Homosexuality and the Church

The gay caucuses now active in virtually every major American denomination no longer will let us forget that the church must face the issue of homosexuality more openly, honestly, and sensitively than it has yet done. Beyond this legitimate and appropriate pressure, however, there are other compelling reasons for the church to reexamine its theology and practice:

1. Homosexual Christians are sisters and brothers of all other Christians, earnestly seeking the church's full acceptance without prejudgment on the basis of a sexual orientation regarding which they had no basic choice.

2. While antihomosexual bias has existed in Western culture generally, the church must take responsibility for its share in shaping, supporting, and transmitting negative attitudes toward homosexuality.

3. The Christian mandate for social justice will not let us forget that discrimination continues today against millions of gay persons in employment, housing, public accommodations, education, and in the enjoyment of fundamental civil liberties.

4. The church is called to do its ongoing theological and ethical work as responsibly as possible. Fresh insights from feminist theologians, gay Christians, and those secular scholars who frequently manifest God's "common grace" in the world remind us of the numerous ways in which our particular sexual conditions color our perceptions of God's nature and presence among us. If the Protestant Principle turns us against absolutizing historically relative theological judgments, so also our openness to continuing revelation should convince us, with some of our ancestors-in-faith, that "the Lord has yet more light and truth to break forth."

 5. The heterosexually oriented majority in the church has much to gain from a deeper grappling with this issue: an enriched capacity to love other human beings more fully and with less fear.

The Bible and Homosexuality

A brief survey of pertinent scriptural passages must begin with a word about our interpretive principles. My first hermeneutical assumption -- and the most fundamental one -- is that Jesus Christ is the bearer of God's invitation to human wholeness and is the focal point of God's humanizing action; hence, Jesus Christ is the central norm through which and by which all else must be judged. Second, I believe that the interpreter must take seriously both the historical context of the biblical writer and the present cultural situation. Third, we should study the Bible, aware of the cultural relativity through which we perceive and experience Christian existence. And, fourth, our scriptural interpretation should exhibit openness to God's truth that may be revealed through other disciplines of human inquiry.

With these assumptions in mind let us turn to the Bible, noting first that nowhere does it say anything about homosexuality as a sexual orientation. Its references are to certain kinds of homosexual acts. Understanding homosexuality as a psychic orientation is relatively recent. It is crucial that we remember this, for in all probability the biblical writers in each instance were speaking of homosexual acts undertaken by those persons whom the authors presumed to be heterosexually constituted.

While the Onan story (Gen. 38:1 -- 11) does not deal directly with homosexual activity, it gives us important clues to some of the reasons for its ancient condemnation. Onan's refusal to impregnate his widowed sister-in-law, a refusal expressed in his deliberate withdrawal before ejaculation, was interpreted by the biblical writer as so serious a violation of divine decree that Onan was killed by Yahweh.

Three interpretive observations are important to our subject. First, the story clearly represents the strong procreative emphasis characteristic of the Hebrew interpretation of sexuality. Our awareness that the very survival of a relatively small tribe struggling against external challenges depended significantly upon abundant procreation helps us to understand this emphasis. Yet, our own situation on an overcrowded planet is markedly different, and faithful response to God's humanizing activity in Christ should compel us to reassess this procreative norm.

Second, the story is based in part upon a biological misunderstanding present throughout the Bible. The prescientific mind, and more particularly the prescientific male mind, believed that the man's semen contained the whole of nascent life. With no knowledge of eggs and ovulation, it was assumed that the woman provided only the incubating space, "ground for the seed." Hence, the deliberate and nonproductive spilling of semen was equivalent to the deliberate destruction of human life. When such occurred in male masturbation, in male homosexual acts, or in coitus interrupt us, the deserved judgment was as severe as that for abortion or for murder. The third observation follows from this. Male masturbatory and homosexual acts have been condemned far more vigorously in the Judeo-Christian tradition than have similar female acts. The sexism endemic to a patriarchal society ironically bore with its logic a heavier burden upon "deviants" of the "superior" gender.

It is, however, another Genesis account (19:1 -- 29) that we associate more directly with homosexual activity -- the Sodom story. Contemporary biblical studies persuasively indicate that the major theme of the story and concern of the writer were not homosexual activity as such but rather the breach of ancient Hebrew hospitality norms and persistent violations of rudimentary social justice. That inhospitality and injustice are "the sin of Sodom" is evident when one examines parallel scriptural accounts as well as explicit references to Sodom elsewhere in the Old Testament. Further, the story is not given an explicitly and dominantly sexual interpretation until several centuries after it was written -- in the intertestamental Book of Jubilees.

Given this general agreement, scholars do differ as to whether homosexual activity actually played any role in the story at all. However, within the context of the story's major theme, what if we assume that the writer did intend to condemn certain homosexual acts as particularly illustrative of human guilt in the face of God's righteousness? Even then, in fairness to the text, it is difficult to construe the Sodom account as a judgment against all homosexual activity, for its condemnation then would be directed against homosexual rape. Indeed, as John McNeill has observed, the use of the Sodom story in the Christian West may be another of those ironies of history. In the name of a biblical account whose major theme is inhospitality and injustice, countless homosexually oriented persons have been subjected to precisely that.

What are we to make of those Old Testament passages that in addition to rape condemn other homosexual acts? (See, for example, the Holiness Code in Lev. 18:22 and 20:13; also Deut. 23:17 and 1 Kings 14:24, 15:12 and 22:46.) Cultic defilement is the context of these passages. Canaanite fertility worship, involving sacral prostitution and orgies, constituted a direct threat to Yahweh's exclusive claim. Yahweh was the God who worked through the freedom of human history and not, primarily, through the cycles of biological life. Thus, sexuality was to be seen not as a mysterious sacred power, but rather as part of human life to be used responsibly in gratitude to its creator. In this context these texts are most adequately interpreted, and this central message is utterly appropriate to the norm of the new humanity that we meet in Jesus Christ.

Also, remember that a common Middle East practice during this period was to submit captured male foes to anal rape. Such was an expression of domination and scorn. As long as homosexual activity was generally understood to express such hatred and contempt -- particularly in societies where the dignity of the male was held to be of great importance -- any such activity was to be rejected summarily.

In the New Testament we have no record of Jesus saying anything about homosexuality, either as a sexual orientation or as a practice. The major New Testament references are found in two Pauline letters and in 1 Timothy. The context of Paul's widely quoted statement in Romans 1:26-27 is clearly his concern about idolatry. Three things should be noted. First, concerned about the influence of paganism upon the Roman Christians, Paul sees homosexual expression as a result of idolatry, but he does not claim that such practices are the cause of God's wrath. Second, in this passage we have a description of homosexual lust ("consumed with passion for one another") but not an account of interpersonal homosexual love.

Third, Paul's wording makes it plain that he understands homosexual activity as that indulged in by heterosexuals, hence that which is contrary to their own sexual orientation. Thus, it is difficult to construe Paul's statements as applicable to acts of committed love engaged in by persons for whom same-sex orientation is part of the givenness of their "nature." Indeed, Paul uses "nature" as a flexible concept expressing varying concerns in different contexts. An ethical position that condemns homosexuality as a violation of natural law must turn to a nonbiblical philosophical position -- but not to Pauline material -- for its content.

Remembering Human Historicity

Paul's other reference to homosexual acts (1 Cor. 6:9-10) is similar to that of the writer of I Timothy (1:8-11). Both passages list practices that exclude people from the kingdom -- acts that dishonor God and harm the neighbor, including thievery, drunkenness, kidnapping, lying, and the like. Thus, if it is apparent that here homosexual acts are not singled out for special condemnation, it could also be argued that there was general disapproval. What, then are we to make of Paul's moral judgment in this case?

Perhaps we should accept Paul for what he was -- a peerless interpreter of the heart of the gospel and one who was also a fallible and historically conditioned person. If the norm of the new humanity in Jesus Christ obliges us to question the Apostle's opinions about the proper status of women and the institution of human slavery, so also that norm obliges us to scrutinize each of his moral judgments regarding its Christian faithfulness for our time -- including his perception of homosexuality.

Surely, the central biblical message regarding sexuality is clear enough. Idolatry, the dishonoring of God, inevitably results in the dishonoring of persons. Faithful sexual expression always honors the personhood of the companion. Sexuality is not intended by God as a mysterious and alien force of nature, but as a power to be integrated into one's personhood and used responsibly in the service of love.

A typology of four possible theological stances toward homosexuality can begin with the most negative assessment. A rejecting-punitive position unconditionally rejects homosexuality as Christianly legitimate and bears a punitive attitude toward homosexual persons. While no major contemporary theologians defend this position and while official church bodies have moved away from it, this stance unfortunately is amply represented in Christian history.

If we have been ignorant of the persecutions of homosexuals, it is not without reason. Unlike the recognized histories of other minority groups, there has been no "gay history." Heterosexual historians usually have considered the subject unmentionable, and gay historians have been constrained by the fear of ceasing to be invisible. A conspiracy of silence has resulted. Yet, the facts are there. Stoning, sexual mutilation, and the death penalty were fairly common treatment for discovered homosexuals through centuries of the West's history. While the church frequently gave its blessings to civil persecutions, in its internal ecclesiastical practice its disapproval was even more frequently shown through the refusal of sacraments and ostracism from the common life.

The rejecting-punitive stance today may be milder in its usual manifestations, though it continues to bear highly punitive attitudes along with its theological arguments. If the latter are based upon a selective biblical literalism, the former are rooted in familiar stereotypes. All lesbians are hard, and all male gays effeminate; homosexuals are compulsive and sex-hungry; male gays are inherently prone to child molestation; homosexuals are by nature promiscuous. Each of the preceding stereotypes has been thoroughly discounted by reliable research; yet they persist in the minds of many, buttressed by untenable biblical interpretations. But the key criticism of this stance is simply the incongruity of a punitive orientation with the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The rejecting-non punitive stance must be taken more seriously, for no less eminent a theologian than Karl Barth represents his view. Since humanity is "fellow-humanity," says Barth, men and women come into full humanity only in relation to persons of the opposite sex. To seek one's humanity in a person of the same sex is to seek "a substitute for the despised partner," and as such it constitutes "physical, psychological and social sickness, the phenomenon of perversion, decadence and decay." This is idolatry, for one who seeks the same-sex union is simply seeking oneself: self-satisfaction and self-sufficiency. While Barth says homosexuality thus is unnatural and violates the command of the Creator, he hastens to add that the central theme of the gospel is God's overwhelming grace in Jesus Christ. Hence, homosexuality must be condemned, but the homosexual person must not.

William Muehl argues for the rejecting-nonpunitive position from a more consequentialist stance. Maintaining that "the fundamental function of sex is procreation" and that homosexuality is an illness comparable to alcoholism, Muehl then turns his major attention to social consequences. Sheer acceptance of homosexuality would have "implications for our view of marriage, the limitations appropriate to sexual activity, the raising of children and the structure of the family." Since we are relatively ignorant concerning such potentially grave social results, Muehl argues, we should respect the historic position of the church, which rejects homosexuality.

The rejecting-nonpunitive stance appears to rest upon two major stated arguments and two major unstated assumptions -- each open to serious question. The first stated argument is that of natural law and idolatry. At this point Barth seems to forget our human historicity, apparently assuming that human nature is an unchangeable, once-and-for-all substance given by the Creator. Actually, our human nature is shaped in some significant part by the interaction of people in specific periods of time with specific cultural symbols and specific historic environments. Committed to this alternative interpretation, Gregory Baum fittingly writes, "In other words, human nature as it is at present is not normative for theologians….What is normative for normal life is the human nature to which we are divinely summoned, which is defined in terms of mutuality. This, at least, is the promise of biblical religion." After examining the evidence of mutual fulfillment in committed gay couples, Father Baum concludes: "homosexual love, then, is not contrary to human nature, defined in terms of mutuality toward which mankind is summoned." 

Is Sex Orientation Chosen?

Barth's idolatry judgments appear to rest upon several additional -- and equally questionable -- assumptions. One is that procreative sex is divinely commanded and normative. Yet, in light of the gospel and of our current human situation, we might better say that while responsible love and sexual expression cannot be sundered, procreation and sex cannot be irrevocably joined. Another assumption is that there can be no "fellow humanity" apart from the opposite sex. But is it not more biblical to maintain that there is no genuine humanity apart from community?

Still another assumption is that homosexuality means a "despising" of the other sex -- an assertion without logical or factual foundation. Indeed, many homosexuals exhibit the ability to establish deeply meaningful and loving relationships with members of the opposite sex precisely because sexual "conquest," in whatever form, is excluded from the situation. And the logic of Barth's argument at this point would seem to be that heterosexuals by their nature should despise members of their own sex. Finally, Barth maintains that homosexuality is idolatrous because it is basically self-worship. It is as if the classic syllogism were to be changed to read as follows: "I love men; Socrates is a man; therefore, I love myself." Non sequitur. In actuality, compared with heterosexual couples committed gay couples show no intrinsic or qualitative differences in their capacities for self-giving love.

The second major argument of the rejecting-nonpunitive position is that undesirable social consequences probably would result from homosexual acceptance. This argument appears to rest upon a major unspoken assumption: that homosexuals in fact do have meaningful choices about their same-sex orientation. If one makes this assumption, then one might (as Muehl appears to do) draw a further conclusion: that societal acceptance would bring in its wake a significant increase in the numbers of those choosing homosexuality.

Such assumptions must be radically questioned. Actually, statistics show no demonstrable increase in homosexual behavior in the quarter-century since Kinsey's study, in spite of somewhat less punitive social attitudes in recent years. Further, it is probable that greater acceptance of homosexuality would have desirable consequences for families and child-rearing: Emotional intimacy among same-sex heterosexual family members would be less inhibited by unrecognized homosexual fears, and syndromes of alienation and destructive rejection of the homosexual child in the family would be lessened.

The great majority of homosexuals do not appear to have a meaningful choice concerning their orientation any more than do the great majority of heterosexuals. There exists today no general agreement about the cause of homosexuality. Major theories cluster around two different approaches, the psychogenic and the genetic, but both remain in dispute. It is significant, however, that in 1973 the Trustees of the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality from that association's list of mental disorders, saying, "Homosexuality per se implies no impairment in judgment, stability, reliability, or general social or vocational capabilities."

Moral Responsibility and Self-Acceptance

The minority of gay persons who have sought therapeutic treatment to reverse their sex orientation have experienced an extremely low success rate. Behavioral modification programs using aversive therapy have conditioned some homosexuals against attraction to their own sex, but most frequently they have been unable to replace that with attraction to the opposite sex, a dehumanizing result. Indeed, Dr. Gerald C. Davison, who developed and popularized the "orgasmic reorientation" technique, recently disavowed his own treatment, calling upon behavior therapists to "stop engaging in voluntary therapy programs aimed at altering the choice of adult partners."

The other underlying assumption appears to be this: that theological positions and ecclesiastical practices which reject homosexuality can, in fact, be nonpunitive toward those persons so oriented. This, too, must be radically questioned, and we shall do so in the context of the next major position.

The third major theological option is that of the qualified acceptance of homosexuality. Helmut Thielicke provides its best articulation. His argument follows several steps. First, similar to Barth's contention, Thielicke maintains, "The fundamental order of creation and the created determination of the two sexes make it appear justifiable to speak of homosexuality as a 'perversion'….[which] is in every case not in accord with the order of creation." But Thielicke is more open than Barth to the results of contemporary psychological and medical research. Thus, he takes a second step: "But now experience shows that constitutional homosexuality at any rate is largely unsusceptible to medical or psychotherapeutic treatment, at least so far as achieving the desired goal of a fundamental conversion to normality is concerned." Further, homosexuality as a predisposition ought not to be depreciated any more than the varied distortions of the created order in which all fallen people share.

But what of sexual expression? If the homosexual can change his or her sexual orientation, such a person should seek to change. Admittedly, however, most cannot. Then such persons should seek to sublimate their homosexual desires and not act upon them. But some constitutional homosexuals "because of their vitality" are not able to practice abstinence. If that is the case, they should structure their sexual relationships "in an ethically responsible way" (in adult, faithfully committed relationships). Homosexuals should make the best of their painful situations, without idealizing them or pretending that they are normal.

More than Barth and Muehl, Thielicke is empirically informed and pastorally sensitive on this issue. But his position is still grounded in an unacceptably narrow and rigid version of natural law. As such, in spite of its greater humanness his argument becomes self-contradictory. In effect the gay person is told, "We heterosexual Christians sympathize with your plight, and we believe that any sexual expression in which you engage must be done in an ethically responsible way -- but do not forget that you are a sexual pervert!" 

An ethics of the gospel ought never forget that moral responsibility is intrinsically related to self-acceptance, and that self-acceptance is intrinsically related to acceptance by significant others and, ultimately, by God. Gay persons in our society frequently have been told by their families that they do not belong to them, by the church that they are desperate sinners because of their sexual orientation, by the medical profession that they are sick, and by the law that they are criminals. In the face of such rejection, the amazing thing is that so many are emotionally stable and sexually responsible. If emotional problems still have a higher incidence among gay persons (as they do within any oppressed social group), we . cut through the vicious circle of self-fulfilling prophecy and recognize where the root of the problem lies -- in societal oppression. Thielicke fails to do this. More humane though his position is, by continuing to label same-sex orientation as a perversion of God's natural law, he encourages continuing punitive attitudes toward homosexuals and in consequence undercuts his own hope for more responsible sexual relationships.

Realizing Our Intended Humanity

The fourth major theological possibility is full acceptance. While it usually makes the assumption that homosexual orientation is much more a given than a free choice, even more fundamentally this position rests upon the conviction that same-sex relationships are fully capable of expressing God's humanizing intentions.

Though still in a minority, the advocates of full Christian acceptance are increasing in number. In 1963 the English Friends state in their widely read Towards a Quaker View of Sex: "One should no more deplore 'homosexuality' than left-handedness….Homosexual affection can be as selfless as heterosexual affection, and therefore we cannot see that it is in some way morally worse."

Among individual theologians Norman Pittenger has articulated this position most fully. God, he affirms, is the "Cosmic Lover," ceaselessly and unfailingly in action as love, and manifested supremely in Jesus Christ. God's abiding purpose for humankind is that in response to divine action we should realize our intended humanity as human lovers -- in the richest, broadest, and most responsible sense of the term. Our embodied sexuality is the physiological and psychological base for our capacity to love.

For all of its continuity with animal sexuality, human sexuality is different: As persons our sexuality means the possibility of expressing and sharing a total personal relationship in love. And such expression contributes immeasurably toward the destiny to which we are all intended. Hence, abnormality or deviance should not be defined statistically, but rather in reference to the norm of humanity in Jesus Christ. Gay persons desire and need deep and lasting relationships, just as do heterosexual persons, and appropriate genital expression should be denied to neither.

Thus, the ethical question according to Pittenger is this: What sexual behavior will serve and enhance, rather than inhibit, damage, or destroy, our fuller realization of divinely intended humanity? The appropriate answer is a sexual ethics of love. This means commitment and trust, tenderness, respect for the other, and the desire for ongoing and responsible communion with the other. On its negative side such an ethics of love mandates against selfish sexual expression, cruelty, impersonal sex, obsession with sex, and against actions done without willingness to take responsibility for their consequences. Such an ethics always asks about the meaning of any particular sexual act in the total context of the persons involved, in the context of their society, and in the context of that direction which God desires for human life. It is an ethics equally appropriate for both homosexual and heterosexual Christians. There is no double standard.

It is obvious by this point that my own convictions favor the full Christian acceptance of homosexuality and its responsible genital expression. I have felt quite personally the force of each of the other stances described in this article, for at various earlier periods in my life I have identified, in turn, with each one -- beginning as a teenager with the full complement of antihomosexual stereotypes. In recent years, both through theological-ethical reflection and through personal friendships with some remarkable gay persons, I have become increasingly convinced that the positions of both Barth and Thielicke inadequately express the implications of the gospel on this issue.

Homosexuality: A Heterosexual Problem?

Reinhold Niebuhr has powerfully argued that Christians must learn to live with the tension of "having and not having the truth." "Tolerance" in its truest sense, he maintained, is experienced when, on the one hand, a person can have vital convictions that lead to committed action and, on the other hand, that same person can live within the reality of forgiveness. The latter means experiencing divine forgiveness for the distortion of one's own understanding and having the willingness to accept those whose convictions sincerely differ. Hopefully, it is in such spirit that this personal note is written, and in such spirit the heterosexual reader is invited to wonder with me at this point about three possibilities.

One possibility is that "the homosexual problem" may be more truly a heterosexual problem. We are learning that "the black problem" is basically the problem of white racism, and that "the woman problem" is basically the problem of male sexism. So, also, we might well wonder whether or not "the homosexual problem" could be rooted in a homophobia frequently experienced by heterosexuals.

My own experience suggests this. While in the preceding paragraphs, for the sake of economy, I have simply used the terms "heterosexual" and "homosexual" (or "gay"), the best available evidence indicates that we are all bisexual to some degree. True, most of us, for reasons not yet fully understood, develop a dominant orientation toward one or the other side of the continuum. But Kinsey's early research repeatedly has been confirmed: On the scale of sexual orientation relatively few persons fall near the "zero" end (exclusively heterosexual) and relatively few approach the "six" mark (exclusively homosexual).

Though, for the majority of us, our adult genital expression may have been exclusively heterosexual, it is quite probable that we do experience homosexual feelings even if such are frequently relegated to the unconscious level. And males in our society generally have the greater difficulty with this, inasmuch as we have been continuously subjected to exaggerated images of masculinity. Thus, I believe it is worth pondering whether some of our common reactions against homosexuality might be linked to secret fears of homosexual feelings ourselves -- Freud's "reaction formation," defending against an impulse felt in oneself by attacking it in others.

Gay people may also represent threats to us in other related ways. The gay man seems to belie the importance of "super-masculinity," and his very presence calls into question so much that "straight" males have sacrificed in order to be manly. Homosexuals appear to disvalue commonly held public values related to marriage, family, and children. Because we so frequently judge others by our own standards, those who obviously deviate from them appear to be seriously deviant. And, strangely enough, homosexuals may awaken in heterosexuals a dimly recognized fear of death. Sometimes our hopes of vicarious immortality through our children and grandchildren are stronger than our resurrection faith. Then the presence of the gay person who (usually) does not have children may reawaken the fear of death, even though its conscious experience may be a nameless anxiety. I wonder.

Second, I wonder how much of the heterosexual reaction against homosexuality is related to male sexism. I suspect that some of our responses are. Surely, the more severe biblical condemnation of male homosexuality was not unrelated to the status of the male in a patriarchal society. For a man to act sexually like a woman was serious degradation (literally loss of grade). And in our own society, where male sexism remains a serious problem, it is still the male who more commonly experiences homophobia. Indeed, the striking parallelism between so many arguments against homosexual acceptance and arguments against full acceptance of women-men equality ought to make us reflect upon this.

Third, I wonder about the possibilities of augmented liberation for us all were a greater acceptance of homosexuality to come. Many of us have experienced some diminution of our own homophobia bringing new possibilities of tenderness, lessened competitiveness, and greater emotional intimacy with those of our own sex. Many of us males have become more conscious of the connection between the uses of violence and our needs for assurance of our virility, and we wonder whether greater understanding and acceptance of our own homosexual impulses might not well contribute to a more peaceful society. The list of liberating possibilities could be expanded, but perhaps the point is clear. In any event, I wonder about the relation between Jesus' apparent silence concerning homosexuality and Jesus as the image of authentic human liberation.

Precisely because we must live with "having and not having the truth," it is important that we share our serious wonderings. Perceptions of sincere Christians will differ on this issue, but we can all attempt to invite each other into our quests for fuller understanding of that humanity into which God invites us all.

Some Implications for the Church

The church's firm support of civil rights for gay persons ought not depend upon agreement concerning the theological and ethical appropriateness of the homosexual orientation or of specific same-sex acts. Civil rights support ought to be considered an expression of Christian concern for basic social justice.

 

The present legal situation is still very uneven Some states and municipalities have legislated civil protection for gay persons, while others (the majority) have not. Most states still have punitive legislation on their books, though in actual practice enforcement is varied and often unpredictable. In any event, laws labeling "sodomy" or "unnatural sexual intercourse" as punishable offenses have a number of inherent problems. They violate the rights of privacy. They are ineffective and virtually unenforceable except through objectionable methods such as entrapment and enticement. However, enforced or not, sodomy laws stigmatize as criminal the person whose only crime is preference for the same sex, and inevitably such laws have considerable effect upon the gay individual's sense of self-worth. Further, an important principle of church-state separation is involved. What some Christians on fairly narrow doctrinal grounds consider a sin ought not to be made a crime unless that moral judgment can be defended on broader grounds of public interest and unless the behavior in question constitutes a demonstrable threat to human well-being and public welfare.

Beyond the civil rights, if and when churches were to affirm homosexuality and its responsible expression as fully appropriate to those persons so constituted, the implications for church life would be many, and their implementation might well be complex.

What about the full acceptance of gay Christians in the ongoing life of congregations? Because such acceptance still is largely absent, the movement toward congregations organized principally for gay persons will undoubtedly continue. This movement is completely understandable, but regrettable, for the majority's lack of acceptance then continues to fragment the body of Christ.

To be sure, congregational affirmation of gay persons would involve significant attitudinal changes on the part of many heterosexual Christians. With full acceptance, for example, all of those gestures and behaviors appropriate to heterosexuals in church gatherings must be affirmed for homosexuals as well. This should mean, then, no double standards concerning the hand-holding couple, the kiss of greeting, or the appropriate partner at the church dance.

The ordination question continues to be difficult. Not only division over theological and ethical issues but also differing patterns of ministerial placement and job security cause deep concern for many otherwise sympathetic church leaders. While no doubt there are presently ordained homosexual ministers in every major denomination, the vast majority of them continue secrecy about their sexual orientation. Only one major denomination has ordained a stated homosexual: The Rev. William R. Johnson was ordained by the United Church of Christ in 1972 and then only after prolonged study and debate in his association.

The recommendation made by the United Church's Executive Council in 1973, if difficult to implement, is the appropriate stance: "It [the Executive Council] recommends to associations that in the instance of considering a stated homosexual's candidacy for ordination the issue should not be his/her homosexuality as such, but rather the candidate's total view of human sexuality and his/her understanding of the morality of its use." This, indeed, is the logic of full acceptance. It is not the gay person's sexual orientation that would cause difficulty in ministerial leadership, but rather the misunderstandings and prejudices held by those whom he or she would lead. (Should a dominantly white denomination ordain black persons to the ministry? The parallel with racism seems clear.)

Most difficult of all gay-related questions for the present denominational church is that of homosexual marriage. The ordinance of marriage has a very long theological and ecclesiastical history, and that history is a heterosexual one. Profound symbols are organic. They must grow and develop, and sudden changes in their understanding cannot successfully be legislated. Marriage, involving a wife and a husband and the possibility of children, is clearly a heterosexual symbol.

But new rites can be created to meet legitimate needs unmet by existing symbols. There are, indeed, gay Christian couples living in long-term, permanently intended covenantal relationships who earnestly desire the affirmation of their religious communion. A "blessing of union" rite (by whatever name) could function in ways not identical but parallel to marriage rites. Such an ordinance could give the church's recognition, sanction, and support to a union whose intention is lasting and faithful. Indeed, if the church encourages responsible sexual expression among gay persons and then denies them its ritual and communal support, it engages in hypocrisy. If and when the church moves toward such liturgical recognition, it should also work for legal recognition of homosexual unions, involving such matters as tax laws and inheritance rights.

The ecclesiastical implications of full acceptance are undoubtedly complex. Very understandably, however, many gay Christians are tired of waiting for such complexities to be resolved. They have waited -- and hurt -- long enough. Their impatience, I believe, is a call for repentance and for urgent work by the rest of us. At its root the basic issue is not about "them," but about us all: What is the nature of that humanity toward which God is pressing us, and what does it mean to be a woman or a man in Jesus Christ.

Reuniting Sexuality and Spirituality

The title of this Christian Century series, After the Revolution: The Church and Sexual Ethics, suggests two things: that there has been a sexual revolution, and that the revolution is over. Though in some ways both claims are true, in other ways the revolution has just begun. Clearly the past quarter-century has witnessed significant changes in the cultural and religious understandings of sex roles, sex outside marriage, homosexuality, single-parent families, the explicit portrayal and discussion of sexual matters and so on. These shifts were spurred by a new American affluence, by the Pill, by the flood of women into the work force, by the destabilization of traditional values during the war in Vietnam, and by a new societal emphasis on self-fulfillment. None of these changes was total and none occurred without considerable resistance; yet it is evident that something of major importance happened.

Then, in the Orwellian year 1984, no less an authority than Time magazine declared that "The Revolution Is Over" (April 9). Veterans of the sexual revolution, said Time, are both bored and wounded. The one-night stand has lost its sheen, we were told. "Commitment" and "intimacy" are in (helped by the scourges of herpes and AIDS), and celibacy is again a respectable option. The "me generation" is giving way to the "we generation." Religious and political reaction has followed the rise of feminism, gay/lesbian activism and the plurality of family forms.

All this is true enough. But it is not that simple—particularly not in regard to religious attitudes. Some years ago Paul Ricoeur observed that there have been three major stages in the Western understanding of the relation of sexuality to religion (cf "Wonder, Eroticism and Enigma," in Sexuality and Identity, edited by Hendrik Ruitenbeek [Dell, 1970], pp. 13 ff.). The earliest stage closely identified the two forces, incorporating sexuality into religious myth and ritual. In the second stage, accompanying the rise of the great world religions, the two spheres were separated: the sacred became increasingly transcendent while sexuality was demythologized and confined to a small part of the earthly order (procreation within institutionalized marriage). Sexuality’s power was feared, restrained and disciplined.

Ricoeur notes that there now seems to be emerging a third period, marked by the desire to reunite sexuality with the experience of the sacred. This desire is prompted by a more wholistic understanding of the person and of the ways in which sexuality is present in all of human experience. If sexual expression is still seen as needing ordering and discipline, as it was in the second period, there is also, as there was in the first period, a sense of its spiritual power.

I, too, believe that we are edging into that third period—however unevenly. Of course, the sexual revolution of the ‘60s and ‘70s was itself uneven: some of the constructive power of sexuality was released, and gains were made in sexual justice and equality, but at the same time some sexual experience was trivialized. Nevertheless, that revolution did create an important opening to the third period.

Perhaps never before in the history of the church has there been so much open ferment as there is now about issues of sexuality. The outpouring of treatises, debates, studies, pronouncements and movements bent on reforming religious-sexual attitudes (or protecting them from unwanted change) has been unprecedented. In all of these developments there are signs that a paradigmatic shift in the religious perceptions of human sexuality is under way. There are seven signs of this shift that I find particularly striking.

1. There has been a shift from theologies of sexuality to sexual theologies. Before the past two decades, the vast preponderance of Christian writers on sexuality assumed that the question before them was simply: What does Christianity (the Bible, the tradition, ecclesiastical authority, etc.) say about sexuality? Now we are also asking: What does our experience of human sexuality say about our perceptions of faith—our experience of God, our interpretations of Scripture and tradition, our ways of living out the gospel?

This shift derives in part from a recovery of 19th-century liberal theology’s emphasis on experience as important theological data—an emphasis now embraced by various forms of liberation theology. It derives, too, from the feminist and lesbian/gay movements, both of which have claimed that it is their consciousness of sexual oppression that has afforded them crucial insights about the ways of God in human relationships. The term "sexual theology," like the term "liberation theology," suggests this dialogical, two-directional investigation.

The two-way conversation model reminds us that theology cannot presume to look down upon human sexuality from some unaffected, Olympian vantage point. It reminds us that every theological perception contains some elements and perceptions conditioned by sexual experience, and every sexual experience is perceived and interpreted through religious lenses of some kind. The difference between a unidirectional and a dialogical method is the difference between a theology of sexuality and a sexual theology.

2. There has been a shift from understanding sexuality as either incidental to or detrimental to the experience of God toward understanding sexuality as intrinsic to the divine-human experience. Sexual dualism has marked much of the Christian tradition. In this dualism, spirit is opposed to body, with spirit assumed to be higher and superior and the body lower and inferior. The companion of this dualism has been sexism or patriarchy: men identify themselves essentially with the spirit (mind), while men identify women with the body (matter), and assume that the higher needs to control the lower.

Implicit in sexual dualism has been the notion of divine impassivity—the apathy of God. If the body is marked by passion and if spirit is passionless, then bodily hunger (eros) has no connection with the divine. God is without hunger, and the human hungers (of which sexuality, with its drive to connection and intimacy, is one of the most basic) seem to have no connection with our experience of God.

While the recent sexual revolution often seemed more intent on self-fulfillment through unfettered pleasure than on the quest for intimacy, it did prompt new theological reflection on the spiritual significance of sexual hunger. If some of our Protestant forebears of three centuries ago were right in believing that companionship, not procreation, is central in God’s design for sexuality, then the human hunger for physical and emotional intimacy is of enormous spiritual significance. It ought not be denigrated as unbecoming to the spiritual life. Thus theology has been giving new attention to the insight that sexuality is crucial to God’s design that creatures not dwell in isolation and loneliness but in communion and community.

Accompanying the attack on dualism has been the reclaiming of incarnational theology. This theology emphasizes that the most decisive experience of God is not in doctrine, creed or ideas but in the Word made flesh—and in the Word still becoming flesh. Here has been another opening to the possibility that sexuality is intrinsic to the experience of God. Such experience has been described by Nikos Kazantzakis: "Within me even the most metaphysical problem takes on a warm physical body which smells of sea, soil, and human sweat. The Word, in order to touch me, must become warm flesh. Only then do I understand—when I can smell, see, and touch" (Report to Greco [Cassirer, 1965], p. 43).

3. There has been a shift from understanding sexual sin as a matter of wrong sexual acts to understanding sexual sin as alienation from our intended sexuality. The Christian tradition has had a pronounced tendency to define sexual sin as specific acts. This approach gained momentum during the early Middle Ages when penitential manuals were first written detailing the nature of specific sins and their proper penances. Those manuals paid the greatest attention to sexual matters. Indeed, in our heritage, "sin" and "morality" have had a markedly sexual focus (a "morals charge" never refers to an economic injustice!). Sexual sins thus became physiologically definable and capable of neat categorization. They were those particular acts either prohibited by scriptural texts or contrary to natural law—acts done with the wrong person, in the wrong way or for the wrong purpose.

Actually, Christian theology at its best has recognized that sin is not fundamentally an act but rather the condition of alienation or estrangement out of which harmful acts may arise. However, it has taken a long time for theology to acknowledge that sexual sin is fundamentally alienation from our divinely intended sexuality. To put it overly simply but I hope accurately: sexual sin lies not in being too sexual, but in being not sexual enough—in the way God has intended us to be. Such alienation, indeed, usually leads to harmful acts, but the sin is rooted in the prior condition.

Sexual sin lies in the dualistic alienation by which the body becomes an object, either to be constrained out of fear (the Victorian approach) or to be treated as a pleasure machine (the Playboy philosophy). It lies in the dualistic alienation by which females are kept from claiming their assertiveness and males kept from claiming their vulnerability. It lies in the alienation which finds expression in sexual violence, in Rambo-like militarism, in racism, in ecological abuse. The uncompleted sexual revolution began to recognize some of this. While in its superficial and exploitative moments it wanted to wipe away the category of sexual sin ("If it feels good, do it"), in its better moments it helped us see that sexual sin is really something different from, and more than, particular acts which can be neatly defined.

4. There has been a shift from understanding salvation as antisexual to knowing that there is "sexual salvation." Because spiritualistic dualism has conditioned so much of the Christian tradition, Christians have inherited a disembodied notion of salvation: salvation means release from the lower (fleshly) into the higher (spiritual) life. Accordingly, popular piety has typically viewed the saints as asexual beings, without sexual needs and desires and sometimes even without genitalia.

The sexual revolution helped convince many Christians that an incarnationalist faith embraces the redemption of alienated sexuality as well as other estranged dimensions of our lives. Justification by grace signifies God’s unconditional, unmerited, radical acceptance of the whole person: God, the Cosmic Lover, graciously embraces not just a person’s disembodied spirit but the whole fleshly self—the meanings of which theology is only beginning to explore.

Sanctification means growth in holiness (or wholeness and health—the root word is the same). Many have begun to realize that God intends increasing sexual wholeness to be part of our redemption. Like any other good belief, this view can be perverted, but it need not be. Sexual sanctification can mean growth in bodily self-acceptance, in the capacity for sensuousness, in the capacity for play, in the diffusion of the erotic throughout the body (rather than in its genitalization) and in the embrace of the androgynous possibility.

5. There has been a shift from an act-centered sexual ethics to a relational sexual ethics. For all of its over-simplifications, Joseph Fletcher’s Situation Ethics (1966) prompted a good deal of ethical rethinking. More sophisticated approaches to contextual-relational ethics and an ethics of response/responsibility, differently expressed by such thinkers as H. Richard Niebuhr and Paul Lehmann, had a major impact on ethical thought in the ‘60s.

Act-oriented sexual ethics had dominated most of the Christian tradition, bearing the assumption that the rightness or wrongness of a particular sexual expression could be ascertained by the intrinsic value or disvalue of the action itself, without serious consideration of the relational context. The alternative seemed normlessness and subjectivism, particularly dangerous in sexuality issues, where passions run high. A relational sexual ethics has appeared to many as a way of avoiding legalism on the one hand and normless subjectivism on the other.

Roman Catholic sexual ethics, with its strong natural law tradition and clearly defined ecclesiastical teaching authority, has been more inclined toward objective sexual norms than has Protestant ethics with its heavy scriptural orientation. Both, however, have been more objectivistic and act-focused in sexual issues than in any other moral sphere. In recent years, however, numerous persons in both traditions have moved toward a new and creative sexual ethics.

Act-oriented ethics has appeared inadequate not only in cases with unique contexts and meanings, but in light of a growing recognition that Christian sexual ethics has been inadequately integrated into a wholistic spirituality. If sexuality is the physiological and psychological grounding of our capacities to love, if our destiny after the image of the Cosmic Lover is to be lovers in the richest, fullest sense of that good word, then how does sexual ethics figure into our spiritual destiny? What are our creative and fitting sexual responses to the divine loving? What are the appropriate sexual meanings that will embody the meanings of Word becoming flesh?

These are the questions that seem increasingly appropriate to many. For example, in a promising and controversial book published ten years ago, a group of Roman Catholic scholars proposed that Catholic sexual ethics stop centering on procreation, natural law and the physical contours of sexual acts and focus instead on the creative growth toward personal integration. Such growth and integration, they suggested, would be promoted by sexual expressions that are self-liberating, other-enriching, honest, faithful, socially responsible, life-serving and joyous. These, the authors proposed, are marks of a gospel ethic of love (Anthony Kosnick et al., Human Sexuality: New Directions in American Catholic Thought [Paulist/Newman, 1977]). Rome’s clear retreat from such Vatican II directions as these is evidence that the paradigm shift is still very uneven. But countless members of the Catholic Church know that a significant change is under way.

6. There has been a shift from understanding the church as asexual to understanding it as a sexual community. Through most of the church’s history it has viewed sexuality as either incidental or inimical to its life. But the sexual revolution resulted in a growing self-consciousness and empowerment on the part of the sexually oppressed. Religious feminism articulated the ways in which the church has always been a sexual community—the ways it has incorporated patriarchy into its language, worship, theological imagery, leadership patterns and ethics. A rising gay/lesbian consciousness performed a similar function in regard to the church’s heterosexism. Gradually, other groups—singles (including the widowed and divorced), the aging, those with handicapping conditions, the ill—have begun to recognize how churchly assumptions and practices have sexually disenfranchised them.

Another impetus for claiming and reforming the church as a sexual community has come from the increasing desire to reunite sexuality and spirituality. The realization that Protestant worship has been marked by a masculinist focus on the spoken word and by a suspicion of bodily feelings suggested the need to explore and touch the varied senses more inclusively. The recognition that most theology has given only lip service to the incarnation, failing to take ongoing incarnationalism seriously in both method and content, inspired the effort to explore the doing and meaning of body theology. The fact that Christian education has seriously ignored sex education prompted the attempt to address sexual meanings as part of faith’s journey, for young and old. Much of the recent ferment in theology, ethics, worship, leadership, pastoral care and education has been a direct result of this effort to recognize and reform the church as a sexual community.

7. There has been a shift from understanding sexuality as a private issue to understanding it as a personal and public one. Sexual issues will always be deeply personal, but personal does not mean private. One mark of Victorian sexuality was its privatization. Not only was sexuality not to be talked about, it was to be confined to a small portion of one’s private life. But this, quite literally, was idiocy (the Greek root for idiot refers to the person who attempts to live the private life, ignorant of the public domain).

One of the church’s recent discoveries is the public dimension of sexuality issues. On the social-action agenda of mainline denominations today are sexual-justice issues regarding gender and sexual orientation. No longer foreign to church concern are issues of abortion, family planning and population control, sexual abuse and violence, pornography, prostitution, reproductive technologies, varied family forms, sexually transmitted diseases, teenage pregnancy and the reassessment of men’s identity. All these issues are obviously sexual, and all are public.

Even newer than this development is the nascent discovery of sexual dimensions in issues that previously had not appeared to have sexual connections, such as social violence. Violence, whether in the form of crime in the streets, the arms race, or economic or foreign policy, has important sexual aspects. To be sure, the sources and manifestations of violence are complex But what do we make of competitiveness, the cult of winning, the armoring of emotions, the tendency to dichotomize reality, the abstraction from bodily concreteness and the exaggerated fear of death that is manifested in a morbid fascination with it? These phenomena feed social violence, and all are deeply related to distortions of sexuality, particularly of male sexuality.

Years ago James Weldon Johnson observed that sexuality is deeply implicated in race problems as well. Historically, white males’ categorization of women ("either virgins or whores") proceeded along racial lines: white women were symbols of delicacy and purity, whereas black women symbolized an animality which could be sexually and economically exploited. White male guilt was projected onto the black male, who was imagined as a dark, supersexual beast who must be punished and from whom white women must be protected. Black mothers nurtured their sons to be docile, hoping to protect them from white male wrath. That upbringing in turn complicated black marriages and led to certain destructive attempts to recover black "manliness. " We are the heirs of a distorted racial history in which sexual dynamics have been a major force.

Sexual dynamics are also pervasive and significant when we examine economic exploitation and ecological abuse. Two decades ago, Peirce Teilhard de Chardin observed: "The prevailing view has been that the body . . . is a fragment of the Universe, a piece completely detached from the rest and handed over to a spirit that informs it. In the future we shall have to say that the Body is the very Universality of things.... My matter is not a part of the Universe that I possess totaliter: it is the totality of the Universe possessed by me partialiter" (Science and Christ [Harper & Row, 1968], pp. 12 f). Theology has been slowly recognizing this fact.

The sexual revolution of the ‘60s and ‘70s is mostly over, and some of its superficial and exploitative forms of freedom have proved to be just that. Hurt, boredom and disease have sobered more than a few—and the forces of religious and political reaction rejoice. But this revolution was a harbinger of a much more significant change that Ricoeur foresaw. The change is just beginning. It is uneven, misunderstood and resisted, as well as eagerly welcomed and hoped-for. Nevertheless, in my view a paradigmatic shift is indeed under way.

This will not be the first time in Christian history that a major shift has taken place in the perception of sexuality. In the 17th century some Protestants—especially Puritans, Anglicans and Quakers—began to affirm that loving companionship, not procreation, is the central meaning of sexuality. This cultural-religious revolution is still unfinished. I take heart from the fact that even more far-reaching change is taking place as we investigate how sexuality and spirituality are part and parcel of each other, and as we affirm that the Word continues to become flesh and dwell among us. This revolution has just begun.

Roman Catholic Sexual Ethics: A Dissenting View

Issues of sexual morality, always significant ones in the Christian tradition, are among the most vital topics of debate and concern within the Roman Catholic Church today. The content of official Roman Catholic teaching in sexual matters is generally well known. It is equally well known that most Catholic believers disagree with the hierarchy’s absolute condemnation of masturbation, contraception, sterilization and divorce. Many Catholics also question church teachings on homosexuality and premarital sex. This general attitude has been documented in many polls, such as the recent survey conducted for Time magazine which found that only 24 per cent of Catholics consider artificial birth control wrong, despite the church’s condemnation.

Though many married couples who use artificial contraception, along with divorced and remarried Catholics and gays, continue to participate in the life of the church, the great discrepancy between Catholic teaching and Catholic practice has called into question the credibility of the hierarchical teaching office. Because of the church’s sexual teachings, a good number of Roman Catholics have become disillusioned and have left the church. Andrew Greeley and his associates at the National Opinion Research Center have concluded on the basis of their sociological research that Humanae Vitae, the 1968 papal encyclical condemning artificial contraception, "seems to have been the reason for massive apostasy and for a notable decline in religious devotion and belief."

The vast majority of Catholic theologians writing about sexual morality have challenged the basis for the church’s official teaching. Indeed, the very nature of Catholic teaching has occasioned this type of challenge, for the church maintains that its teaching is based on the natural law, which in principle can be rationally apprehended by all human beings. The church does recognize that reason is illumined by faith in these matters; nonetheless, the natural law methodology claims to rely on human reason, reflecting on human nature rather than directly on faith or revelation.

The official teaching rests on the view that the innate purpose of the sexual faculty is twofold: procreation and love union. Every sexual act must be open to procreation, and must be expressive of love. This is the church’s basis for condemning masturbation, contraception, sterilization and homosexual acts. It is also the ground for condemning artificial insemination, even with the husband’s semen (AIH). Contraception is wrong, in the hierarchical magisterium’s view, because it prevents procreation. AIH is wrong because the act of insemination is not the natural act which, by its very nature, is expressive of love.

But such official teaching suffers from problems—the primary one being its physicalism or biologism. It insists that intercourse must always be present and that no one can interfere with the physical or biological aspect for any reason whatsoever. In this understanding of sex, the physical becomes absolutized. Most revisionist Catholic theologians today argue that for the good of the person or for the good of the marriage, it is legitimate at times to interfere with the physical structure of the act. Note that it is only in questions of sexual morality that Catholic teaching has absolutized the physical and identified it with the truly human or moral aspect. On the question of taking a human life, for example, the church has always distinguished between killing and murder, murder being the morally condemned act, and killing the physical act which is not always wrong. However, in the case of artificial contraception, the church understands it as a physical act that is always and in every circumstance wrong.

Church authorities have taken action against some theologians who have dissented from the official teaching on matters of sexual morality. My own case is by no means the only example. Stephan Pfürtner in Switzerland, the late Ambrogio Valsecchi in Italy and Anthony Kosnick in the United States have all lost their teaching positions because of their writings on sexuality. Rumors circulate that other Catholic theologians who dissent on sexual morality have also experienced problems with the Vatican.

As my account of the controversy indicates, the primary issue in developing a Catholic sexual ethic today is not in deciding the ethical questions themselves but in confronting the ecclesiological question of dissent. Since the church teaching office appears determined to maintain its present positions, and even to discipline some of the theologians who propose other views, those interested in changing the church’s official positions must first deal with the ecclesiological question. Can and should the hierarchy allow theological and practical dissent in these areas? Can and should the hierarchical office change its teaching in these areas?

I have kidded some of my colleagues in ecclesiology by saying that the real ecclesiological issues today, especially those involving the teaching authority in the church, are being faced by moral theologians, particularly those working in the area of sexual morality and sexual ethics. Why is this the case? Obviously, sexuality is a very significant aspect of life which affects everyone personally. Whenever sexuality and authority meet, a volatile situation is bound to result. Also, the Catholic Church’s teaching on sexual matters has been inculcated at all levels of Catholic education for a long time. Thus both history and the very nature of the sexual question have guaranteed that the church will be more involved in this area than in most other areas of human life.

There is also a more recent and specific historical reason why the area of sexual ethics is both so troublesome and so entwined with ecclesiological concerns: sexual ethics was not touched by the great changes brought about by the Second Vatican Council. At Vatican II many of the documents prepared by preconciliar commissions, documents that expressed the neoscholastic manualistic theology of the times, were rejected in toto by the council. On the topics of ecumenism, the church, religious liberty, faith, and revelation, very significant developments occurred in and through the conciliar process. However, sexual morality and sexual ethics experienced no such development at Vatican II. For example, one of the most important issues of the time was artificial contraception—which Pope Paul VI took out of the council’s hands and reserved to himself, eventually issuing Humanae Vitae in 1968. Paul VI never issued another encyclical in the remaining years of his pontificate. Thus this area of church teaching is still based on the neoscholastic understanding that prevailed before the Second Vatican Council.

This fact was brought home to me by some of the reading I was doing last spring. Herbert Vorgrimler’s Understanding Karl Rahner (Crossroad, 1986), which provides some biographical information on the theologian, much of it based on his correspondence, shows that in the preparatory and early phases of Vatican II, Rahner frequently spoke of the struggles against the manualistic theology that took place in commission meetings. In this connection he often mentioned the stance of theologians Sebastian Tromp and Franz Hürth, two Jesuits who were my professors at the Gregorian University in the 1950s. In fact, I occasionally had long Latin conversations with Hürth, who was always cordial and seemed to enjoy such meetings, Though I have since changed my own views quite a bit, I remember with fondness my conversations with him.

While I was reading Vorgrimler, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith issued its "Instruction on Respect for Human Life in Its Origin and on the Dignity of Procreation. "The section of the instruction that sparked the most disagreement within the Roman Catholic community was the document’s rejection of in vitro fertilization even when the process uses the husband’s seed. The footnotes to the condemnation of homologous artificial insemination (AIH) referred to Pope Pius XII’s 1949 "Discourse to Those Taking Part in the Fourth International Congress of Catholic Doctors, " in which the pope condemned AIH because the natural conjugal act itself is not present.

Two comments must be made about the 1949 papal address. First, before it was delivered a number of Catholic moralists held that in practice, artificial insemination between husband and wife could be permitted, provided the husband’s sperm was obtained in some legitimate way. (Those scholars believed that masturbation was intrinsically evil and so could never be the appropriate means of obtaining semen.) Even as conservative a Catholic moral theologian as Thomas J. O’Donnell admits that AIH was an open question in theory and in practice before 1949 (see Medicine and Christian Morality [Alba House, 1976], p. 266). Thus it is difficult to speak about a traditional teaching of the Roman Catholic Church on this topic.

Second, it is well known that Hürth wrote most of Pius XII’s addresses on moral issues. In fact, a commentary on the papal address written by Hürth was published in Periodica even before the papal statement officially appeared.

The conjunction of the Rahner history and the new document from the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith combined to make me dramatically aware that Catholic moral teaching in 1987 is still based on the neoscholasticism of the pre-Vatican II manuals of moral theology. If this same reality were true in other areas, such as revelation, the church, ecumenism and religious liberty, Roman Catholicism would look quite different today. What would have happened if Vatican II had discussed and decided the issue of artificial contraception? Given the other changes that occurred, perhaps that teaching, too, would have been changed.

How can there be such a change or development in the official teaching of the church? How can the church accept an idea or practice which it had earlier condemned? The best illustration of change at Vatican II was its teaching on religious freedom. John Courtney Murray and others proposed a theory of development based on changing historical circumstances. They argued that in the 19th century the church rightly condemned the understanding of religious freedom that was based on continental liberalism, but that in the 20th century the church could accept religious liberty, understood as a civil right of immunity under a limited constitutional government. One can, of course, criticize this approach for failing to recognize that somewhere along the line the church’s teaching was wrong, or that it should have been changed sooner. On the matter of contraception, it probably would have been necessary to face head-on the issue of error in the official church teaching.

There are many reasons why church authorities are reluctant to change official teaching or to allow dissent. The patriarchal nature of the Catholic Church and of its teaching on sexuality cannot be denied; it has excluded women from any kind of significant decision-making role in the church’s life. (The enaction of the recent synod in Rome has disappointed those who support a full role for women in the church.) I am sure that the desire to control others, along with a celibate’s fear of sexuality, has also contributed to the present teaching and the reluctance to change it. However, those of us working for innovation must address the most significant issues raised by the defenders of the present position, even though we recognize the other factors that support that instruction.

In the eyes of its defenders, the strongest reason for maintaining the present condemnations is the nature of the church’s teaching function, which is believed to be under the power and guidance of the Holy Spirit. Could the Holy Spirit ever permit the hierarchical teaching office to be wrong in a matter of such great import in the lives of so many Christians? The role of the church and of its officially commissioned leaders is to mediate the salvific word and work of Jesus through the presence of the Spirit. Could the hierarchical teaching role actually hinder and hurt the people it is supposed to help?

Such questions cannot be easily dismissed. One must at least feel their force for those who are posing them. The only adequate response is to acknowledge that the hierarchical teaching office itself has failed to recognize and communicate the proper nature and force of its teaching. Teaching on the specific and complex questions regarding the norms governing sexuality involves what has recently been called the authoritative noninfallible hierarchical teaching office. According to a 1967 document of the West German bishops, such teaching has a certain degree of binding force, but since it is not a de fide definition it involves a provisional element, even to the point of being capable of including error.

The ultimate epistemological reason why this teaching cannot claim an absolute certitude derives from the essence of moral truth. Thomas Aquinas pointed out the difference between speculative and practical moral truth. In morality, with its complexities and many surrounding circumstances, the secondary principles of the natural law generally oblige, but in some cases they do not. Thomas uses as an example the natural-law principle that deposits should be returned. There is an obligation to return to the owner what one has been given to care for and keep safe. Such a principle usually obliges, but not always. If someone has left you a sword for safekeeping and now wants it back, but is drunk and threatening to kill people, you have an obligation not to return the sword. In their two pastoral letters on peace and the economy, the United States bishops have recognized the same reality. At the level of complex and specific judgments one cannot exclude the possibility of error. For example, the bishops maintain that the first use of even the smallest counterforce nuclear weapons is always wrong, but they recognize that others within the church community might come to a different conclusion.

Within the traditional understanding of the teaching function of the church, it is possible for authoritative noninfallible teaching on specific moral issues to be wrong. Church authority has added to its problems by failing to recognize explicitly the somewhat provisional nature of its teaching in these areas. In this light, one can understand the charge of creeping infallibilism that has been made. Noninfallible teaching is thought to be as certain and absolute as infallible teaching. If the very nature and limitation of such authoritative noninfallible teaching were better understood, the fact of erroneous church teaching would not be as great a problem as it sometimes seems. Such a recognition would also serve to indicate the various ways in which all baptized Catholics contribute to the teaching of the church, and it would remind the hierarchical teaching authority that it has not carried out its own learning and teaching function in the most suitable way.

It is very difficult for any of us to admit we have made mistakes. It is obviously very difficult for the hierarchical teaching office, with its understanding of benefiting from the assistance of the Holy Spirit, to recognize that its teachings might be in error. However, such a recognition would not be unprecedented. The Decree on Ecumenism of Vatican II humbly recognizes that there has been sin on all sides in the work for church unity, and begs pardon of God and our separated brothers and sisters. In the present situation the first step that can and should be made is for the church to recognize officially the somewhat provisional character of the authoritative noninfallible hierarchical teaching. From this acknowledgment could follow the possibility and perhaps at times even the legitimacy of dissent both in theory and in practice.

What about the credibility of the hierarchical teaching office if it explicitly recognizes the legitimacy of dissent or even changes in its teaching? How can anyone ever again put trust and confidence in such a teaching office? It must be emphasized again that the hierarchical teaching office already has a very great problem of credibility in sexual matters. The case can be made that the teaching office would gain credibility by recognizing the possibility of dissent and even changing its teaching in this area.

In my view, dissent from the authoritative noninfallible hierarchical teaching of the Roman Catholic Church is an effort to support, not destroy, the credibility of the teaching office. The theological community can play the critical role of the loyal opposition, thus in the long run enhancing the church’s teaching role. To carry out this role properly, the magisterium must be in dialogue with the whole church. The primary teacher in the church remains the Holy Spirit—and no one has a monopoly on the Holy Spirit. Wide consultation and dialogue are a necessary part of the function of the hierarchical teaching office.

Unfortunately, dialogue and consultation have not occurred in the area of sexual morality. Compare, for example, the process involved in the writing of the U.S. bishops’ pastoral letters and the process involved in the writing of the recent instruction of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith on bioethics. The American bishops engaged in a broad consultation process and shared their drafts with the world in a very public dialogue. Also, the pastoral letters distinguished principles and universal teachings from specific judgments and conclusions. This approach recognizes that the possibility of certitude decreases as the matter under consideration becomes more specific and complex. (However, even in the pastoral letters there is a tendency to claim too much certitude at the level of principle. The pastoral letter on peace maintains that the principle of discrimination or noncombatant immunity must be held by all people within the church; however, the West German bishops’ pastoral letter on war does not accept this principle as an absolute norm.)

Some may wonder where all this will end. Is everything concerning Catholics’ sexuality up for grabs? Are there no limits to legitimate dissent?

It is incumbent upon those of us within the Roman Catholic Church who are calling for a broader area of dissent to talk about limits. We must recognize that dissent, or more positively, pluralism, exists within a broader area of unity, assent and agreement. In the Christian faith community, not everything is up for grabs. The church is called to creative fidelity to the word and work of Jesus. We must distinguish between what is central to the faith and what is peripheral. The emphasis on praxis in contemporary theology reminds us that what we do is an integral part of our faith commitment. However, on specific issues in complex cases there must be room for more diversity and disagreement. For example, the church must always teach and live the values of love and fidelity in marriage, but it does not follow that divorce and remarriage are wrong in all circumstances.

There can be no doubt that there will be more dissent and more pluralism in the church than there have been in the past, and that there will be more gray areas than ever before, especially since the methodology, as well as the subject matter, of contemporary theology points in this direction. However, the realities of pluralism and dissent on specific issues can exist alongside church unity and a credible hierarchical teaching office in the church. We who are loyal to the church and yet perceive the crucial need for it to broaden its perspective must work assiduously to promote the hierarchy’s recognition of these realities.

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The Ethicist as Theologian

Dillery-Dollarly

Stanley M. Hauerwas

Ethicist Scholarly

Ph.D. Yale,

Spent his life outlining

Ethical disciplines -- Inconsequentially

Ended in Hell.

Anne Harley Hauerwas

My wife composed this double dactyl at about the time I finished my doctorate and became a "certified" theological ethicist. A framed copy of the verse hangs on my office wall as a reminder that theological ethics is a rather ambiguous and humble enterprise. The study of theological ethics does not make us good people. It certainly does not save us. We do not even know clearly what theological ethics is. To be an ethicist seems to make one the eternal dabbler -- one dabbles a little in theology (of various kinds), in philosophy (of various kinds), in political science (of various kinds), in practical problems (of various kinds), and so on. Not only will ethics not keep one out of hell; there is no assurance even that the discipline has sufficient integrity to save one from being an intellectual whoremonger.

The current chaos in theological reflection has exacerbated this state of affairs, making the "theological" in theological ethics even more problematic. Some would reduce theological ethics to good feelings coupled with strategies for social change. As such, ethics often masks a kind of reductionism; "morality" is assumed to be the remaining substance of theology.

I did not become an ethicist because my primary interest was social change or particular moral "issues." Rather, I became an ethicist because I was (and am) interested in the intellectual issues associated with the truthfulness of Christian discourse. Ethics provides a fruitful territory in which to explore these issues because the sense in which the language of Christians is true is similar to the sense in which lives are true. It has not been my interest as an ethicist to ferret out the "ethical core" of theological affirmations, but rather to show how the grammar of certain theological affirmations (stories) involves some extremely interesting claims and notions about how our practical life should be formed under the conditions of finitude.

I

It is, therefore, misleading to say that theological ethics is concerned with the relation of theology and ethics. So stated, theology appears to be a set datum that the ethicist may assess to find implications for the practical life. I am making the stronger claim, for which I am indebted to Julian Hartt, that ethics is at the heart of theology because the grammar of Christian discourse is fundamentally practical. I understand theology to be a practical discipline -- not in the sense that theology is concerned to provide solutions to particular problems, but in the sense that the grammar of Christian discourse takes its cue from the ways in which lives are formed.

This manner of conceiving theological ethics may provide a means of breaking through some of the impasses of recent theology. Many contemporary theologians have felt compelled to provide a theory sufficient to supply an adequate foundation for the truth or meaningfulness of religious discourse. Proponents of diverse theological positions have shared the assumption that religious convictions are in some decisive manner deficient, lacking proper roots in human experience or needing new metaphysical backing. Something seems to have gone wrong with the explanatory power of religion, and so theologians have gone rummaging through available world views in the hope of finding one that will reconstitute the meaningfulness of Christian discourse. Thus modern theology tends to be a prolegomena to theology, rather than theology itself -- i.e., the concern with the proper ordering of the primary symbols of religious language.

Theology understood as a practical discipline should not’ be confused with those theologies that make the question of "faith" the starting point of theological reflection. "Faith" is not a special epistemological category for knowing religious truth, but rather a correlative of what is to be known. When "faith" becomes the starting point of theology, the theologian is tempted to take seriously his own problems with belief, or those of others. Theology becomes literally autobiography as the theologian assumes that theology is simply the recounting of how he is "making up his mind." But the proper starting point for theology is God and how our language about God works. Theology as a practical discipline does not invite fascination with the subjectivity of the believer, for its primary concern is how the self should be shaped to correspond to the object of religious language.

Theology conceived in this manner is but a reminder that religious convictions are not explanations at all and that therefore no theory is needed to account for their meaningfulness. The story contained in the Gospels, for example, is not meant to provide a world view, but rather to position the self appropriately in relation to God. Theology is best thought of not as a theory, but, as David Burrell suggests, a therapy whose primary purpose is to help us keep our grammar pure. In this sense, theology does not create the meaningfulness of religious discourse but provides reminders of how that discourse is rightly used. Such reminders are the skills, both linguistic and moral, that help us live our lives free from self-deception. Such skills are not dependent on a "system" but are systematically displayed through the dominant images that our lives require in order to be true.

II

My work as an ethicist has been concerned primarily with developing this understanding of theology. I have taken as my primary task to locate the "specificity" of the Christian life -- that is, the peculiar images that should form and shape the character of Christians. When this is done, we have the means to indicate in what sense Christian discourse might be true. If the Christian life simply involves what any "person of goodwill" embodies, plus some religious beliefs, then there is little reason to think that the claims of Christians are either interesting or true. Following James Gustafson, I have taken as a central concern the task of finding the most appropriate means to articulate how Christians have understood, and do and should understand, the relationship between Christ and the moral life.

The issues and controversies that have dominated recent ethical reflection, however, provide poor fare for pursuing this kind of interest. It is natural to assume that the central question of morality is "What should I do?" -- that is, if "do" refers to a rather specific choice. Many of the participants in the situation-ethics debate assumed the centrality of this question as the methodological starting point of ethics (as has also much of contemporary philosophical ethics). Yet to begin ethical reflection at this point invariably seems to result in arbitrarily separating the moral judgment of an action from the kind of person who performs it. This separation proves disastrous for theological ethics because it obscures the self-involving nature of Christian convictions.

I have tried to reclaim and to develop the significance of character and virtue for the moral life. Character is the category that marks the fact that our lives are not constituted by decisions, but rather the moral quality of our lives is shaped by the ongoing orientation formed in and through our beliefs, stories and intentions. Interestingly, this emphasis on character denotes a reassertion of a motif latent in some rationalist views of the self, in that a focus on moral character locates our ability to give reasons for what we do. (By rationality I do not mean the technical ability to judge the best means to an end, or the ability to judge whether a certain act is in accordance with a universalizable principle, but rather the constituting form that lends coherence to a performance or way of life.) To study moral character is to discover, furthermore, that those reasons actually shape the formation of the self. Much of my work in Character and the Christian Life (Trinity University Press, 1975) is an attempt to articulate a philosophical psychology (the self as agent) sufficient to support these claims for the importance of character in theological ethics.

The endeavor to recover the significance of character owes much to H. Richard Niebuhr’s emphasis on the "self" as the phenomenological center of theological ethics. I have, however, tried to provide an analysis more detailed than Niebuhr’s of the relations between thought and behavior, in order to spell out more accurately the self-involving character of religious discourse. I have been influenced by those philosophical theologians (Donald Evans and James William McClendon, Jr.) who have used the work of John Austin to remind us that religious discourse has the characteristics of performative rather than constantive utterance. My own work in analytical philosophy and philosophy of language has increasingly led me to conclude that the Christian moral life is determined more by the language we have learned to speak than by the decisions we make.

Character is normatively displayed in the language Christians use and the ways it teaches us to see the world. Thus the title of my book Vision and Virtue (Fides, 1974) denotes the interdependent prerequisites for the moral life. I am not suggesting, however, that the Christian moral life involves nothing more than learning a language. The point is rather to suggest how difficult it is to "know how" to use such a language. Just as we do not see simply by looking, we cannot be said to know a language simply because we speak it. (It is because of specific difficulty attached to learning how to use the moral expressions of a language that we find novels more helpful than explicit ethical reflection in teaching us how to live morally.) We have to learn that if we are to see honestly, the self must be disciplined by suffering and pain (Iris Murdoch). Such discipline is dependent on the process whereby the language we speak as Christians becomes the language that forms the soul.

At least part of what it means for Christian discourse to be true is that it helps us avoid our inveterate tendency toward self-deception. Contrary to our assumption that we wish to know the truth, we fear it as we would the plague. (For a more developed account of self-deception see "Self-Deception and Autobiography: Theological and Ethical Reflections on Speer’s Inside the Third Reich," by David Burrell and myself; Journal of Religious Ethics, Vol. 2, No. 1, 1974, pp. 99-117.) Crucial to our ability to deal with life truthfully is having the skills to face moral tragedies without developing justifications that become policies of self-deception. The moral life is lived within limits that often severely restrict the ongoing assumption that we wish to do good. I suspect that one of the main ingredients of a morally true life is the discovery that we cannot avoid moral tragedy, nor can we indulge ourselves in stories that absolve or excuse us of responsibility.

I have come to find the category of "story" useful to bring together these various emphases. The notion of "story" involves some useful systematic ambiguities that allow one to explore the interrelatedness of character, vision and Christian discourse. Character can be construed as a reminder that the moral self is perduring in the way that a story is a narrative. Moreover, as Hans W. Frei has shown in The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative, story provides an important clue to the grammar of basic Christian affirmations. Thus "story" becomes a useful analytic and interpretive category to explore the interdependence of what Calvin called the two parts of wisdom -- "the knowledge of God and of ourselves."

My problem with the category of "story" is that it invites uncritical acceptance from many who see it as a new way of doing theology. Indeed, I have that fear about much of my work, as some seem to think that "an ethics of character" may be a new alternative to an ethics of principle or a situation ethics. Yet when theology is rightly done, there are no new alternatives" that solve anything. Theologians should not be engaged in the business of propounding "new positions," but rather should be training our minds to think better in order to clarify the kind of claims made by religious folk. In this regard, I find it healthy that today’s theological scene is not dominated by a few "great theologians." Theology proper is not "Barthian" or "process" or any other single position to which we can adhere. Perhaps the absence of "great theologians" will help us learn that theology is not a discipline that puts the mind to rest, for the subject of theology defies capture by "positions."

III

Generally the more "practical" side of my work has been concerned with biomedical ethics and democratic theory. I have been somewhat hesitant to be drawn too deeply into biomedical ethics. Though I think the issues raised by biology and medicine are important; I fear that this area may receive more than its share of attention because of the resources it can command. Questions of distributive justice,’ its relation to charity, and the ethics of violence must remain primary. Moreover, medical ethics tempts the ethicist to think of the discipline primarily as dealing with particular quandaries. Doctors raise fascinating problems for which the ethicist is tempted to try to provide answers. Ethics thus becomes an attempt to work out the most appropriate decision procedure for hard cases.

Yet this kind of temptation has to be resisted. For to engage in this kind of moral engineering only reinforces the assumptions behind modern medicine (and the medical profession’s presumed status in the arena of human care) -- assumptions that in themselves need examining. We need a fundamental analysis of the background beliefs about care, life, health and suffering that inform modern medical practices. Medicine is an important area for Christian ethical reflection because it is one of the areas of our lives that dramatically display how we allocate human values under the conditions of finitude. I suspect, however, that Christians may find on analysis that they are in greater tension than they think with many of the assumptions about care and the Value of survival embodied in modern medicine.

My interest in democratic theory has been an attempt to find some way of getting a handle on the nature of Christian social ethics. The various strategies of Christian social ethics, from the social-gospel era to our own day, have seemed to assume that Christians have some stake in a democratic social order and state. Both those who have identified with Niebuhrian realism and those who have criticized it have continued to share a commitment to extending in some manner the "benefits" of liberal society.

But I have become increasingly disenchanted with this commitment, both from the point of view of political theory and from the nature of Christian social commitment. I have found the antipluralist arguments developed by Robert Paul Wolff, Theodore Lowi. Sheldon Wolin and Robert Nisbit to be extremely persuasive. Yet I think it is equally true, as David Little has argued, that their critiques of liberalism (with the possible exceptions of Wolin’s and Nisbit’s) presuppose a continuing commitment to some form of liberal pluralism. Our politics continues to suffer because of the thinness and poverty of the images that inform our political imagination.

Until we find strong images and their institutional correlatives, the various amelioristic strategies developed to solve specific problems will not address the fundamental problem of the basic order of our political society. For such strategies are but glosses on the liberal society and do not begin to suggest the virtues we should ask of ourselves and others as citizens of a polis. As C. B. Macpherson has argued in his Democratic Theory, democratic society in the name of freedom and the rights of the individual embodies a view of the human person as a bundle of appetites demanding satisfaction. The good society thus becomes the one that maximizes satisfactions in the name of distributive justice regardless of the material content of the citizens’ interests.

The problem, as such perceptive social commentators as Gary Wills have indicated, is that such a society does not have the means to fashion a distinctive ethos for the public sector. We are taught as citizens to view our self-interests and our own survival as civic duties; thus we exist in no polis at all but rather as individuals who look to the state to act as an arbiter between private interests. In this respect I remain unconvinced that the kind of revisionist liberalism represented by John Rawls is capable of providing us with a public discourse sufficient to the task of shaping a morally decent society. As Richard Titmuss indicated in his extraordinary book The Gift Relationship, we have created a society that does not encourage charity as a public virtue, and thus there seems no way even to articulate, much less enact, a moral social policy. Moreover, in a society in which tolerance has been regarded as an adequate substitute for truth, we have no idea what it would mean to have an honest politics.

IV

This kind of argument has given me a renewed appreciation for the "sectarian" alternative in Christian social ethics. For the "sectarian’s" contention that he is not withdrawing from political responsibility, but that his whole concern is to make Jesus’ embodiment and preaching of a nonresistant kingdom a reality, must be taken seriously. Far from dismissing as politically irresponsible John Howard Yoder’s argument that the first task of the church is to be itself, I see that statement as a call to redefine the political from the perspective of Christ’s kingdom. Then the social-ethical task of the church would not be simply to develop strategies within the current political options -- though it may certainly include that -- but rather to stand as an alternative society that manifests in its own social and political life the way in which a people form themselves when truth and charity rather than survival are their first order of business.

I have been convinced by Yoder that violence is not an option for Christians. The disavowal of violence is not and cannot be based on consequential grounds, for it is clear that violence is effective. But the use of violence, even by "legitimate" authority, cannot be a Christian choice if we are to be obedient to the way Christ chooses to have us deal with the powers -- i.e., by nonresistant love.

This conception of Christian social ethics has not only forced a rethinking of the limits of my participation in the social order, but has also underscored the kind of intellectual concerns I am interested in developing. I am no longer interested in writing ethics from the perspective of those who are or who desire to be in power. The time in which the church could serve as an adviser to Caesar is over. Moreover, such a perspective is too intellectually constraining as the imagination too quickly surrenders to the current alternatives. Rather I am interested to know how to begin thinking about what a morally substantive society might look like.

For example, I have a hunch that such a society would provide the context for the development of morally healthy families. I therefore intend to devote much of my time in the next few years to the theology and ethics of the family. What interests me about the family is not the obvious social problems associated with it in contemporary life; nor am I particularly interested in the ethics of sexuality. I am rather taken by the moral presuppositions that may, do or should shape the nature of families. More concretely, I am simply interested in why we should have children and how we should rear them. I suspect that if we can get a grasp on these kinds of questions we might have some skills to know better what it means morally to be social beings.

Because of these methodological considerations I find I have little sympathy with the various "cause theologies" of recent years, though I almost always agree with the cause itself. What I find tragic is that we do not have adequate social or theological options (visions, in my language) to provide a more viable articulation of these concerns. In particular I think the theological style associated with the various "liberation theologies" tends to continue the assumption that Christians have a stake in using violence to make history "come out right" -- except that now power will be used to aid the oppressed. I fear that theologians (like Paul Lehmann) who use the language of "God acting in history" to justify this task may serve the poor badly. They face the danger of turning the poor into a political abstraction necessary to provide moral warrants for the new claimants to the power of the state.

The rhetoric of "‘liberation theology" often makes it appear that the goal of the Christian life is to free us of all limits. That theology’s proponents fail to discern that the gospel does not free us of all limits but rather provides us with the skills to embody our limits in nondestructive ways. "Liberation theology" tends to become a theology without the cross. This kind of point is hard to make, of course, without appearing to be in bad faith, since the church has become the church of the strong.

My "sectarian" drift prepared me in an interesting way to teach at Notre Dame. For Catholics, despite their past attempts to be good Americans, have never lost the feeling that they are strangers in this land. I therefore was not hired at Notre Dame to be a "Protestant theologian" (which is a good thing, since I would not have known how to play that role), but rather I was invited to participate in the continuing post-Vatican II struggle to determine the proper stance of the Christian in this strange society. In such a context the past cliques of the ecumenical movement are simply irrelevant. The issues we confront are too interesting and important to play at being Catholic or Protestant as if either of those were worth being ends in themselves. Notre Dame has asked me and my colleagues to do nothing but pursue the theological task in the most serious and academically rigorous manner possible.

Finally, the most important lesson I have learned is how important a sense of humor is for theological reflection. I like and enjoy the kind of work I have been doing, but I am sure that there is much I have got wrong or overlooked completely. I am not bothered by this, however, because I know that people ‘will continue to know how to proceed without reading my theology. As for me, however, I am a Christian ‘because I find that the gospel provides skills necessary for me to deal honestly with the powers that grip my life. And I am a theologian because I enjoy the life of the mind; thus I find my work to be fun. I think I am being honest in saying this, but finally only God knows the extent of our dishonesty, for God alone has paid the price for such knowledge.

Sex and Politics: Bertrand Russell and ‘Human Sexuality’

The publication of Human Sexuality: New Directions in American Catholic Thought by the Catholic Theological Society (Paulist, 1977) is destined to generate a new round of discussion about sexual ethics. I fear, however, that if the debate is carried on in the terms which the report itself uses, we will not make much progress in helping ourselves think more honestly about sexuality. The reason we should not take up the argument of Human Sexuality is not because of the obvious problems with the report’s vague criterion of "creative and integrative growth" as the necessary condition for the legitimacy of sexual expression. Nor am I concerned with its puzzling assumption that better empirical information might be able to show that certain kinds of sexual expressions can be "always and everywhere detrimental to the full development of the human personality" (p. 55). Such issues are best left for the Catholics themselves to discuss, since having to deal with such intellectually confused claims is proper punishment for their past sins involving issues of sexuality.

Rather, it is a mistake to follow the way the report invites us to think about human sexuality because it, like a great deal of Protestant and secular thought, assumes that the basis for any ethics of sex involves an interpretation of "wholesome interpersonal relations." The dominant assumption has been that the evaluation of different kinds of sexual expressions should center on whether they are or are not expressive of love. On the contrary, the ethics of sex must begin with political considerations, because ethically the issue of the proper form of sexual activity raises the most profound issues about the nature and form of political community. I am not denying that sex obviously has to do with interpersonal matters, but I am asserting that we do not even know what we need to say about the personal level until we have some sense of the political context necessary for the ordering of sexual activity.

Indeed, one of the main difficulties with the assumption’ that thc ethics of sex can be determined on the basis of interpersonal criteria is the failure to see how that assumption itself reflects a political option. To reduce issues of sexuality to the question of whether acts of sex are or are not fulfilling for those involved is to manifest the assumption of political liberalism that sex is a private matter. The hold this political theory has on us is illustrated by how readily we also accept the assumption that the private nature of sexuality does not involve issues of political theory.

Russell on Romantic Love

In order to show how reflection on time ethics of sex must begin with politics, I offer an analysis of Bertrand Russell’s arguments for free love and sex. For in the face of what appeared at the time (1929) to be the radical nature of Russell’s views about sex and marriage, some of his most important arguments were, I think, misinterpreted and overlooked. Also, Russell, unlike many religious folk who write on these issues, has the virtue of facing up to the implications of his position without fudging by the use of rhetorical appeals to love and the "ultimate significance" of acts of sexual intercourse.

Contrary to the popular impression, Russell was not a libertine, nor did he defend a libertine ethic. As a proper Englishman, Russell simply suggested that sex is generally a good thing, but it is important that it be handled decently. Indeed, he was against those who feel no moral barrier to sexual intercourse on every occasion because, he thought, such a view trivializes sex by dissociating ‘‘sex from serious emotion and from feelings of affection" (Marriage and Morals [Liveright, 1957], p. 127). Sex is a natural need like food and drink, but it certainly involves more than hunger, for no one, whether civilized or savage, is satisfied by the bare sexual act" (p. 195). Indeed, sex is enormously enhanced by abstinence and is always better when, it has a large psychial element than when it is purely physical" (p. 7).

It may, therefore, seem odd to appeal to Russell in support of my argument, since it is his central contention that sexual activity should be determined primarily by romantic love, as it "is the source of the most intense delights that life has to offer. In the relations of a man and woman who love each other with passion and imagination and tenderness, there is something of inestimable value, to be ignorant of which is a great misfortune to any human being" (p. 74). Such love cannot be limited to marriage, since it can flourish only so long as it is free and spontaneous, as "it tends to be killed by the thought it is a duty" (p. 140).

Even though legitimate sexual activity cannot be limited to marriage, Russell thinks that under certain conditions marriage can be the "best and most important relation that can exist between two human beings" (p.143). By marriage, Russell understands that relation between a man and a woman where children are present (p.156). Children, rather than sexual intercourse, "are the true purpose of marriage, which should therefore be not regarded as consummated until such time as there is a prospect of children" (p.166). As soon as children appear, love is no longer autonomous but serves the biological purposes of the race." and thus the demands of passionate love may have to be at least partly overridden for a time. It is important to try to secure as little interference with love as is compatible with the interests of children, as it is good for children that their parents love one another (pp. 128-129).

However, as we look around today and ask what conditions seem on the whole to make for happiness in marriage, we are driven to the curious conclusion that the more "civilized people become the less capable they seem of lifelong happiness with one partner" (p. 135) For a marriage to work requires that there "be a feeling of complete equality on both sides; there must be no interference with mutual freedom; there must be the most complete physical and mental intimacy; and there must be a certain similarity in regard to standards of value" (p. 143). Russell thinks that it is possible to sustain this mutuality for a time, but finally such relations are doomed to he broken by the "anarchial" nature of love. This being the case, the only appropriate social response is divorce or the legitimation of extra-marital sexual intercourse.

Changing the Social Order

It is to Russell’s credit that he saw clearly that his views required far-reaching social and moral changes. He understood that marriage involves issues at the basis of any society and that changing them means changing a whole social order. At the very least, Russell thought that his view required the liberation of women from the double-standard ethic (p. 88). However, even more important was Russell’s realization that this new sexual ethic would also require a transformation of our language and passions. For the old sexual ethic continues to be reinforced so long as we insist on using unscientific language like "adultery" and "fornication." If we are not to he carried away by emotion in discussing such issues, we must employ dull neutral phrases such as "extramarital sexual relations." Not to do so is to remain captured by the superstitious morality associated with the terminology foisted on us by Christianity.

It is important to note that Russell is in no way recommending an ethic that ignores the importance of discipline and self-restraint. His problems with such categories is that they have been applied to the wrong concerns. It is not sexual expression that is to be restrained, but the "instinctive emotion’’ of jealousy that corrupts our relations with one another (p. 143). "The good life cannot be lived without self-control, but it is better to control a restrictive and hostile emotion such as jealousy, rather than a generous and expansive emotion such as love" (p. 239) Russell, unlike the authors of Human Sexuality, does not assume that empirical data could ever show that a particular form of sexual activity is good or bad or the development of personhood. For it is not a descriptive but a normative issue -- namely, what should we be so that we can be morally enhanced by certain kinds of sexual activity? Russell and the popes agree that the issue is not whether their sexual ethics may or may not be enhancing for some people, for the point is that they should be the kinds of people -- i.e., capable of controlling jealousy -- who are up to living such an ethic.

Russell candidly admitted that if we allow his new morality to take its course, it is bound to go further than it [has] done, and to raise difficulties hardly as yet appreciated" (p. 91). In particular he was disturbed by the fact that implicit in the new morality was the decay of the paternalistic family and fatherhood, which he thought meant the assumption of the father’s duties by the state (p. 89). He believed that modern civilization was requiring that the state take over the father’s role, and thus reducing the need for indubitable paternity (p. 9). Since the economic, protective and educative functions of the family were being taken over by the state, families had to rely more and more upon the emotive function to sustain them. But in a manner very similar to Robert Nisbet’s argument in Community and Power (Oxford, pp. 60-61), Russell suggests that the emotive function of the family is not sufficient to sustain it as a viable institution.

The State as Parent

Russell believes that the loss of the family as a central social institution presents a problem, however, as the family’s most important function is to preserve the habit of having children (p. 187). But since the father is redundant, women will have to share their children with the state. He thinks that this may cause a problem in the "psychology and activities of men," for it will eliminate the only emotive function equal in importance to sexual love. As a result, sexual love itself might be trivialized, but more important, men’s sense of history and tradition would be diminished. However, at the same time men might become less prone to war and less acquisitive.

However, the change in women’s attitudes and practices will be equally profound, for there is no reason to think that with the increasing equality of women we can assume that women will "naturally" want to be mothers. As a result, in order to maintain a high civilization it may increasingly become necessary to pay women "such sums for the production of children as to make them feel it worth while as a money-making career" (p. 216). Not all women will need to enter the "profession of having children," but at least some form of compensation will be needed to ensure that some women are willing to have children and some are willing to rear them.

Russell thinks that there are some distinct advantages in having the state as a father, since this arrangement improves both the general level of education and the level of health care. However, since he was not a "great admirer of the state," he also suggests that there are some distinct dangers in the substitution of the state for the father. For parents as a rule are fond of their children and do not regard them as material for political schemes. But the state cannot be expected to share this attitude.

As a result -- and here it is worth quoting Russell at length:

So long as the world remains divided into competing militaristic states, the substitution of public bodies for parents in education means an intensification of what is called patriotism, i.e., a willingness to indulge in mutual extermination without a moment’s hesitation, whenever the governments feel so inclined. Undoubtedly patriotism, so called, is the gravest danger to which civilization is at present exposed, and anything that increases its virulence is more to be dreaded than plague, pestilence and famine. At present young people have a divided loyalty, on the one hand to their parents, on the other to the State. If it should happen that their sole loyalty was to the State, there is grave reason to fear that the world would become even more bloodthirsty than it is at present. I think, therefore, that so long as the problem of internationalism remains unsolved, the increasing share of the State in the education and care of children has dangers so grave as to outweigh its undoubted advantages [pp. 218-219].

This view puts Russell in a peculiar position. For he has argued on interpersonal grounds for an ethics of sex that he assumes must render problematic the continued existence of the patriarchal family. Yet the eradication of such a family results in increasing the power of the state -- the entity that Russell considers to be even more morally questionable than the old sex morality. As a result he concludes that the full implementation of his sex ethic must await the institutionalization of a complete internationalism. Thus everywhere his sex ethic is taught there must be a corresponding inculcation of loyalty to the "international super-State." The problem, however, is that "the family is decaying fast, and internationalism is growing slowly. The situation, therefore, is one which justifies grave apprehensions. Nevertheless, it is not hopeless, since internationalism may grow more quickly in the future than it has done in the past" (pp. 219-220).

Thus, even though Russell begins with an inter-personal analysis of sexual ethics, it leads him to questions regarding the structure of nations and empires. Indeed, one has the impression that Russell was a bit surprised by his own conclusion, as it in effect suggests the need for a rewriting of his book. For to say that his sex ethic must still be compromised by commitment to the family as long as we do not have an institutionalized international state is a little like recommending partial pregnancy. His own argument adequately demonstrates that he cannot have it both ways, and yet he tries to do so.

Of course, one can argue that Russell’s argument fails to demonstrate that the political questions are primary because his own analysis can be questioned. For example, it is not clear that his "new sex ethic" necessarily leads to the destruction of the family and the heightening of the state’s power. It is certainly a mistake for Russell to assume that only the "patriarchial family" is at issue, as there are certainly other ways of conceiving familial organization. But even assuming some other familial structure, the primary issue remains: What kind of sex ethic is appropriate to enhancing the political function of marriage and the family?

The Nature of Marriage

Put differently, the implication of Russell’s argument, despite his own views to the contrary, is this: in order to talk sense about sexuality, you must have a determinative view of the family and marriage. Ironically, that is the point decisively rejected by the authors of Human Sexuality as being conservative and life-denying. It is not my intention to defend everything the encyclical tradition has had to say about sex and marriage but rather to point out that that tradition, especially in Arcanum Divinae, at least had the argument in the right ball park -- namely, that what one says about sex is correlative to one’s understanding of the nature of the family and what its function is for the preservation of good societies.

However, it may be felt that by introducing the concept of family and marriage I have in fact reinserted the interpersonal criterion into the discussion under a different guise. The interpersonal criterion certainly reflects the dominant understanding of marriage in our culture, but I am not accepting that meaning of marriage as my own. There is ample evidence to suggest that such an understanding is disastrous both personally and politically. When Christians assume that their task is to try to make such a view of marriage work, they take upon themselves a Sisyphean task.

We must understand that if Christians and non-Christians differ over marriage, that difference does not lie in their understanding of the quality of interpersonal relationship needed to enter or sustain a marriage, but rather in a disagreement about the nature of marriage and its place in the Christian and national community. Christians above all should note that there are no conceptual or institutional reasons that require love between the parties to exist in order for the marriage to be successful. Marriage is, as Russell argues, a biological institution to beget and rear children for the ends of particular communities. What makes marriage Christian is the rationale behind having and raising children. Marriage and the family for Christians are not less political because they are not understood in terms of a national order. Indeed, their political nature is clear from the fact that they refuse to be so defined.

The requirement of love in marriage is not correlative to the intrinsic nature of marriage but is based on the admonition for Christians to love one another. We do not love because we are married, but because we are Christian. We may, however, learn what such love is like within the context of marriage. For the Christian tradition claims that marriage helps to support an inclusive community of love by grounding it in a pattern of faithfulness toward another. The love that is required in marriage functions politically by defining the nature of Christian social order, and as children arrive they are trained in that order.

Moreover, Christians should see that the family cannot, contrary to Russell’s claim, exist as an end in itself nor by itself provide a sufficient check against pretentious rationalism. Such an assumption is but a continuation of the liberal perversion of the family and only makes the family and marriage more personally destructive. When families exist for no reason other than their own existence, they become quasi-churches, which ask sacrifices far too great and for insufficient reasons. The risk of families which demand that we love one another can be taken only when there are sustaining communities with sufficient convictions that can provide means to form and limit the status of the family. If the family does stand as a necessary check on the state, as Russell and I both think it should, it does so because it first has a place in an institution that also stands against the state -- the church.

Christian Ambivalence

In this respect it must be remembered that it is not just the state or those who propose greater sexual freedom that question the status of the family, but it is first of all Christianity. Russell, for example, points out that Christianity has always had an ambivalent attitude toward the family, which he wrongly attributes to the working out of the Christian emphasis on the individual (p. 176). In fact the ambivalence of the church toward marriage is grounded in the eschatological convictions which freed some from the necessity of marriage -- i.e., singleness becomes a genuine option for service to the community.

This is a dangerous doctrine indeed, for it is a strange community which would risk giving singleness an equal status with marriage. But that is what the church did, and as a result marriage was made a vocation rather than a natural necessity. But as a vocation, marriage can be sustained only so long as it is clear what purposes it serves in the community which created it in the first place. With the loss of such a community sanction, we are left with the bare assumption that marriage is a voluntary institution motivated by the need for interpersonal intimacy. It is strange to see the Christians presume that account of marriage to be their own, because, as the Human Sexuality report has it, moral theology must be "properly enculturated" (p. 79).

By such an "enculturation," especially as it takes the form of the interpersonal criterion for legitimating activity, Christians lose exactly what they can contribute to the struggle of every man and woman to find their way through the tangle of matters dealing with sex. For example, the report on Human Sexuality suggests that one of the values that wholesome sexual relations exhibit is honesty, but honesty is defined by whether we can truthfully say that our activity is "truly creative and integrative." I suspect that all of us feel the insufficiency of such a formula when it comes to dealing with sex.

Honesty demands that we say what we know -- namely, that there is no sexual ethic or behavior that will not at some times destroy some people. The "Victorian sex code" destroyed or perverted many people, but so has the more liberal sex ethic of interpersonal enhancement. One might as well make the case that a more healthy and honest sexual attitude than the one that requires us always to be involved in "meaningful relations" would be simply to think of sex as a casual matter involving no great personal involvement. At least that way we would not have undergraduates convincing themselves that they are in love when they are simply doing what they want to do.

The Political Function of Marriage

The assumption that sex is a special form of interpersonal communication involves more than I can treat here. Many want to treat sex as just another form of communication -- like shaking hands. I suppose in response to such a suggestion one can at least point out that sex is often more fun than shaking hands. However, the reason that we seem to assume that sex should be reserved for "special relations" is not that sex itself is special, but that the nature of sex serves the ends of intimacy. But intimacy is indeed a tricky matter to sustain, and that may be the reason why many have argued that marriage is necessary to provide the perduring framework to sustain intimacy.

Moreover, once the political function of marriage is understood to be central for the meaning and institution of marriage, we have a better idea of what kinds of people we ought to be to deal with marriage. Most of the literature that attempts to instruct us about getting along in marriage fails to face up to a fact so clearly true that I have dared to call it Hauerwas’s Law: You always marry the wrong person. It is as important to note, of course, as Herbert Richardson pointed out to me, that the reverse of the law is also true: namely, that you also always marry the right person. The point of the law is to suggest the inadequacy of the current assumption that the success or failure of a marriage can be determined by marrying the "right person." Even if you have married the "right person," there is no guarantee that he or she will remain such, for people have a disturbing tendency to change. Indeed, it seems that many so-called "happy marriages" are such because of the partners’ efforts to preserve "love" by preventing either from changing.

This law is meant not only to challenge current romantic assumptions but to point out that marriage is a more basic reality than the interpersonal relations which may or may not characterize a particular marriage. Indeed, the demand that those in a marriage love one another requires that marriage have a basis other than the love itself. For it is only on such a basis that we can have any idea of how we should love.

So we often find it alleged that love is possible only between equals. Hence, marriage cannot be morally healthy as an institution until women secure equal status in our society. In no way questioning the just demands of women, I would suggest that the assumption that their success will make marriage better is a mirage. The relations between people, especially in institutions like marriage, are far too subtle to allow the assumption that social equality will be translated into the kind of equality that Aristotle deemed necessary for friendship. Only if marriage embodies a purpose beyond the self-enhancement of the individuals constituting it is there a basis sufficient for them to be bonded in pursuit of a common good.

It is not my intention here to recommend any single perspective on premarital, extramarital, homosexual and other forms of sexual activity. We cannot even begin to know how to think about such matters until we break out of the assumption that they are determined primarily in terms of interpersonal criteria. Indeed, the perspective I have tried to develop tends to divert some of our attention from "sexual ethics," since the question of what we do or do not do with our genitals is not the first question. The issue is rather what kind of people should we be -- and what we do or do not do with our genitals clearly has a bearing on that -- who bring to and can sustain the kind of sexual life appropriate to the purpose of marriage in the Christian community. The authors of Human Sexuality are right to criticize much of past thinking on sexuality for its "act orientation," but we have no idea what or how sexual activity should be embodied in our character until we know how marriage should be shaped and sustained.

A Place for God?

Had I been able to read Larry Witham’s book before I delivered the Gifford Lectures at St. Andrews, I would have been able to make my argument more compelling by locating the story I told in relation to Witham’s account of addressing the challenges of science. Witham has managed the impossible: to tell a coherent story about the diverse and often eccentric Gifford Lectures from their beginning in 1888 to the present. Telling this story involves not only reading the lectures, but also knowing the social, political and intellectual background of the various lecturers.

Witham thinks the Gifford Lectures provide a prism in which to view the conflict between science and religion in modernity. Lord Gifford’s bequest to the Scottish universities was given in the confidence that a Christianity interpreted as the expression of Spinoza’s metaphysics was compatible with science. Yet Gifford’s optimism was soon challenged by many of the lecturers. As a result, two main strategies were developed that remain with us today. Some lecturers argued that science and religious convictions could not come into conflict because they represent knowledges of different realities. Others tried to show that science could be used to make the knowledge of God more secure. Witham suggests that both alternatives fail to do justice to the complex relation between science and religion over the past century.

Witham tells his story in four acts. In Act One, the major players are philosophers who represent in various ways the alternatives generated by German idealism as a response to Hume’s skepticism and as and effort to avoid the reductive materialism that some feared was implied by Newton. Act Two, which turns out to be the longest act, shows the development of the sciences of anthropology, psychology, physics, sociology and history, each of which in its own way seemed to force a reconsideration of theological claims. Act Three represents the rebellion against science by the rediscovery of subjectivity. Act Four is constituted by those who reclaim natural theology as a response to nihilism.

Witham is well aware that these "acts" are not chronologically exact, and he quite intelligently discusses later Gifford Lectures as exemplifications and further developments of earlier lectures.

Hume and Kant were obviously not Gifford lecturers, but Witham quite rightly makes Hume and Kant the decisive figures for understanding the Hegelian idealism of the early lecturers. Yet the early history of the Giffords was dominated not by philosophers but by anthropologists such as Edward Tylor and James Frazer. Witham’s account of the anthropologists is lively, but also one of the least interesting chapters because these scholars’ work is so dated.

It is with William James that the story Witham tells begins to have purchase on our current challenges. Rather than trying like the anthropologists to assess the significance of religion by unearthing the origins of religion, James sought to understand religion in terms of its fruit. That he did so is the reason that James represents one of the most important responses to Darwin. James knew that the most challenging implication of Darwin’s work is not its account of human origins but its claim that human existence and possible nonexistence is a matter of chance. For James, that we exist means there is (for at least as long as we exist) purpose in the universe that often finds expression in religious experience. The physicist Charles Raven, a Gifford lecturer in the 1950s, wonderfully expressed James’s view when he observed that the more he examines the universe "the more evidence I find that the universe in some sense must have known we were coming."

The fact that the human being may have a place in the universe does not mean that God does. Einstein never gave the Giffords, but his contention that God does not play dice with the universe set the stage for lecturers such as Ernest Rutherford and Nils Bohr, who considered whether a physical understanding of the world left any room for the activity of God. The title of Witham’s book nicely suggests that the Gifford lecturers who sought to find a place for God in a world understood by physics assumed that the task was to "measure God,"

Reinhold Niebuhr (whom Witham misdescribes as neoorthodox), like the good Protestant liberal he knew himself to be, accepted that God had been measured by James. Yet Niebuhr was also a great preacher, able to use the burgeoning modes of social science to show how theology could provide a gripping account of the human condition. While aware that Niebuhr would not be recognized as a sociologist by most sociologists today, Witham, in a quite illuminating manner, positions Niebuhr in the tradition of Comte, Marx, Durkheim and Weber, who sought to map the progress of whole societies. Niebuhr’s account of sin and his understanding of theology as cultural commentary provided a compelling "sociology" for a theology done in a new idiom.

The third act, which Witham unfortunately describes as the "revolt against reason," is dominated by Karl Barth, who used his Gifford Lectures to exposit the Scots Confession and remind his audience that it is God who measures us.

The main characters in the last act of Witham’s play are physicists and scientists turned philosophers and theologians, such as Ian Barbour and John Polkinghorne. These lecturers explored the limits of science in the hope of finding a way to explain how God might be immanent in the world. Witham notes that "openings for God were found in science’s need for a moral compass, the human subjectivity of scientific discovery, and the universality of religious experience." In short, though Witham does not explicitly make this association, these later lecturers continued to work in the path James had trod.

It is, therefore, not surprising that James reappears toward the end of the story as a representative of the complex interaction of Scotland and America that the Gifford Lectures exemplify. Thomas Reid, the Scottish philosopher of common sense, turns out to be the crucial character for understanding this aspect of the four-act play. Reid’s influence on the American founders, Witham suggests, may have been returned to Scotland by way of Reid’s influence on C. S. Pierce and the latter’s influence on James. Nicholas Wolterstorff’s use of Reid to reassert the metaphysical realism necessary to sustain natural theology is a case of giving back to Scotland what Scotland had 6rst given to America. In quite different ways, Witham thinks Alisdair MacIntyre, Ralph McInerny and Alvin Plantinga represent Reid’s alternative to Hume.

It’s apparent from Witham’s account that no one who has given the Giffords has been able to show, as Lord Gifford desired, that natural theology could be done in a manner to imitate the natural sciences. MacIntyre’s respectful critique of Lord Gifford’s understanding of the task of natural theology exposed the philosophical mistakes behind Gifford’s ambitions.

I should like to think that my lectures (published as With the Grain of the Universe) helped show that if anyone succeeded in fulfilling Lord Gifford’s ambition to develop a natural theology in which knowledge of God would be comparable to the knowledges gained through the sciences, the god so justified would not be one worthy of worship. Such a god could not help but be part of the metaphysical furniture of the universe rather than the creator of heaven and earth.

If I’d have had the benefit of reading Witham’s book in advance of my lectures, I think I could have made clearer why James was such an essential part of my argument. Though I was critical of James’s and Niebuhr’s understanding of Christianity -- an account that Barth saw could not avoid turning Christian convictions into anthropology -- I hoped it would be obvious that I regard James’s Will to Believe to be crucial for helping us understand how Christian theology can make claims about the way things are. Accordingly, I tried to give an account of how Barth’s theological project could be read as an attempt to develop the habits of speech necessary to engage the moral and scientific challenges before us as Christians.

Admittedly, this way of reading Barth might have surprised Barth, as well as many who regard themselves as Barthians. But if my reading of James’s pragmatism is correct -- a reading I confess is shaped by Wittgenstein -- then I think it not unreasonable to read Barth’s project as the display of the significance of "in the beginning was the deed." Accordingly, rather than a retreat from the challenge science may present to theology, Barth’s work can be seen as the necessary condition for the possibility of such an engagement.

For example, Barth makes clear that the attempt to make theological claims intelligible by trying to show that science may not be able to "explain" everything through reductive schemes of causation is theologically a dead end. As David Burrell (who certainly should be asked to give the Gifford Lectures) has argued, any talk of God "intervening" in nature is misleading and inappropriate if one remembers that divine action comes under the rubric of creating.

Nor can the intelligibility of faith in God depend on accounts of the irreducibility of "consciousness." While the issue of consciousness is of great philosophical interest, the high humanism at stake in such discussions is often more of a problem for theology than the denial that consciousness is necessary to sustain human uniqueness.

The loss of theological intelligibility since the beginning of the Giffords has more to do with social and political changes than with the development of science. In that respect, I think it would have been quite instructive if Witham had been able to display the politics of the knowledges represented by the various Gifford lecturers. The challenge of the sciences to Christian convictions may involve a direct challenge to one or another Christian conviction, but I suspect that the more determinative challenges the sciences present are more subtle. They come from the ways science is used to justify the social and political arrangements that have reduced Christianity to something we do with our privacy.

In Blood Sacrifice and the Nation: Totem Rituals and the American Flag, Carolyn Marvin and David Ingle observe:

In the religiously plural society of the United States sectarian faith is optional for citizens, as everyone knows. Americans have rarely bled, sacrificed or died for Christianity or any other sectarian faith. Americans have often bled, sacrificed and died for their country. This fact is an important clue to its religious power. Though denominations are permitted to exist in the United States, they are not permitted to kill, for their beliefs are not officially true. What is really true in any society is what is worth killing for, and what citizens may be compelled to sacrifice their lives for.

By calling attention to the Scot-American connection the Gifford Lectures represent, Witham reminds us that the lectures also reproduce a particular politics. However, if Marvin and Ingle are right about what counts for truth, future Gifford lecturers will need to help us better understand what a politics of truth might entail. No doubt science has a role in such a politics, but much more important is whether the moral and political resources are in place to sustain places where truth matters, I should like to think the church is such a resource.

The Testament of Friends

A team of evangelical Christians invaded Shipshewana, Indiana, to bring the lost of Shipshewana to Christ. In front of Yoder’s drygoods store one of these earnest souls confronted a Mennonite farmer with the challenge, "Brother, are you saved?" The farmer was stunned by the question. All his years of attending the Peach Bloom Mennonite congregation had not prepared him for such a question particularly in front of Yoder’s.

Wanting not to offend, as well as believing that the person posing the question was of good will, he seriously considered how he might answer. After a long pause, the farmer asked his questioner for a pencil and paper and proceeded to list the names of ten people he believed knew him well. Most, he explained, were his friends but some were less than that and might even be enemies. He suggested that the evangelist ask these people whether they thought him saved since he certainly would not presume to answer such a question on his own behalf.

This story is one of my favorites, for it represents the way I have increasingly come to think of "my" work. Those who want to know "how my mind has changed" should ask my friends and enemies. This is not a gesture of humility about my thought or writing, but rather denotes my increasing theological, epistemological and moral conviction that theology in service to the church cannot come only from an individual mind. Anything worthwhile I have done is what my friends have done through me. Through my writing I discover previously unknown friends. They come forward, however, claiming me and in the process teach me how to understand what I have said, written or thought in a way that I had neither the courage nor imagination to think on my own.

So I am genuinely unsure how my mind has changed over the 22 years I have been teaching and writing. I am sure I am thinking about things now that had not even occurred to me 20 years ago. Old friends like David Burrell, Jim Burtchaell, Robert Wilken, Jim McClendon and Alasdair MacIntyre made me think about Aristotle, Aquinas and Wittgenstein in ways I had not anticipated. Even more important, they, along with many others, forced me to learn to pray—though in that I remain very much the novice. New friends, often graduate students, make me attend to the thought of Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida and Gilles Deleuze. I believe that their ideas ought to make a difference not only about what I think but about how I think, though I must confess I am not sure I understand them well enough to know what difference they should make.

While learning new approaches, I am still exploring how Christian convictions require moral display for understanding what we might mean to claim them as true. I also continue to believe that the virtues can help display those convictions, though I now try to avoid talking so abstractly about "the virtues" and focus more on concrete virtues such as patience and hope. I continue to be surprised by how this agenda has led me to appreciate the integrity of Christian discourse—that is, that Christian beliefs do not need translation but should be demonstrated through Christian practices, not the least of which is friendship of and in a concrete community. The radical social and political implications of such practices continue to challenge me, as I am sure Christians must rethink their concordat with institutions and regimes formed by liberal presuppositions.

To call my concerns "an agenda" may be too grand. I certainly do not have "a systematic position." I remember after I published my first collection of essays, Vision and Virtue (1974), Richard Bondi, one of my first graduate students, asked me whether I was going to spend the rest of my life defending the position I had developed in that book. I said I sure would if I could just remember what the position was. Unfortunately, I am unable to remember "my position" or the arguments I use to support it. Without friends to remember my claims I am at a complete loss. But I discover that in their remembering, which is often expressed in disagreements, there is often more than I knew. I continue to be graced with graduate students who understand me better than I understand myself and can show me where I have got it wrong.

Even though I have trouble remembering my position, I do know what I care about. Over the past 20 or so years I have discovered that others expect me to be a theologian in and for the church of Jesus Christ. It is at once a wonderful gift and a frightening realization, since only God knows how one can be faithful to that most ambiguous of vocations. But at least I do not have the burden of being "a thinker"—that is, someone who, philosopher-like, develops strong opinions that bear the stamp of individual genius. My task, is rather to take what friends—living and dead, some Christian and some not—have given me to help the church be faithful to the wonderful adventure we call Kingdom. Theology, of course, is one of the lesser services the church provides, but I do care about, and thus find great joy in, studying and developing it. That is why I do not have to remember "my position"; it is the activity of theology I care about.

My claim to be a theologian is not unlike my claim to be a pacifist. I often refer to myself as the latter though I very much dislike the term "Pacifist"—to name "pacifism" as its own field of interest seems to imply that it is intelligible apart from the cross and resurrection of Jesus. Yet I think it important to claim the position even at the risk of being misunderstood. To make the claim not only begins the argument but, more important, creates expectations in others that should help me live nonviolently. I have no faith in my ability to live that way because I know I am filled with violence. However, I hope by creating expectations in others that they will come to love me well enough to help me live according to the way of life I believe to be true. In like manner I find that others often use what I think to force me to be not just a thinker but a theologian.

Yet even the claim that I am a theologian, that I have been called to serve the church through the activity of theology, may be self-deceptive. The assertion challenges me to point out the church that has actually commissioned me, the church that I actually serve. It questions whether the church I write about actually exists. It taunts me that I am not a church theologian but just another academic theologian who continues to draw off the residual resources of Constantinian Christianity to fantasize about a church that does not and probably cannot or should not exist, given the political and economic realities of our time.

That challenge hurts because I know there is truth in it. The emphasis I have put on the faithful church as integral for demonstrating the truthfulness of Christian convictions makes the challenge all the more powerful. I cannot escape by distinguishing between visible or invisible church, by appealing to ideals always yet to be realized, or by suggesting that the theologian’s task is to describe what the church ought to be, not what it is. My church must exist as surely as the Jews have to be God’s promised people. That, of course, is why I cannot do without friends who live their convictions more faithfully than I write. At best I try to be a witness to their lives.

"Friends" do not constitute "church." Yet many of my friends are churched. Among them are liberal and conservative Roman Catholics, some Southern Baptists, some evangelicals, some Presbyterians, some Mennonites, some Calvinists, some Episcopalians, some Lutherans (not many), some from the Church of the Servant King (Gardenia, California), some liberal Protestants, some feminists and some liberationists. Even some Methodists tell me that though they disagree with certain details, generally they find my ideas helpful. But how can that be? Paul may have thought he should be all things to all people, but that is probably not good advice for theologians. Perhaps I am useful to such diverse communities because the disputes of the past are simply not all that relevant to the challenge to remain church today.

Another explanation for the breadth of my range of friends is that I am a Texas Methodist who went to Yale, came under the influence of Barth and Wittgenstein, taught two years for the Lutherans at Augustana College (Rock Island, Illinois), and 14 for the Catholics at Notre Dame, and have ended up with the Methodists at Duke. It is a wonderful gift to have been part of so many different communities, but it often makes me wonder who I am. I remember how this became clear to me at a Notre Dame departmental retreat where we were discussing, one more time, what it meant to be a theology department in a Catholic school. The Missouri-Synod Lutheran said what it meant to be part of such a department as a person of his tradition, as did the Dutch Calvinist, the Jesuit and the Mennonite. I sat in uncharacteristic silence trying to figure out what it meant for me to be there as a Methodist. Suddenly I thought, "Hell, I’m not a Methodist. I went to Yale!"

This story expresses the melancholy truth that for most of us theologians, where we went to graduate school informs our self-understanding more than our denominational identification does. As a result, we think of ourselves as Bultmannians, Barthians, process theologians, feminists or liberationists rather than as Methodists, Presbyterians, Anglicans or, perhaps, even Christians. That I went to Yale in the mid-‘60s is, I suspect, the reason I am subject to so many influences from so many different ecclesial communities, and so useful to such a wide range of groups. For at Yale I was taught to engage in theology as a traditioned-determined practice that is not determined by any one tradition—other than Yale’s. It is no wonder I care so deeply for the church: it is the only protection I have against Yale.

I suppose my Yale breeding is one reason why I find the charges that I am a "fideistic, sectarian tribalist" so puzzling. Admittedly, I have been and continue to be strongly influenced by John Howard Yoder. I like to think of myself as a Mennonite camp follower—an odd image, but I think the Mennonites need camp followers as otherwise they might forget they are an army in one hell of a fight. But to admit that I have been influenced by Yoder does not make me sectarian, for as Yoder eloquently argues in The Priestly Kingdom, he is not a Mennonite theologian but a theologian of the church catholic. Yoder taught me that the mainstream’s celebration of pluralism is the way the mainstream maintains its assumption of its superiority. Thus "we" understand, and perhaps appreciate, the "sects" better than they can appreciate themselves. The one with the most inclusive typology wins the game.

That I was trained at Yale does not sufficiently account for the fact I seem to belong nowhere, for as I noted, I went to Yale as a Texas Methodist. I was and remain more Texan than Methodist, though both have strongly shaped my identity. Because I was raised Texan—which is like being southern, only better—I knew I was never free to be "modern" and "selfcreating." I would always be, for better or worse, Texan. It was my first lesson in particularity; as some would put it, being Texan made me realize early that the foundationalist epistemologies of the Enlightenment had to be wrong. I am unsure, however, that I want to be an antifoundationalist since that would make me too dependent on the way foundationalists tell the story. I prefer simply to have a Texan epistemology.

I also went to Yale as a Methodist. Admittedly, I was not a very good one, but it was unclear then and is unclear now what it means to be a good one. Methodism, after all, is a movement that by accident became a church. Yet at least on some tellings of our story we are a theologically interesting accident; that is, we are a catholic church with a free-church polity.

So by describing myself as a high-church Mennonite I am saying I am a Methodist. Methodist identity makes sense only as it entails a commitment to discovering the unity of God’s church through our different histories.

If my work has some use in different ecclesial traditions, I suspect it is partly because as a Methodist I am not theologically subtle. I am impressed that churches baptize, preach, serve the eucharist, call some to serve the church and send some to serve in the world. If my work has any center it has been to help Christians across God’s church discover the moral significance of these extraordinary yet everyday practices.

That may seem odd for one who is often described as a radical—a description I certainly prefer to liberal or conservative. Yet I continue to believe that nothing is more radical than the existence of a people who worship the God we know by the names Father, Son and Holy Spirit. All that I have said about virtue, narrative or the political significance of the church has been an attempt to help us reclaim what is already there. I do not believe that God has abandoned the church or that the church is so compromised that it is incapable of witness. I am confident that God can be trusted to make the church— that is where Jesus is worshiped—serve the Kingdom.

I have gone through some changes, however; not the least concerning my emphasis on the centrality of the church. I began seeking to recover the importance of virtue and the virtues and ended up with the church. In a new introduction to Character and the Christian Life I note that I had in this book mistakenly tried to generate an account of agency from an analysis of action qua action, thus failing to see, as MacIntyre has taught us, that action can be analyzed only in a context. In spite of my attempt to provide an alternative to Kantian-inspired accounts of morality, I continued to support too uncritically the isolated "I." In that book I tried to isolate Aristotle’s account of virtue from his account of happiness and friendship. As a result, moreover, that book could not but appear apolitical.

That is why I cannot write an account of how "I" am making up my mind: I have increasingly come to distrust the moral psychology that maintains the existence of such an "I." The "self" of self-agency, assumed in my early work, still owed too much to the self abstracted from any narrative—something Derrida and Foucault have rightly questioned. I have been very lucky to live at a time of such rich intellectual developments. As a result I now think I understand much better how a narrative is necessary for character—or to put it theologically, why sin and forgiveness are necessary for us to be "selves"—and as an alternative to Descarte and Kant as well as their geneological critics.

I am quite sure that the way Christians should live can be displayed without Aristotle, and perhaps even without, as Yoder never ceases to remind me, the virtues. Moreover, the Christian conviction that our "happiness" is the gift of a God who determines all existence through the cross of Christ requires a radically transformed understanding of happiness, the virtues and friendship. I cannot let these questions go, for I remain convinced that any truthful account of Christian convictions requires a display of the sanctified life.

At the same time that I have been writing about happiness I have also been writing a book on the suffering and death of children, Naming the Silences: God, Medicine and the Problem of Suffering. I am increasingly convinced that Christians are capable of joy because their hopes make them vulnerable to suffering. Though this book is meant to be pastoral, it also explores the epistemological and social presumptions that produced the idea of the problem of evil. I aim to provide a different perspective on medicine as well as suggest a different approach to medical ethics. In the name of freeing us from suffering, modern medicine and its correlative ethical expressions have become our fate—which we now impose on our children by not understanding their suffering and death through a more determinative narrative.

I am happier about this book than anything I have done for some time. It is short and I hope accessible to people who have not had the disadvantage of a theological education. In that respect I am trying to resist the professionalization of theology, which I consider a Babylonian captivity of theology by the Enlightenment university. If I had the talent I would even like to write a "popular" book. But I know I do not have the talent for such an undertaking. I also continue to put together books that combine some fairly difficult philosophical discussions with essays that I hope are entertaining. I do so not because I am trying to use more popular essays to entice some to read the more "serious" essays—indeed, I think that the more popular essays are the more serious—but because, I am convinced, as a friend has put it, that "arguments, including moral arguments, cannot be separated from the descriptions that not merely accompany them, but make them possible."

That I understand theology to be a descriptive task may be one of the reasons so many misunderstand or resist my work. I am not suggesting that if people understood me better they would agree with me; I suspect the opposite is the case. But I think some try to force me into a predetermined category—i.e., liberal or conservative, in theology or politics—when in fact I am trying to challenge the very presuppositions that have created those categories. For example, I prefer to ignore the oft-made charge that I am a "sectarian" though I could not resist responding to that notion in Christian Existence Today, since I am challenging the epistemologies and social theories that generate the unhappy normative use of that typology.

Perhaps the most difficult descriptive issue I have addressed is the theological and moral status of war. I am disappointed that no one has significantly challenged the case I made for the moral significance of war in Against the Nations—except for Paul Ramsey in his wonderful book Speak Up for Just War or Pacifism. Ramsey and I originally planned to write essays of equal length criticizing the Methodist bishops’ pastoral letter, "In Defense of Creation." But by the time Ramsey finished his extraordinary critique it was clear that all I needed to do was write an epilogue. Though Ramsey and I disagreed, I hope our exchange illumines the descriptive power of Christian convictions. Nothing has honored me more than Paul Ramsey’s claiming me as friend.

I have said little about how changes in our society, the church and my own life have forced me to think about things differently or to think about matters I had not imagined when I began. None of us can be or should be immune from such influence, but with this essay I wanted at least to gesture toward what I learned through friends. Friends have taught me how wonderful and frightening it is to be called to serve in God’s kingdom.

I began seeking to recover the importance of virtue and the virtues and ended up with the church.

Discipleship as a Craft, Church as a Disciplined Community

The church seems caught in an irresolvable tension today. Insofar as we are able to maintain any presence in modern society we do so by being communities of care. Any attempt to be a disciplined and disciplining community seems antithetical to being a community of care. As a result the care the church gives, while often quite impressive and compassionate, lacks the rationale to build the church as a community capable of standing aga . inst the powers we confront.

That the church has difficulty being a disciplined community, or even more cannot conceive what it would mean to be a disciplined community, is not surprising given the church's social position in developed economies. The church exists in a buyer's or consumer's market, so any suggestion that in order to be a member of a church you must be transformed by opening your life to certain kinds of discipline is almost impossible to maintain. The called church has become the voluntary church, whose primary characteristic is that the congregation is friendly. Of course, that is a kind of discipline, because you cannot belong to the church unless you are friendly, but it's very unclear how such friendliness contributes to the growth of God's church meant to witness to the kingdom of God.

In an attempt to respond to this set of circumstances, the primary strategy, at least for churches in the mainstream, has been to try to help people come to a better understanding of what it means to be a Christian. Such a strategy assumes that what makes a Christian a Christian is holding certain beliefs that help us better understand the human condition, to make sense of our experience. Of course, no one denies that those beliefs may have behavioral implications, but the assumption is that the beliefs must be in place in order for the behavior to be authentic. In this respect the individualism of modernity can be seen in quite a positive light. For the very fact that people are now free from the necessity of believing as Christians means that if they so decide to identify with Christianity, they can do so voluntarily.

In short, the great problem of modernity for the church is how we are to survive as disciplined communities in democratic societies. For the fundamental presumption behind democratic societies is that the consciousness of something called the common citizen is privileged no matter what kind of formation it may or may not have had. It is that presumption that has given rise to the very idea of ethics as an identifiable discipline within the modern university curriculum. Both Kant and the utilitarians assumed that the task of the ethicist was to explicate the presuppositions everyone shares. Ethics is the attempt to systematize what we all perhaps only inchoately know or which we have perhaps failed to make sufficiently explicit.

Such a view of ethics can appear quite anticonventional, but even the anticonventional stance gains its power by appeal to what anyone would think upon reflection. This can be nicely illustrated in terms of the recent movie, The Dead Poets Society. It is an entertaining, popular movie that appeals to our moral sensibilities. The movie depicts a young and creative teacher battling what appears to be the unthinking authoritarianism of the school as well as his students' (at first) uncomprehending resistance to his teaching method. The young teacher, whose subject is romantic poetry, which may or may not be all that important, takes as his primary pedagogical task helping his students think for themselves. We watch him slowly awaken one student after another to the possibility of their own talents and potential. At the end, even though he has been fired by the school, we are thrilled as his students find the ability to stand against authority, to think for themselves.

This movie seems to be a wonderful testimony to the independence of spirit that democracies putatively want to encourage. Yet I can think of no more conformist message in liberal societies than the idea that students should learn to think for themselves. What must be said is that most students in our society do not have minds well enough trained to think. A central pedagogical task is to tell students that their problem is that they do not have minds worth making up. That is why training is so important, because training involves the formation of the self through submission to authority that will provide people with the virtues necessary to make reasoned judgment.

The church's situation is not unlike the problems of what it means to be a teacher in a society shaped by an ethos that produces movies like The Dead Poets Society. Determined by past presuppositions about the importance of commitment for the living of the Christian life, we have underwritten a voluntaristic conception of the Christian faith, which presupposes that one can become a Christian without training. The difficulty is that once such a position has been established, any alternative cannot help appearing as an authoritarian imposition.

In this respect it is interesting to note how we---that is, those of us in mainstream traditions–tend to think about the loss of membership by mainstream churches and the growth of so-called conservative churches. Churches characterized by compassion and care no longer are able to retain membership, particularly that of their own children, whereas conservative churches that make moral conformity and/or discipline their primary focus continue to grow. Those of us in liberal churches tend to explain this development by noting that people cannot stand freedom, and therefore, in a confusing world devoid of community, seek authority. Conservative churches are growing, but their growth is only a sign of pathology.

Yet this very analysis of why conservative churches are growing assumes the presumptions of liberal social theory and practice that I am suggesting is the source of our difficulty. The very way we have learned to state the problem is the problem. The very fact that we let the issue be framed by terms such as individual and community, freedom and authority, care versus discipline, is an indication of our loss of coherence and the survival of fragments necessary for Christians to make our disciplines the way we care.

For example, one of the great problems facing liberal and conservative churches alike is that their membership has been schooled on the distinction between public and private morality. Liberal and conservative alike assume that they have a right generally to do pretty much what they want, as long as what they do does not entail undue harm to others. The fact that such a distinction is incoherent even in the wider political society does little to help us challenge an even more problematic character in relationship to the church. Yet if salvation is genuinely social, then there can be no place for a distinction that invites us to assume, for example, that we have ownership over our bodies and possessions in a way that is not under the discipline of the whole church. Recently I gave a lecture at a university that is identified with a very conservative Christian church. The administration was deeply concerned with the teaching of business ethics in the university's business school and had begun a lectureship to explore those issues. My lecture was called "Why Business Ethics Is a Bad Idea." I argued that business ethics was but a form of quandary ethics so characteristic of most so-called applied ethics. As a result, I suggested that business ethics could not help failing to raise the fundamental issues concerning why business was assumed to be a special area of moral analysis

After I had finished, a person who taught in the business school asked,."But what can the church do given this situation?" I suggested to her that if the church was going to begin seriously to reflect on these matters, it should start by requiring all those currently in the church, as well as anyone who wished to join the church, to declare what they earn in public. This suggestion was greeted with disbelief, for it was simply assumed that no one should be required to expose their income in public. After all, nothing is more private in our lives than the amount we earn. Insofar as that is the case, we see how far the church is incapable of being a disciplined community.

However, one cannot help feeling the agony behind the questioner's concern. For if the analysis I have provided to this point is close to being right, then it seems we lack the conceptual resources to help us understand how the church can reclaim for itself what it means to be a community of care and discipline. Of course, "conceptual resources" is far too weak a phrase, for if actual practices of care and discipline are absent, then our imaginations will be equally impoverished. What I propose, therefore, is to provide an account of what it means to learn a craft, to learn--for example--how to lay brick, in the hope that we may be able to claim forms of care and discipline unnoticed but nonetheless present in the church.

To learn to lay brick, it is not sufficient for you to be told how to do it; you must learn to mix the mortar, build scaffolds, joint, and so on. Moreover, it is not enough to be told how to hold a trowel, how to spread mortar, or how to frog the mortar. In order to lay brick you must hour after hour, day after day, lay brick.

Of course, learning to lay brick involves learning not only myriad skills, but also a language that forms, and is formed by those skills. Thus, for example, you have to become familiar with what a trowel is and how it is to be used, as well as mortar, which bricklayers usually call "mud." Thus "frogging mud" means creating a trench in the mortar so that when the brick is placed in the mortar, a vacuum is created that almost makes the brick lay itself. Such language is not just incidental to becoming a bricklayer but is intrinsic to the practice. You cannot learn to lay brick without learning to talk "right."

The language embodies the history of the craft of bricklaying. So when you learn to be a bricklayer you are not learning a craft de novo but rather being initiated into a history. For example, bricks have different names--klinkers, etc.---to denote different qualities that make a difference about how one lays them. These differences are often discovered by apprentices being confronted with new challenges, making mistakes, and then being taught how to do the work by the more experienced.

All of this indicates that to lay brick you must be initiated into the craft of bricklaying by a master craftsman. It is interesting in this respect to contrast this notion with modern democratic presuppositions. For as I noted above, the accounts of morality sponsored by democracy want to deny the necessity of a master. It is assumed that we each in and of ourselves have all we need to be moral. No master is necessary for us to become moral, for being moral is a condition that does not require initiation or training. That is why I often suggest that the most determinative moral formation most people have in our society is when they learn to play baseball, basketball, quilt, cook or learn to lay bricks. For such sports and crafts remain morally antidemocratic insofar as they require acknowledgment of authority based on a history of accomplishment.

Of course, it is by no means clear how long we can rely on the existence of crafts for such moral formation. For example, bricklayers who are genuinely masters of their craft have become quite scarce. Those who remain command good money for their services. Moreover, the material necessary for laying brick has become increasingly expensive. It has therefore become the tendency of builders to try as much as possible to design around the necessity of using brick in building. As a result, we get ugly glass buildings.

The highly functional glass building that has become so prevalent is the architectural equivalent of our understanding of morality. Such buildings should be cheap, easily built and efficient. They should be functional, which means they can have no purpose that might limit their multiple use. The more glass buildings we build, the fewer practitioners of crafts we have. The result is a self-fulfilling prophecy: the more buildings and/or morality we produce that eliminate the need for masters of crafts and/or morality, the less we are able to know that there is an alternative.

In his Gifford lectures, Three Rival Versions of Moral Inquiry: Encyclopaedia, Genealogy, and Tradition, Alasdair MacIntyre develops an extensive account of the craftlike nature of morality. In contrast to modernity, MacIntyre argues that the moral good is not available to any intelligent person no matter what his or her point of view. Rather, in order to be moral, to acquire knowledge about what is true and good, a person has to be made into a particular kind of person. Therefore transformation is required if one is to be moral at all. In short, no account of the moral life is intelligible that does not involve some account of conversion. This is particularly true in our context, because to appreciate this point requires a conversion from our liberal convictions.

This transformation is like that of making oneself an apprentice to a master of a craft. Through such an apprenticeship we seek to acquire the intelligence and virtues necessary to become skilled practitioners. Indeed, it is crucial to understand that intelligence and virtues cannot be separated, as they require one another. Classically this was embodied in the emphasis that the virtue of prudence cannot be acquired without the virtues of courage and temperance, and that courage and temperance require prudence. The circular or interdependent character of the relationship between prudence and courage suggests why it is impossible to become good without a master. We only learn how to be courageous, and thus how to judge what we must do through imitation.

When the moral life is viewed through the analogy of the craft, we see why we need a teacher to actualize our potential. The teacher's authority must be accepted on the basis of a community of a craft, which embodies the intellectual and moral habits we must acquire and cultivate if we are to become effective and creative participants in the craft. Such standards can only be justified historically as they emerge from criticisms of their predecessors. That we hold a trowel this way or spread mortar on tile differently than on brick is justified from attempts to transcend or improve upon limitations of our predecessors.

Of course, the teachers themselves derive their authority from a conception of perfected work that serves as the tools of that craft. Therefore, often the best teachers in a craft do not necessarily produce the best work, but they help us understand what kind of work is best. What is actually produced as best judgments or actions or objects within crafts are judged so because they stand in some determinative relation to what the craft is about. What the craft is about is determined historically within the context of particularistic communities.

But what does all this have to do with the church? First it reminds us that Christianity is not beliefs about God plus behavior. We are Christians not because of what we believe, but because we have been called to be disciples of Jesus. To become a disciple is not a matter of a new or changed self-understanding, but rather to become part of a different community with a different set of practices.

For example, I am sometimes confronted by people who are not Christians but who say they want to know about Christianity. This is a particular occupational hazard for theologians around a university, because it is assumed that we are smart or at least have a Ph.D., so we must really know something about Christianity. After many years of vain attempts to "explain" God as trinity, I now say, "Well, to begin with we Christians have been taught to pray, 'Our father, who art in heaven. . .’" I then suggest that a good place to begin to understand what we Christians are about is to join me in that prayer.

For to learn to pray is no easy matter but requires much training, not unlike learning to lay brick. It does no one any good to believe in God, at least the God we find in Jesus of Nazareth, if they have not learned to pray. To learn to pray means we must acquire humility not as something we try to do, but as commensurate with the practice of prayer. In short, we do not believe in God, become humble and then learn to pray, but in learning to pray we humbly discover we cannot do other than believe in God.

But, of course, to learn to pray requires that we learn to pray with other Christians. It means we must learn the disciplines necessary to worship God. Worship, at least for Christians, is the activity to which all our skills are ordered. That is why there can be no separation of Christian morality from Christian worship. As Christians, our worship is our morality, for it is in worship that we find ourselves engrafted into the story of God. It is in worship that we acquire the skills to acknowledge who we are--sinners.

This is but a reminder that we must be trained to be a sinner. To confess our sin, after all, is a theological and moral accomplishment., Perhaps nowhere is the contrast between the account of the Christian life I am trying to develop and most modern theology clearer than on this issue. In an odd manner Christian theologians in modernity, whether they are liberals or conservatives, have assumed that sin is a universal category available to anyone. People might not believe in God, but they will confess their sin. As a result, sin becomes an unavoidable aspect of the human condition. This is odd for a people who have been taught that we must confess our sin by being trained by a community that has learned how to name those aspects of our lives that stand in the way of our being Jesus' disciples.

For example, as Christians we cannot learn to confess our sins unless we are forgiven. Indeed, as has often been stressed, prior to forgiveness we cannot know we are sinners. For it is our tendency to want to be forgivers such that we remain basically in a power relation to those who we have forgiven. But it is the great message of the gospel that we will find our lives in that of Jesus only to the extent that we are capable of accepting forgiveness. But accepting forgiveness does not come easily, because it puts us out of control.

In like manner we must learn to be a creature. To confess that we are finite is not equivalent to the recognition that we are creatures. For creaturehood draws on a determinative narrative of God as creator that requires more significant knowledge of our humanity than simply that we are finite. For both the notions of creature and sinner require that we find ourselves constituted by narratives that we did not create. As I indicated earlier, that is to put us at deep odds with modernity. For the very notion that our lives can be recognized as lives only as we find ourselves constituted by a determinative narrative that has been given to us rather than created by us, is antithetical to the very spirit of modernity. But that is but an indication of why it is necessary that this narrative be carried by a body of people who have the skills to give them critical distance on the world.

In some ways all of this remains quite abstract because the notions of sinner and creature still sound more like self-understanding than characteristics of a craft. That is why we cannot learn to be a sinner separate from concrete acts of confession. Thus in the letter of James we are told, "Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church, and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up; and anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven. Therefore confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective" (5: 14-16). Such practice, I suspect, is no less important now than it was then. We cannot learn that we are sinners unless we are forced to confess our sins to other people in the church. Indeed, it is not possible to learn to be a sinner without a confession and reconciliation. For it is one thing to confess our sin in general, but it is quite another to confess our sin to one in the church whom we may well have wronged and to seek reconciliation. Without such confessions, however, I suspect that we cannot be church at all.

For example, when Bill Moyers did his public broadcast series on religion in America, the taping on fundamentalism was quite striking. He showed a fundamentalist pastor in Boston discussing a pastoral problem with one of his parishioners. The parishioner's wife had committed adultery and had confessed it to the church. After much searching and discussion, the church had received her back after appropriate penitential discipline. However, her husband was not ready to be so forgiving and did not wish to receive her back.

The fundamentalist pastor said, "You do not have the right to reject her, for as a member of our church you too must hold out the same forgiveness that we as a church hold out. Therefore I'm not asking you to take her back, I am telling you to take her back."

I anticipate that such an example strikes fear in most of our liberal hearts, but it is also a paradigmatic form of what I take forgiveness to be about. In this instance one with authority spoke to another on behalf of the central skills of the church that draw their intelligibility from the gospel. There we have an example of congregational care and discipline that joins together for the upbuilding of the Christian community.

Of course, if the church lacks masters who have undergone the discipline of being forgiven, then indeed we cannot expect that such discipline will be intelligible. But I do not believe that we are so far gone as to lack such masters. Indeed, they are the ones who continue to carry the history to help us learn from our past so that our future will not be determined by the temptation to live unforgiven and thus unskillful lives.

 

When the Politics of Jesus Makes a Difference

John Howard Yoder's The Politics of Jesus surely would be an odd choice for a classic. As a fairly recent book (1972), it has not had a chance to prove its staying power. For that matter, it does not now command great attention in contemporary discussions of theology or ethics. To be sure, most mark it as an important work, but not one that has decisively changed the way we think. Indeed, Yoder does not pretend that the book is anything more than a report on the mainstream scholarly consensus concerning the political character of Jesus' proclamation of the kingdom of God as found in the Book of Luke. Yet I am convinced that when Christians look back on this century of theology in America The Politics Of Jesus will be seen as a new beginning.

Prior to Yoder the subject of Christian ethics in America was always America. The more America became the democratic society that the social gospelers so desired, the more difficult it became to do ethics in a theologically candid manner. Chastened by the Niebuhrs, those trained in ethics no longer sought to "Christianize" the social order. Instead they pursued, in the name of love, a more nearly just political arrangement.

The social gospel spawned ethicists who became social scientists, or at least read social science, in the interest of social transformation. The "realists" spawned ethicists who became moral philosophers, clarifying moral questions in medicine and business and, in their spare time, keeping alive the "God question." In this mode, Christian ethics continues, but it becomes increasingly difficult to say what makes it Christian. Indeed, the effort to discover the relationship between policy questions or basic moral principles and theological warrants now preoccupies many ethicists.

Yoder comes into this territory from the sectarian badlands. He is the lone hero standing up to the mob that is willing to secure justice through the anguished acceptance of violence. He insists that the christologically disciplined account of nonviolence displayed in The Politics of Jesus cannot be dismissed the way that liberal Protestant pacifism was. Also, Yoder's account of nonviolence requires theologians to acknowledge that their work makes no sense abstracted from the church. In short, for Yoder both the subject and the audience of Christian ethics are Christians -- the people who are constituted by that polity called church.

The image of the lone gunman facing down the bad guys does not really fit Yoder, however, because his work is meant to defeat the myth of the hero. His work is based on the life of a community. Nonviolence is a way of life for Christians. If that community produces people whose stories it remembers, it calls them martyrs, not heroes.

It is odd, then, to regard The Politics of Jesus as a classic. The very idea of "classic" suggests heroic narratives. The classic is the category of dominant and dominating traditions. Yoder does not want The Politics of Jesus to be a classic, but rather to serve those who are living better than he writes. The very character of the book defies the effort to categorize it as a classic, since it does not articulate an elegant position but rather provides a close reading of Luke. Indeed, one of the problems with the book is our inability to locate it in a recognizable genre. It is not a commentary, though it consists primarily of comments on scripture; it is not theology, though Yoder makes extraordinary theological asides of a systematic nature; it is not ethics, though it challenges and perhaps changes our very idea of what ethics might be.

For many people, the classics are works that are ends in themselves because they embody essential truths about the human condition. It is assumed that if you have never read Shakespeare your life is less rich, since you may fail to appreciate the truths about life that his plays present. But what is important is not that certain books be read as an end in themselves, but that they be read because of their relationship to other books in a tradition and community that make such a conversation significant. Thus we should read Thomas Aquinas not because the Summa Theologica is a classic, but because reading Aquinas teaches us how better to read Augustine and the scriptures.

In like manner I want to promote the reading of The Politics of Jesus because it helps us locate our lives as Christians in the catholic faith. Yoder needs to be read in the tradition of liberal Protestantism not only because he helps us recognize the strengths of that tradition, but also because he helps us see why that tradition has come to an end (which accounts for why he remains something of an outcast in mainstream Protestant theology). Yoder cannot be made to fit into the presuppositions we have learned from the Niebuhrs and their successors. Such theologians keep saying, "We have seen this Christ-against-culture type before." In mainstream hands, such typologies become power plays to keep in their place those who might challenge the reigning explanatory categories.

Yoder challenges the philosophical moves we have learned so thoroughly from Troeltsch through the Niebuhrs, and so we are desperate to make him but another example of what it means to be a sectarian. What gives The Politics of Jesus its power is that Yoder knows us better than we know him. Yoder sees the peculiar way that Troeltsch and the Niebuhrs dehistoricized the Christian faith in the name of "history," and he sets himself against the dichotomy of faith and history.

In fairness it should be said that it is easy to miss Yoder's challenge because he is so free of the ory. For example, he notes in The Priestly Kingdom that while he is not disrespectful of self-critical conceptual analysis, he is skeptical that such exercises can come first logically, chronologically or developmentally. You cannot start trying to formulate the conditions of meaningful discourse if such discourse is not already established. There is simply no place to start thinking prior to being engaged in a tradition. As Yoder says, "What must replace the prolegomenal search for 'scratch' is the confession of rootedness in historical community. Then one directs one's critical acuity toward making clear the distance between that community ty's charter or covenant and its present faithfulness." Yoder does not talk about how he might do theology if he ever got around to doing any. Rather, like Barth, he simply begins to train us to read Luke with eyes unclouded by the presumption that Jesus is irrelevant for matters of social and political ethics. By doing so he challenges all pietistic readings of salvation, whether of the left or the right.

Reinhold Niebuhr's under standing of salvation was fundamentally individualistic, if not gnostic. Indeed, this has been a characteristic of most Protestant liberals, excepting Rauschenbusch. Yoder helps us see that Niebuhr's understanding of salvation had to be depoliticized exactly because he assumed the normative status of a politics based on violence. Correlatively, the cross for Niebuhr becomes a symbol of the tragic character of the human condition. Niebuhr's fatal concession to a very narrow understanding of the political made his Christology deficient.

Yet Yoder also challenges those evangelicals who describe salvation in terms of personal fulfillment. "The cross of Calvary was not a difficult family situation, not a frustration of visions of personal fulfillment, a crushing debt or a nagging in-law; it was the political, legally to be expected result of a moral clash with the powers ruling his society." Yoder does not invite us to become concerned with our personal salvation, since that cannot help but depoliticize the salvation wrought in Christ.

Yoder does not think he is offering a radical new account of Jesus. "We do not here advocate an unheard-of modern understanding of Jesus; we ask rather that the implications of what the church has always said about Jesus as Word of the Father, as true God and true Man, be taken more seriously, as relevant to our social problems, than ever before." Commenting on The Politics of Jesus in The Priestly Kingdom, he notes

Jesus of the Gospel accounts was compatible with the classic confession of the true humanity o There my point was that the book's emphasis on the concrete historical-political humanity of the f Christ (i.e., the core meaning of "incarnation"), whereas those who deny that humanity (or its normative exemplarity) in favor of "some more spiritual" message are implicitly Docetic. Secondly I argue that the New Testament's seeing Jesus as example is a necessary correlate of what later theology calls his divine sonship (the other side of the "incarnation"), in such a way that those who downgrade the weight of Jesus' example, on the grounds that his particular social location or example cannot be a norm, renew a counterpart of the old "Ebionitic" heresy. This is a small sample of a wider claim; the convictions argued here do not admit to being categorized as a sectarian oddity or a prophetic exception. Their appeal is to classical catholic Christian convictions properly understood.

Yoder does not understand himself as a "Mennonite thinker." Indeed, if there is anything that makes him testy it is being so pigeonholed. Those that so designate him often mean to honor him as representing a position that is necessary for reminding us of our sinfulness. But Yoder is not trying to be a reminder. He is trying to force us to recognize that in spite of what appears to be orthodox christological affirmations, we are embedded in social practices that deny that Jesus's life, death and resurrection make any difference.

Thus incarnation does not mean that God approves of all of human nature:

The point is just the opposite; that God broke through the borders of our definition of what is human, and gave a new, formative definition in Jesus. "Trinity" did not originally mean, as it does for some later, that there are three kinds of revelation, the Father speaking through creation and the Spirit though experience, by which the words and example of the Son must be corrected; it meant rather that language must be found and definitions created so that Christians, who believe in only one God, can affirm that he is most adequately and bindingly known in Jesus.

In a manner that can only be described as catholic, Yoder returns Jesus to the center of Christian ethics by freeing us from the political presuppositions sponsored by liberal social orders. The directness of his style belies the complex nature of his thought. His clarity makes the power of his arguments deceptive. He shows us that our sense of the alternatives -- that we must choose between the Jesus of history and the Christ of faith, between prophet and institution, between catastrophic kingdom and inner kingdom between being political and being sectarian, between the individual and the social -- derives not from categories intrinsic to the human condition but from a depoliticization of salvation that has made Christianity a faithful servant of the status quo.

That Yoder's significance has not been widely acknowledged is no doubt due to his unwillingness to put himself forward. Yoder is not good at self-promotion. He does not try to find us; he lets us find him. He neither tries to hide nor calls attention to himself. The way of nonviolence cannot seek easy victories, and Yoder does not want to make it easy for us to agree with him. His purpose is to commit us to Jesus' nonviolent mode of discipleship, making that way of life our own. He is interested not in promoting himself but in inviting others to live in a way that acknowledges Jesus as the "bearer of a new possibility of human, social, and. therefore political relationships. His baptism is the inauguration and his cross is the culmination of that new regime in which his disciples are called to share."

My introduction to Yoder came in the bookstore at Yale Divinity School. Since Barth was playing a large part in my dissertation I bought a mimeographed 47-page pamphlet called Karl Barth and Christian Pacifism written by someone named J. H. Yoder. It noted that it was "work paper number four," prepared as a study document for the peace section of the Mennonite Central Committee. In short, this was not an impressive-looking document. But I took it back to my carrel and began to read, and was absolutely stunned by Yoder's powerful analysis and critique of Barth. I thought, of course, that the criticisms were based on an ecclesiology that you would have to be crazy to accept. (This pamphlet later became Yoder's Karl Barth and the Problem of War, published by Abingdon in 1970.)

I more or less forgot about Yoder until I began to teach at Notre Dame in 1970. 1 assumed that Yoder must teach at Goshen College, which is not far from South Bend. In the process of learning the lay of the land around South Bend I found myself in Goshen. I discovered that Yoder taught not at Goshen College but rather in Elkhart at the Associated Mennonite Biblical Seminary, but in my exploration of Goshen I discovered that Yoder had written numerous pamphlets that could be bought off a rack in College Church for a dime a piece. Always ready for the unusual and bizarre, I bought among others his pamphlets on Reinhold Niebuhr and on capital punishment, and another treatment of Barth. In reading these pamphlets I began to understand that this was not just ."another" theologian. I was sure he had to be wrong, though I was increasingly having trouble saying how.

Thinking I needed to know more about him, I called him in Elkhart and asked if I could meet him. He invited me over, though I am sure he must have thought he was going to be besieged by another mainstream Protestant collecting data on the odd ideas of the Mennonites. When we met he did nothing to try to ingratiate himself. He answered questions that I put to him but seldom went beyond the answer itself. If Yoder was trying to make disciples, he certainly was not doing it through flattery.

I told him of my enthusiasm for his work and asked if he had written anything else. Little did I know how much Yoder had written, but he did not use that as an opportunity to expose my ignorance. He simply gave me copies of the Yoder mimeograph library. I left Elkhart with a stack of papers a foot high, thinking that this guy did not know how to make it as an academic. He thought mimeograph papers written to specific people in response to concrete requests were appropriate.

Within those papers lay the basic material we now know as The Politics of Jesus. The more I read it and the other material the more I was frightened. Here was a position I was sure implied withdrawal from the world, but that certainly did not seem to be what Yoder was about. Indeed, his Christian Witness to the State was an extraordinary attempt to convince Mennonites not to accept Niebuhrian characterizations of them as morally necesssary s but politically irrelevant. Yoder simply challenged all the neat intellectual and theological classification with which I had been so carefully educated. At that time the yearly ecumenical effort of Notre Dame's theology department was to have a colloquium with the theology department at Valparaiso University. That year I was asked to prepare the paper for the colloquium. Since I had spent a good deal of the year reading Yoder I decided that I would write on him. I introduced my remarks by saying that here I was, a Methodist of doubtful theological background (Methodists by definition have a

doubtful theological background), representing a Catholic department of theology speaking to a bunch of Lutherans to say that the Mennonites had been right all along. I suggested that this would be an ecumenical effort since I thought by presenting the work of John Howard Yoder to Catholics and Lutherans I would help them see they shared much in common -- namely, that Catholics and Lutherans had always assumed it was a good thing to kill the Anabaptists. Of course, that was what happened when Catholics and Lutherans competed to show why under certain circumstances it is a good thing to kill.

I called the paper "The Non-Resistant Church: The Theological Ethics of John Howard Yoder." I sent the paper to at least six journals, all of which rejected it, not because they disliked the paper in and of itself but because they disliked what the paper was about. One of the objections was that Yoder's position reflected a pre-Bultmannian view of biblical exegesis. I was beginning to learn that Yoder was perceived by many as deeply problematic because he is such a decisive threat to our accepted

ways of thinking. (The characterization of Yoder as pre-Bultmannian now almost strikes one as humorous given recent developments in biblical criticism. Even on historical grounds Yoder's Jesus in The Politics of Jesus appears more historically defensible than Bultmann's Jesus.)

Yoder rightly understood that the real Jesus is not to be discovered in discontinuity with Judaism but in his continuity with the extraordinarily diverse modes of life we now call Jewish. Indeed, one of the aspects of Yoder's work that has been unfairly overlooked is his way of reconceiving the relationship between Christianity and Judaism.

The liberal dismissal of Yoder appears quite odd in light of the celebration of him as a "postmodern theologian" by Frederic Jameson in his Post-Modernism, or The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Jameson notes that the central hermeneutic of theological modernism was posed by the anthropomorphism of the narrative character of a historical Jesus. Modern theologians assumed that

only intense philosophical effort is capable of turning this character into this or that christological abstraction. As for the commandments and the ethical doctrine, casuistry has long since settled the matter; they also need no longer be taken literally, and confronted with properly modern forms of injustice, bureaucratic warfare, systemic or economic inequality, and so forth, modern theologians and churchmen can work up persuasive accommodations to the constraints of complex modern societies, and provide excellent reasons for bombing civilian populations or executing criminals which do not disqualify the executors from Christian status.

Yoder challenges that accommodation by his account of "the politics of Jesus." That is why a secular intellectual like Jameson admires him -- even though the mainstream maintains that such people should not be able to appreciate Yoder.

Of course, Yoder will not be impressed by knowing that people like Jameson admire his work. His task is not to represent a position interesting to other intellectuals. Rather, he works as a theologian in subordination to a church pledged to witness to the nonviolent politics of the gospel. (The fact that he has submitted to his church's discipline process regarding sexual misconduct is but a testimony to his commitment to nonviolence as the community's form of behavior.)

Nor will Yoder be impressed with my reading of the significance of The Politics of Jesus. In many ways my reading remains still far too laden with theory, which always threatens to become a substitute for the church rather than an enhancement of ecclesial practice. Nor would I want to imply that Yoder will help us reconceive the tradition of liberal Protestantism simply because of the mainstream churches' loss of institutional and social power. On the contrary, Yoder may well help us to use the remaining resources of that tradition to help Christians rediscover ways to serve our non-Christian brothers and sisters by being unwavering in our commitment to the politics of Jesus.

Taming the Savage Market

Most Americans know Monopoly as a game: Parker Brothers’ famous entertainment has been a continuous favorite since the Great Depression. The game combines skill with a heavy dose of chance through dice and situation cards. The object of the game is to bankrupt your opponents by buying up so much real estate that they have literally no place to rest that does not require payments to you, now the holder of property all around the board: the monopolist. For a few hours anyone can taste the excitement, risks and rewards of life as a would-be business tycoon. The game gives many children their first sense of the free market.

From the player’s point of view, Monopoly is a free market situation in which no one compels the actions of another. But once begun, the game proceeds according to a relentless logic that is no longer subject to the wills of the players either individually or collectively. In this game, as in the world of Thomas Hobbes, "there is no other goal, no other garland, than being foremost," and the rules are as immutable as laws of nature. In its strict separation of collective discussion and rule-making from competitive play, Monopoly embodies the economic viewpoint known as laissez-faire. The game separates the market from the polity, the sphere of economics from that of politics. It presents as common sense what is actually a historically rare notion: that the market is a self-regulating device whose rules exist independent of common agreements about the conduct of social life.

Old-fashioned laissez-faire in its pure form has fewer proponents today, but it is still conventional, among experts as well as in common discourse, to speak of "the economy" as an entity as though it were quite separate from government and society. Instead of these familiar but, we think, misleading distinctions we shall use the older, more accurate term "political economy." This term implies that economic activity is part of a larger social whole; the economy can be completely isolated from politics only in a game.

The root of the word "political" is the Greek word for city or, more accurately, self-governing community: polis. The word "economy" is also derived from Greek. In its origins it meant management of the household, particularly as this was concerned with production and provision for the household’s members. Political economy, then, refers literally to the "management of the public household"; it suggests that the functions of household management are embedded in the structure of the larger community life and are framed by institutions grounded in law and the mores; and the phrase further implies that the rules governing production and provision ought to reflect the moral claims of justice that order the polity as a whole. Political economy is thus a moral and institutional as well as a technical term.

There is a kernel of truth in the notion, popularized by laissez-faire, that economic competition is governed by rules outside human control. Once market exchange has organized the various components of a society’s efforts at production and provision, the processes of market competition draw all resources in their train, including people and their talents. The market system has become the sea in which all modern societies must navigate. This historical process was greeted with joy by Adam Smith, who believed that the division of labor generally increased society’s wealth and tended to level the disparity between rich and poor. As the industrial era arrived, Karl Marx viewed market processes with dismay. For Marx the end of competition was, as in the game, the monopolistic domination of the many by the few.

In our own century it has become clear that the market, left to itself, does not automatically result in human well-being. The outcomes of market processes, even the rules according to which the market operates, are in important respects the result of human activity, in some cases even of design; and we now know that law, government and the world system of nations are central to economic life. The focus of public deliberation must accordingly be broadened to take in the political economy and how it is institutionalized.

It is remarkable how much of our current understanding of social reality flows from the original institutionalization at the end of the 18th century (the "founding") and how much of that was dependent on the thought of John Locke. His teaching is one of the most powerful ideologies ever invented, if not the most powerful. It promised an unheard-of degree of individual freedom, an unlimited opportunity to compete for material well-being, and an unprecedented limitation on the arbitrary powers of government to interfere with individual initiative. In all these ways it expressed a modern liberal ideal that contrasted with the hierarchical domination and exclusiveness of most of the human past.

In its original context, Locke’s thought was inseparable from his theology and from his stern Calvinist sense of obligation. But by the mid-18th century the secular aspects of his teaching had been detached from his overall vision. What his American followers emphasized was that the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness was exemplified by the solitary individual’s appropriation of property from the state of nature. Government was then instituted for the protection of that property. Once people agreed to accept money as the medium of exchange, the accumulation of property was in principle without any moral limit. All limits on the freedom and autonomy of the individual, other than those he or she freely consented to in entering the (quite limited) social contract, were rejected. Locke attacked the patriarchal family, which had been used as a model for absolute monarchy, arguing implicitly for the rights of women and explicitly for the lack of obligation of children to parents. Limited government, in the Lockean view, existed to provide a minimum of order for individuals to accumulate property. All traditional restraints were rejected, and nothing was taken for granted that was not voluntarily agreed to on the basis of reason.

In our great desire to free the individual for happiness, we Americans have tried to make a social world that would serve the self. But things have not gone quite according to plan. We have made instead a world that dwarfs the self it was meant to serve. Especially in the economic realm Americans find themselves under the pressure of market forces to which the only response seems submission. This is the ironic result of trying to live by the Lockean language of individualism in an institutional world it can no longer describe, and yet the Lockean language still seduces us at every turn.

During the 1980s Americans gambled their future on wish rather than sober reflection. Three times in national elections we voted for a simulacrum of the "American Century," for a candidate who projected a sense of American superiority in the world and ethically untroubled affluence at home, willingly suspending disbelief in the possibility of such a restoration. Belief in the free market was revived; the promise of the game of Monopoly was offered with messianic expectations such as have seldom been heard since the 19th century. In a situation where further advances in democratic affluence seemed unexpectedly problematic, the market metaphor took on singular power. Disillusionment with the welfare state, combined with the weakening of the languages of biblical religion and civic republicanism that traditionally moderated Lockean individualism, led many to take the market maximizer as the paradigm of the human person.

One powerful version of the market paradigm derives from the teachings of Milton Friedman and the school of economics he founded. In the view of Friedman and his successors, human beings are exclusively self-interest maximizers, and the primary measure of self-interest is money. Economics becomes a total science that explains everything. As so-called "rational choice theory," it has invaded all the social sciences—especially political science and sociology. Alan Wolfe, in his book Whose Keeper?, describes how this so-called Chicago school of economics is attempting to become our new moral philosophy or even our new religion:

When neither religion, tradition nor literature is capable of serving as a common moral language, it may be that the one moral code all modern people can understand is self-interest. If social scientists are secular priests, Chicago school economists have become missionaries. They have an idea about how the world works. This idea seems to apply in some areas of life. It therefore follows, they believe, that it ought to apply in all....

Chicago school theorists insist that the tools of economic analysis can be used not just to decide whether production should be increased or wages decreased, but in every kind of decision-making situation. Thus we have been told ... that marriage is not so much about love as about supply and demand as regulated through markets for spouses; ... and a man commits suicide "when the total discounted lifetime utility remaining to him reaches zero." From the perspective of the Chicago school, there is no behavior that is not interpretable as economic, however altruistic, emotional, disinterested and compassionate it may seem to others....

Wolfe cites an extreme example of two economists of this school who argue that a free market in babies would solve many current problems having to do with unwanted pregnancies, surrogate mothers, etc. They hold that women should be allowed to sell their babies on the open market and suggest that the situation would improve if "baby prices were quoted as soybean future prices were quoted." We may not be surprised that the French speak of American capitalism as "le capitalisme sauvae"—savage capitalism.

This savagery was not part of the intention of the nation’s founders. The American commercial republic was conceived as an institutional design that would stir the self-interest of individuals to produce not brutal competition but civilized emulation, uplifting the people’s material and moral standards of life. Like Adam Smith, Hamilton and Jefferson believed in the providential design of nature and in the possibilities of a self-regulating political economy that included not only market and government but an active public life as well. Although many of his latter-day prophets ignore this, Smith taught that the social benefit of the free market would be realized only in the wider public sphere, with the populace actively debating matters of common concern and expressing its will through the state. Opinion circulating among members of a myriad of voluntary associations would produce a collectively prudent public. This public would expand in social inclusiveness as its ethical level rose, gradually elevating the minds of commercial men toward the standard of judgment summed up in Smith’s idea of the "Impartial Spectator," the quintessentially public citizen.

The failure of the American political economy to develop spontaneously along the lines prophesied by Adam Smith has made regulation of the political economy, especially the protection of social life from undue market pressure, a challenge for each generation. On balance the American polity has succeeded, though never very well and never without struggle; in developing institutions that stimulate yet channel market forces and promote, or at least preserve, the space of society and public life. But the achievements of the progressive and liberal movements of the past are now called into question by the general obsolescence and breakdown of the arrangements that were made during the New Deal and postwar years.

Today, we must rise to a new level of economic sophistication and creative institutional imagination. To advance Adam Smith’s hopes for a free society growing progressively more cooperative and inclusive, we must make more conscious efforts to redesign markets for public aims. For market forces are rapidly invading every sphere of society—even the family, that traditional bastion of refuge from the "heartless world." Due to its dogmatic belief that individuals develop independently of the web of institutional life, our Lockeanism makes this hard for us to grasp. It thereby blinds us to that great promise of modern civilization: the mutual emergence of individuality and solidarity in a plurality of activities fostered in a genuine public sphere.

No sphere is immune to market pressures. The following example of religious commodification is taken from a suburban newspaper in the San Francisco Bay area:

The members of St. John’s Lutheran Church have a money-back guarantee.

They can donate to the church for 90 days, then if they think they made a mistake, or did not receive a blessing, they can have their money back.

The program is called "God’s Guarantee" and the pastor is confident it will work.

"We trust God to keep his promises so much that we are offering this money back policy," the pastor said....

The program is modeled on a similar program at Wesleyan Church in San Diego.

Economic ideology that turns human beings into relentless market maximizers undermines commitments to family, to church, to neighborhood, to school and to the larger national and global societies. In Habits of the Heart we documented what this kind of thinking does to our capacity to sustain relationships in every sphere, private as well as public. But the final irony is that this apparently economic conception of human life turns out to be profoundly destructive to our economy itself. If thinking of ourselves as members of a community made us poorer, there would still be many reasons to advocate it; but the fact is that commitment to a community turns out to be a much stronger basis for an effective economy than the individualistic pursuit of self-interest. We have only to look at the case of Japan to see that. Our individualistic heritage taught us that there is no such thing as the common good but only the sum of individual goods. But in our complex, interdependent world, the sum of individual goods, organized only under the tyranny of the market, often produces a common bad that eventually erodes our personal satisfactions as well.

To a degree unique in the industrial world, the United States placed its faith in the capacities of the market system to promote the general welfare. However, we had to construct institutional devices to channel the market’s floods of "creative destruction" away from human habitation—or at least the habitations of those economically and politically powerful enough to make the decisions. The law has been the primary means for this regulation and control of the market’s operations, and the primary institutional creation of American economic law has been the business corporation. The history of the American economy is in large measure the story of the corporation, which has evolved characteristics of private governments. Today some of our largest corporations are multinational, with incomes larger than the tax revenues of many nations.

It was a longstanding principle of the civic republican tradition that power follows wealth; and for that reason a rough equality of property was assumed to be one of the prerequisites of a democratic republic. Alexis de Tocqueville, discerning the first beginnings of large-scale industry in the 1830s, warned that this development might lead to the creation of a new aristocracy, to a new kind of feudalism fundamentally incompatible with democratic equality. Fears of "economic royalism" were endemic in America from the late 19th century through the New Deal. It was clear that business corporations exercised inordinate power at federal, state and local levels. Nonetheless, ever since World War II, with the exception of a brief flurry of concern in the 1960s and early 1970s, we have taken the corporation for granted as a natural feature of our society—subject to regulation, to be sure, but not seriously scrutinized as to its fundamental terms of institutionalization. In large measure this was because the corporation was apparently stable and effective as the provider of technological and economic progress.

Now, however, even at a time of widespread neoconservative and neo-laissez-faire sentiment, serious doubts are being raised about the adaptive and innovative capacities of corporations. Much ink has been spilled to discuss the problems of corporate finance and management in the changing world market. And even more profound questions have been raised as to the legitimacy of the public chartering of a private power that is oriented to private gain and has few public responsibilities. These doubts have always been the foundation of democratic criticism of the corporation.

In designing economic institutions and laws in the postwar era, the United States turned away from many of the active social-justice aspects of the New Deal and toward a system of private consumption and corporate organization that characterized the American Century. We are now at another point of major institutional decision. It is not at all clear that those postwar priorities and institutional arrangements are any longer worth the price they exact. At least some of our citizens have come to see that the present organization of our economic life, including the corporation, threatens not only our democratic government, because of its inordinate political influence, but also our national character and form of life, because of its propagation of the idea of wealth as merely the accumulation of consumer goods. This criticism is only heightened when the corporate economy shows serious signs of malfunctioning even on its own self-defined terms.

Big corporations and small, like individuals, finally respond to the way the market is organized and the sanctions institutionalized in prevailing commercial practice and business law. Here again the root problem is the folly of trying to operate with Lockean principles in an unLockean world. In conditions of general instability, it is dangerous for economic actors, either individual or corporate, to rely nearly exclusively on the short-term strategic logic of a narrowly interpreted self-interest. As the institutional pressures of the economy change, alternative behaviors will supplant this shortsightedness, but this will not happen without a political and legal restructuring of the corporation’s place in the society.

The economic historian Jeffrey Lustig has well summarized the issues: "What is necessary is not an impossible attempt to separate the corporation from its social integument, but to acknowledge their mutual dependence and to ensure that the corporations become socially accountable. The point is not to try an impossible divorce of corporation from politics, but to assure that its politics are consistent with democratic practices. . . ." He goes on to suggest that there is currently a "crisis of membership" in the corporation. When capital and labor, as categories, no longer make as much sense as they once did, it is not clear who in a corporation should have more power than others. Ownership and decision-making power must be shared more equitably in an enterprise that depends on the intelligence and initiative of all its members, not just the "entrepreneur." The corporation must also be held accountable to larger constituencies—the communities that have given it tax advantages and public facilities, suppliers and customers, a general public that expects from it ecological responsibility, ethical practice and fair dealing in return for its exceptional powers.

What critics are arguing for is, essentially, to bring the corporation into full democratic accounting with respect to its own claim to be a "citizen." The legal scholar James Boyd White has argued, "The corporation is and always has been a collective citizen," which should be spoken of as having both the responsibilities and the benefits of that status." To argue that the corporation’s defining objective is "enhancing corporate profit and shareholder gain" leads, in his opinion, to unacceptable conclusions: "To say that a corporation’s only goal is to make money would be to define the business corporation—for the first time in American or English law as I understand it—as a kind of shark that lives off of the community rather than as an important agency in the construction, maintenance, and transformation of our shared lives."

White argues that American corporate law has considerable resources to give us for thinking about the corporation as citizen, resources that are endangered when we define the corporation exclusively in terms of economic gain. The issue is not whether corporations, as much present literature has it, develop better "corporate cultures," or promote more ethical leaders—both of which would be good things in themselves. When any corporation may suffer a hostile takeover at the hands of other business interests that want to exploit its resources for short-term gain, the issue is not just culture or leadership but legal norms, the institutional structure within which corporations can operate. The market could be structured to favor long-term, productive investment over speculative profit, but it is not so ordered, for good Lockean reasons that are now increasingly dysfunctional. We agree with those who believe that only a significant change in the present pattern of institutionalization will enable corporations to be the good citizens that most businesspeople sincerely wish them to be.

To restructure the incentives of the market so as to favor long-term investment over short-term consumption, or to change the institutionalization of the corporation to accountable democratic citizenship, does not at all mean to centralize industry under a government ministry. Neither we nor those we have quoted are advocates of a command or state socialist economy. Still, it is worth remembering that there exists in America a very powerful form of command economy: a large and powerful sector of American business (by some estimates up to one-fifth) is effectively removed from the strictures of the market economy since it does most of its business "on command" with the military branches of the American government. This "Pentagon socialism" not only has all the disadvantages of command economies anywhere but corrupts the American political process. Few congressional districts do not have plants and workers dependent on the defense establishment, which leads to the strange situation where Congress votes to fund fighter planes or missiles that even the Pentagon doesn’t want, because otherwise there would be a loss of profits and jobs in districts represented by powerful legislators.

The new international situation after the cold war offers unparalleled opportunities to redirect the present level of defense spending to other uses. Given the sad state of our highways, public transportation systems and other material infrastructure, as well as the severe needs of our educational system, increased government spending in these areas could take up the slack in declining defense expenditures while contributing enormously to the potential productivity of the United States. But to do something about this requires that we face government’s economic responsibilities directly rather than cloaking them in the guise of national defense.

The most fundamental reform to bring about economic democracy is not in the realm of government spending, important as that continues to be. An increasingly social ownership of corporate wealth is quite different from government ownership. We have in mind not only the kinds of thing that Lustig has proposed, but something like the Meidener plan, proposed in Sweden, in which the general populace participates in the increase in wealth, to which all contribute; a certain proportion of new stock offerings go to the government not for government use but as a source of dividends for the public, at first limited, but eventually providing the protection against complete impoverishment that those with independent incomes have always had. This arrangement would give everyone a stake in the increase of productivity in the economy. Proposals for a guaranteed minimum income or a social wage would accomplish the same thing by different means.

The Lockean ideology and the way our economy has worked up till now have obscured the truth about work: namely, that we are not isolated individuals picking fruit or making money; we are all profoundly dependent on the work of others. Today people know that this is true, but they don’t see it in the economy. They see it in private life—it is one reason the family is still so important, if not as a fact then as an ideal—and they see it in charitable acts. In a democratized economy it would be much clearer that the work each of us does is something we do together and for each other as much as by and for ourselves. Studies have shown that even now, when many workers feel they are constrained at work and their real lives are lived off the job, they are actually happier at work than at leisure. Doing work that is challenging and cooperative seems to fulfill a deep human need. If people felt that the workplace as well as the home really belonged to them and contributed to the good of all, the lingering resentment might lessen.

There is some reason to believe that Americans may be more ready for a major reform in our economic institutions than is sometimes imagined. Many people would prefer a better "quality of life" to a simple increase in personal income. What "quality of life" really means and what a person would agree to in a political situation where one can have little trust that one will be fairly treated are of course open questions. Yet the old-fashioned notion of "a sufficiency"—a secure, modest income, rather than a potentially exorbitant but insecure one, that allows one to form attachments, make commitments, and engage in activities that are good in themselves—is very attractive to many Americans.

The present heavy emphasis on economic opportunity puts a terrific burden on winners as well as losers; for there is the very-present fear that one misstep will have you tumbling down the ladder. This fear will only increase as one comes to realize that for whatever reasons, there are "limits to growth." It is idle to talk of "a sufficiency" as though it were a static reality. As technology changes, sufficiency changes as well. But in a world of tightening competition, organizing American society around an ever more intense competition for affluence—more Hobbesian than Lockean—is not the only institutional possibility. A democratic economy, in which appropriate technology is combined with high productivity and therefore with the possibility of increased leisure, is not utopian in terms of present possibilities.

A highly individuated self is an essential product of a truly modern society. Yet the changes we suggest could go far to relieve the competitive, anxious self-assertiveness of this individuated self, for they would encourage other virtues and competences. For example, feminist critics suggest that women have social and emotional competences that help to cushion the demands and anxieties of the precarious achieving self. In short, we are not arguing for an end to competition and achievement, any more than for an end to the market economy. What we seek is a more socially grounded person in a more democratic economy.

The United States until now has had an extremely unequal distribution of income as compared with other capitalist countries, and even more inequality with regard to property. The American Catholic bishops have pointed out that this is morally intolerable. But the reforms we advocate here do not involve simply a better distribution of income, making the poor richer. We advocate, as the bishops do, a great increase in the participation of everyone in the vitality of a healthy economy. True, this participation would enable us to rebuild the institutions of the underclass, not just allow individuals to escape it; but most important, it would mean a richer public life, making a satisfactory life for all of us, including the high achievers, dependent less on our own success and more on a healthy society.

Above all, this means a change in the meaning of work, a lessening of its pure utilitarianism, a recovery of the idea of work as a calling. Interesting work, work that we know contributes to others, is its own reward. It would be utopian to try to disentangle achievement and material reward altogether, but some weakening of the connection is the only way we can introduce an alternative to the Lockean pattern. As Christopher Jencks has said, we must reduce the "punishments of failure and the rewards of success." We know that this cannot be done without a great deal of conflict. Yet the reason for doing it would not be just to help the deprived, or any "class." The change we favor would help the successful as much as anyone, giving them what is presently slipping beyond everyone’s grasp, a form of life that is intrinsically meaningful and valuable. It will, of course, take an extraordinary exercise of political will to achieve so major a transformation in our ideology and our institutions.

Whatever the specific reforms—and we would expect a period of experiment to see what forms are most effective—the major benefit in the democratization of the economy would be to limit the harshness of the labor market, to give everyone who works a stake in the enterprise he or she works in and even in the economy at large, thus reducing both the anxiety and the cynicism that are rampant in our present economic life. To be truly beneficial these changes would go hand in hand with increasing productivity and declining work hours, reversing recent trends, so that family, community, and civic concerns might flourish. Genuine democracy has always required a degree of leisure. A democratized and productive economy might at last give some genuine leisure to the demos itself. These considerations point toward the development of a democratic administrative state able to support and extend a vital public sphere, rather than supplant it.