to be a lament voiced by a mosquito and a deerfly. At the end these insects wail together:

O to turn aphid! O

for unresistant leaf-juices and no

murderous mammoth hands whacking! Never to be

tangled again in hair or spotted on your wrist

sipping, and no chance for a getaway.

-- Though you knock ME senseless a dozen times --

-- Or flail me away -- what can we do

but sort our wings and legs and try again

again and yet again? Starve or be slapped to death

is what it comes to. Pity us.

The thirst for blood is a curse [in Poetry, CXXVI

(April 1975), p. 11].

As a way of learning how to take alien points of view, this sort of exercise is excellent, and some children do very fine things with it. Traveling from ducks to insects to people, the "if" method of the Stanislavsky school of acting is also excellent for limbering up one’s imagination to the point where "the sufferings of the Chinese" (or, in our own day, the people of the Sahel) become real to one. The Stanislavsky method, of course, asks "How would I act if I myself were in such-and-such a predicament?" -- the situation rather than the personality is the thing to be imagined. But as a calisthenic it is beautiful, since thinking oneself into some unfamiliar situation as oneself is a step directly toward being able to imagine oneself into somebody else’s skin. The exercise becomes emotional as well as intellectual, which is, of course, very important for its efficacy:

. . . it would be well to learn the nature of the most elementary action, not only in a purely intellectual manner, but also with one’s whole being, by working upon a great mass of experiments and exercises . . . it is necessary, by proceeding from one’s own inner self (and not from a character), to substitute all kinds of "if’s," to ask oneself for instance, what would I do if I had to wait a long time for the train? Or if I found out that I lost my last bit of money, or if I were told that people are waiting for me at the place where I work and I am still at home, still in bed, etc.? ["The Creative Process," by I. Sudakov, in Acting: A Handbook of the Stanislavski Method, compiled by Toby Cole (Crown, 1955), p. 82].

Making the Imaginative Leap

Teachers of the Method advise one not to worry about feeling; go through the motions in a genuine way, they say, and the feeling will come of itself. For us, endeavoring not to perform well on stage but to live well, the questions multiply: "how would I feel if" as much as "what would I do if," or "why would I do what I would do?" How would I feel, and what would I do, and why, if I were (for instance) an Alabama black man? Not everybody can personally undergo what John Howard Griffin did, and wrote about in Black Like Me: take medication to darken the skin, and shave the head, so as to be able to approximate the experience of a black living in the Deep South for seven weeks. Griffin almost knew, briefly, what that was like; the rest of us have to try to acquire the data we lack, put it at the disposal of our imaginations, and let them do the rest.

When the novelist William Styron used his imagination to write The Confessions of Nat Turner, many voices were raised not only in disparagement of his novel but also against his even attempting to make the leap of races and conditions. Yet all fiction writers (and playwrights and filmmakers, for that matter) must make similar imaginative leaps, and will be judged -- as Styron has been judged -- by how convincingly they portray the characters whose points of view they’ve done their best to assume. Readers and viewers value storytelling for its power to let them identify with the common elements of humanity in characters very different from themselves; if they can’t identify, they lose interest fast. In art we expect the imaginative leap to be made for us. In life, though, we have to make our own.

Unless we make it, and make it habitually, we frequently remain mutually mistrustful strangers and even enemies. A vital goal of all movements in quest of social liberation is consciousness-raising, an omnibus term which involves (among other things) making the oppressive factions of society aware of what it’s like to be oppressed. Managers and workers, men and women, straights and gays, whites and nonwhites, "normal" people and "deviants": all the oppressors need a means of understanding emotionally the grievances of the oppressed, and the oppressed groups can benefit, themselves, from a means of understanding the points of view of their oppressors. Henry Kissinger has made a diplomatic career of explaining peoples in conflict to one another; in private life the imagination (emotion) powered by factual information (intellect) could, if exercised assiduously, make simply astonishing headway toward breaking down factionalism, the sense of us and them. Become me; then see how you want to treat me!

And observe straightway the superiority of Habit over Rule! For unlike the golden rule, this habit of imagining assumes that subtle and profound differences exist between individuals, serves to help us become comprehensible to one another despite those differences, and searches for the common humanity that underlies them. If that humanity can be tapped using art as a tool, it can be reached by bare hands digging, too.

Hard-Nosed Judgments

The habit of imagining seems to me a great improvement over the golden rule; however, it’s not after all a panacea. It has been said that to understand all is to forgive all. I doubt it myself; in fact I think I understand some things which should not be forgiven. I do understand why the sight of two homosexuals holding hands at a concert might have turned the stomach of a hardworking, dedicated churchwoman I know who has never in her life committed an act or espoused a position that her family, church, and society at large couldn’t warmly approve; still, it’s hard to forgive a human revulsion that won’t question itself.

While I have, I think, a reasonably good picture of why men in a macho culture felt they needed to keep women down, I deeply resent having learned the concept of "woman’s work" at home and having been treated to lighthearted scoffing about "lady Ph.D.s" in college. No oppressor is justified in vouchsafing his own security and self-respect at the expense of somebody else’s.

Obviously, then, one in the habit of imagining still makes some hard-nosed negative judgments about people’s behavior and beliefs. All the same, whatever self-righteous arrogance one may have had shrivels to a mere vestige of its unimaginative self. Whenever evaluating somebody’s acts or attitudes seems unavoidable, my own rule of thumb is to ask myself whether I could approve of them in myself in the other person’s circumstances. To ask this, I must imagine myself into those circumstances as the other person; to answer it I have recourse only to my values -- but these are grounded in the next, Kantian extension of the imaginative habit: what kind of world would this be if everybody were to behave/react in this manner under the same, possibly mitigating, circumstances?

I see no way out of the circumstantial qualification that doesn’t make life out to be simpler than it is. Suppose you’ve fallen in love with someone who happens to be married to someone else. Should the course you follow be exactly the same regardless of whether (1) you are loved in return, (2) the marriage is a good one, (3) there are children, (4) the children, if any, are small/grown up, (5) the emotional and social consequences for all concerned parties will probably be devastating, (6) you stand a good chance of losing your job if you interfere in the marriage, or (7) you/the wife accidentally becomes pregnant? Probably very few would say Yes automatically anymore. The circumstances may make all the difference in the world.

Even applying the habit of imagining, it’s possible to choose knowingly to cause discomfort. An undergraduate with 16 unruly inches of hair flopping about his shoulders can know, via the imaginative leap, how genuinely disgusted and distressed his parents feel about his appearance. He can also understand why: they grew up poor in an era when looking "respectable" was difficult and highly to be prized, and necessary to an economic security which was by no means assured. But he may decide all the same that his life is his life, and that his parents discomfort will decrease only in direct proportion to the growth of his own. We’ve got the same rights, he may think; if Mom should take a notion to shave her head, it would be none of my business.

"If I were you," we advise each other sagely, "I’d leave him tomorrow." The fresh point of view possible precisely because I am not you may be just the thing for solving a stalemated quandary, but what we ordinarily mean when we say such things is "If I were myself in your place." To advise it may suffice; to understand why you don’t plan to leave him tomorrow, I must mean, "If I were you in your place." If I can manage to be you in your place and retain my own viewpoint as foil at the same time, that should make me a wise and tolerant counselor.

But the complexity of most people’s situations is truly staggering. While the habit of trying to leap swiftly in and out of the moccasins of others is easily formed, where you are after transmigrating can be terribly hard to determine; too much altogether unfamiliar experience may have gone into shaping the person who lives in those moccasins. One must strive always to keep an awareness of this complexity at the surface of one’s mind, and be very slow to condemn.

It takes energy and time to calibrate conscientiously as much as you may need to know about somebody else’s situation in order to decide how best to treat that person, or how to judge him or her justly. And after all that, you still may lack crucial facts; your imagination may leap short. But it’s the closest we can come, I think -- to one another, and to an ethical stance in the world.

The Police, the Social Order, and the Christian: Apologia and Apologies

Fear is abroad in the land: fear of oneself, fear of the other. A creeping cynicism concerning standards of excellence brings on a numbing terror about the future. West Virginia’s citizens burn books and indict school officials. In South Dakota, Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five is labeled obscene. In Kalamazoo, Michigan, Go Ask Alice, a heart-rending exposure of the drug death-cult, is removed from the library shelves by a frightened school board. William Butler Yeats anticipated the mood of these times in his poem "The Second Coming":

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Thanatos overtakes Agape.

As a teacher of criminology, I cannot gainsay the increase in criminal activity described in the Uniform Crime Reports. The rising figures for homicide, rape, aggravated assault, armed robbery, and other antisocial acts are simply too impressive to be an artifact of statistical manipulation alone. Since crime statistics, like other social statistics, are open to various interpretations, we cannot be certain of the actual rate of increase; but we can agree that it is surely considerable.

The Possibility of a Police State

In recent months I have been involved in a study of police and sheriff’s departments. Riding in patrol cars; working with detectives; witnessing arrests, investigations and incarcerations; seeing the aftermath of robberies, burglaries, shootings and family fights; meeting drunks and runaways -- in these few months I have had more bizarre experiences than I had had previously in my entire life. Some of my liberal illusions have been shattered. In general, I find the police to be more human and more humane than one might expect -- indeed, perhaps better than the public deserves. I have encountered more profound and straightforward discussions of ethics in patrol cars than I have heard in university classrooms or at academic religious conferences.

Yet, over and over again, I have been told that "someday we will have a police state." At first I was shocked. Later, after the night patrol shift, perhaps over a beer in the more relaxed environment of the Fraternal Order of Police hall, I tried to find out what my police friends meant by that statement. What emerged is clear: This is not their hope but their expectation, not a wish but a "warning."

I do not accept all aspects of the police image of the outside world, but these men generally seem to have a rather accurate sense of the public mind. Of course, attitudes can become self-fulfilling prophecies; nonetheless, one does not have to prove the frightening possibility of a police state by inductive logic alone. It may be tasted, even smelled, and I for one take the warnings of the police most seriously.

My dreams of the future encompass two scenarios. One is the "man on horseback" theme: While thumbing through Peter Gay’s Weimar Culture, with Wagnerian music playing in the background, and between shots from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, I see the parade ground of Nuremberg, with banners flying. And on the rostrum is a man, looking strangely like the governor of Alabama, shouting to the crowd: "It cannot happen here!" The crowd responds, like a Greek chorus: "Oh yes it can, yes it can." The people in the crowd look like my neighbors, and yours.

The other scenario involves what I call the Lord of the Flies theme. This is the Hobbsian war, with each individual pitted against every other individual. It is chaos. It is Alex and his droogies in A Clockwork Orange. It is the mugging of old people in New York. It is the spraying of carcinogenic pesticides on scarce food. It is the depletion of atmospheric ozone that results from release of the propellant gas from aerosol spray cans, allowing white skins to accrue prestige by turning dark and darker and finally black, under the sun’s ultraviolet rays. It is death.

The Abiding Issues of Public Order

There is not much to be gained from professional pessimism. But we may indeed be in for hard times. The Christian churches have, at least in this land, lived a life sheltered from persecution. Unprepared for increasing social pressure, we may not know how to respond. I myself believe that the Christian faith is in a much more precarious position than most wish to recognize. The current revival of religious "feeling" to the contrary notwithstanding, external forces may overwhelm us. The churches may be only weak reeds against incipient totalitarian forces. And that which we cannot fight we will, chances are, embrace. Internally there is great disarray in the churches, Christian against Christian, as the self-immolation of the Lutheran Church -- Missouri Synod tragically illustrates. The extent of Christian confusion, clerical masochism and destructive illusions bodes ill for the future.

We have let those right-wingers who would subvert a crucial social issue to their own use tarnish and finally destroy the phrase "law and order." Perhaps it is better, then, to speak of "public order and safety." But do not be fooled into thinking that the issue of law and order was created in the minds of men like John Mitchell and Richard Nixon as a lever to lift themselves to power. It is a real, abiding, central issue for civilization and social survival, and the issue is metaphysical and religious as well as political. As Peter Berger argues in The Sacred Canopy, religious consciousness itself is the imposition of nomos, of order, on experience. If this is so, the question arises: What is to be done? Or to put it differently: What are the grounds for a Christian response to the need for public order and safety?

Clerical Charades of Relevance

It may be that what we need is a more "realistic" and logical apologetic. In his book Christian Apologetics Alan Richardson says that apologetics is "the defendant’s answer to the speech of the prosecution." Apology in its Christian sense implies the defense of the faith. Instead we have had, at least in some quarters, a weak, embarrassed set of apologies, polite excuses for the Christian faith. How did this come about? It seems to me that one element in the situation is what I call the paradox of relevance.

Certainly for the Christian who believes that Christ and society, faith and culture, and even what one might call theory and praxis, are intimately and dialectically related, the obligation to connect with secular culture is impelling. This is as it should be, for "retreatism" seems to be, as relevance’s opposite, another form of "escapism." Yet there is a paradox in the possibility that the church is becoming irrelevant precisely because it has struggled so hard these past few years to be relevant. Nothing is more pitiable, perhaps even contemptible, than the clerical charades of running up the flag for each social cause that comes down the pike.

In the first place, to relate to secular culture in a communicative sense is not the same as to identify with it. It may be that we have confused physiological and logical categories. To show sympathy and understanding is one thing; to lose a sense of transcendence and to negate the categories of Christian thinking is another. Second, it may be that an overemphasis on relevance is merely a way of avoiding work and denigrating reason. I suspect that apologetics, in the classical sense, is hard and difficult work. Also, if one stresses reason -- the Logos or the Word -- then one is by definition running counter to the McLuhanesque one-dimensional world of mass communications. One cannot be quite all the way "with it."

Another basic point, one directly related to the liberal Christians’ compulsive search for relevance, is the lack of a firm faith in objective values. By accepting the humanists’ standards of subjectivity and the relativity of values as a given -- that is, as a premise and not as a problem -- the liberal religionist has gone a long way toward betraying the grounds for public order. The best discussion of this point in Christian apologetic writing is, in my view, to be found in C. S. Lewis’s The Abolition of Man:

From propositions about fact alone no practical conclusions can ever be drawn. "This will preserve society" cannot lead to "do this" except by mediation of "society ought to be preserved." "This will cost you your life" cannot lead directly to "do not do this"; it can lead to it only through a felt desire or an acknowledged duty of self-preservation.

Frankly, I find more serious discussion of the problems of moral relativity and political ideology in the sociological writings of Karl Mannheim and Max Scheler, and even in the structuralism of Claude Levi-Strauss, than I do in the writings of many contemporary theologians. It seems as if theologians give their time these days to writing apologies (not apologetics) for such current social fads as neo-Marxism and transactional analysis. Kierkegaard anguished over whether or not a theologian could be saved. Perhaps not. But as a layman, I am not kidding myself: if he can’t be saved, then neither can I. A theology of women’s liberation, group therapy or the modern novel will not help us much when the whirlwind, political or otherwise, descends upon us. One might as well talk about a theology of Sugar Crisps or the Boy Scouts.

Neglecting the Past

Another facet of the Christian’s problematic relationship to the public-order-and-safety issue may be found in our conscious or unconscious acceptance of the popular liberal attitude toward history. Liberal intellectuals often seem to think that historical consciousness is by definition a conservative point of view, a negation of the present. They themselves are usually future-oriented -- a tendency evidenced in the futurism fad among today’s social scientists, and the ahistorical approach if not downright antihistoricism seen in many aspects of social science.

When I was a graduate student in sociology, I spent many hours arguing and discussing such books as The Nature of Prejudice, by Gordon Allport, and Authoritarian Personality, by Theodor W. Adorno and others. These books have been superseded, quite rightly, by much contemporary work. But it is important to note that these authors stressed that racism is not only a moral issue, or a problem of sentiment or taste, but also a problem of reality, of truth, of scientific validity or invalidity. The mechanisms of stereotyping distorted the objective world, and the doctrines of racism were seen as "bad science" because so many studies -- of IQ testing, of genetics, of reality-distortion -- showed racial prejudice to be invalid. During the past decade or so, when the grounds of discussion shifted to political ideology and the civil rights struggle, much of this earlier material dropped out of the literature. It was simply taken for granted. Also, the liberal view of history, continually stressing the value of the new, along with the market pressure to produce totally new textbooks, meant that the past -- that is, these detailed scientific studies of racial stereotyping -- simply disappeared from required reading lists. The student was simply told that racial prejudice was "wrong"; no real effort was made to convince him on a logical plane.

The trouble is, there is no guarantee that the hard-won insights of the past will be passed from generation to generation. In the classes I teach I find that students who were liberal and tolerant last month are peculiarly vulnerable this month to the subtle blandishments of racism. All too easily they fall for new assaults on equality by people like Arthur Jensen and Richard Herrenstein, or for the equally unproven assumptions of the XYY-chromosome theorists who would treat potential criminal behavior by preventive biological segregation.

Edmund Burke once wrote: "Society is a partnership of the dead, the living, and the unborn. Mutilate the roots of society and tradition and the result must inevitably be the isolation of individuals from their fellow men, and the creation of sprawling, faceless masses." There is something profoundly wrong with a society or a religion that neglects its own past. Certainly this omission is the opening wedge for religious intolerance and prejudice. I fear that many of the newer forms of religious bigotry, the Jesus freaks and other sectarian totalitarians, represent the conversion of thoroughly secularized individuals to a Christian tradition that they actually care little about in any historical sense.

An Objective Ground for Value Claims

Returning to my experience with the police, I recall a young police lieutenant in charge of training, with whom I discussed the qualities that make for a good police officer. The lieutenant -- bright, well trained, a college and university graduate, one of the new-breed professionals -- observed that one could not accurately predict who would make a good cop and who wouldn’t. One could tell only through job performance. The fancy battery of tests was not too useful. There is a high turnover rate in police work, he said. The hours are erratic, there is a certain amount of danger, and the pay is generally low. Many officers eventually drift into an attitude of cynicism. On an impulse I asked him if he didn’t think that a deeply religious man, or a Christian, might not make a good police officer. I think he was really shocked by the suggestion, and the conversation more or less ended there. I might as well have been a man from Mars. If I had asked him whether a good football player, or a Rotarian, or even a member of the Knights of Columbus, might make a good recruit, I am certain he would have felt more comfortable. This is a measure of where the church is in relation to the police.

We have theologies of death, of medical ethics, of modern literature, of pop psychology. We hold conferences, edit symposia, and carry on learned discussions. But we do not have an adequate theology of public order and safety, of police work, and of the criminal justice systems. The very idea is problematical. And as one reads through the theoretical literature on crime and penology, one finds very shortly that the articles on such topics as the Charles Manson case are thin, pale and anemic; for these discussions are wrapped in the folds of a value-neutral social science lingua franca which makes any realistic or in-depth ethical discussion virtually impossible.

In any case, what each generation must do is to construct an apologia, a defense of the faith which is without shame and based on integrity. Fundamental to this task is the search for an objective ground for value claims -- a well-reasoned argument for external standards which resists the ever-present tendency to reduce ethics to the subjective whims and passions of personal self-interest. We will not -- indeed, cannot -- defend the Christian faith before the prosecution by advocating a condescending criterion of relevance, or by accepting the subjectivity of value. The reality of evil, antisocial acts is too impervious to our wishes for such a state of affairs to continue for long. Above all else, we had better not neglect history. We should be clear, however, that the police, like many of us, often think like men of the apocalypse, assuming they are on the side of the angels against the forces of evil. Such illusions, from any source, may be met only by a countering transcendental or religious argument.

The police as an institution, in the very form and structure of their work, both take on and assume implicit values which should be unmasked and critically discussed -- both for their sake and for ours. To call policemen "pigs" or to stereotype them in other ways is only to express our own lack of civility and common decency which they, quite rightly, keep telling us is a symbol of the social disorder against which they stand as the last defense -- a rather ambiguous position to be in, in any society.

A Central Task for the Theologian

But no organization or individual truly stands alone, for life is constructed in the larger context of the culture. The courts, the prisons, the conflicts of the community affect the policeman and his existence. The church with all its imperfections, inanities and weaknesses may be more central here than we have realized. A theology of police work is no answer, but a religious message that seriously addresses itself to the problems of violence and the need for order and authority within a democratic, legal framework must be, as I see it, a central task for the theologian and for Christian apologetics.

But what is new about this? Augustine wrote his greatest passages dealing with the problem of order in the City of God in response to the fall of Rome, and much of the New Testament itself was written under conditions of persecution. There is more power, hope, faith and even realism left in the Christian tradition than many seem to realize. To trivialize the faith by rushing to the defense of every passing fad from transactional analysis to the frustrations of bourgeois housewives in their search for freedom is to evidence the middle-class sentimentality which is the source of much liberal theology. It will take .a renewed effort at apologetics, in the classical meaning of that term, coupled with considerable grace, even luck, to make Christianity, in its various forms, a viable democratic defense for the future society.