The Promise of a Process Feminist Theory of Relations

Feminists have entered a productive period in which constructive attempts at post-patriarchal theories of relations are being formulated and imaged in light of women’s experience and ideas. The thesis of this essay is that a promising feminist theory of relations may be based upon the organic philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead. The basis of this thesis is that there is complementarity between Whiteheadian philosophy and feminist thought from which may emerge a theory of relations adequate to promote a radical reconstruction of ecological and human relations. Whitehead’s doctrine of internal relations supports and advances women’s new visions of inter-relationships. Suggesting the potential for a Whiteheadian feminist theory of relations, however, involves both positive and negative evaluation of process philosophy from the perspective of feminist thought and women’s experience. Hierarchical features of Whitehead’ s philosophy should be modified in response to feminist concerns.

Constructive feminist energies have recently been directed toward imaging feminist theories of relations. From Mary Daly’s proposal of "Be-Friending" in Pure Lust to Janice Raymond’s construction of a feminist philosophy of female friendship in A Passion for Friends, feminist theorists have created -- and remembered -- relational worldviews which reflect the importance of sisterhood as a paradigm for interconnectedness. For other feminists, critical analysis of patriarchal modes of relating and experience of sisterhood as an alternate mode of relating have led to confrontation of hierarchical structures of relations. Women have chosen to address the heterorelational problematic directly by suggesting a reconstruction of female-male relationship (see, for example, Margaret Farley’s Personal Commitments). Reflecting beyond humanocentric relationships, women are equally concerned with women’s bond with nature. The centrality of the issue of the connection of humans and nature is pervasive, but it is especially evident in ecofeminism, a vital movement among women for environmental justice (including such practical theorists as Charlene Spretnak, author of The Spiritual Dimension of Green Politics).

A general interest among women in the construction of a feminist theory of relations, however, does not reflect a consensus. Instead, it reflects the diversity of women’s perspectives apparent in all areas of feminism. Especially with respect to the topic of relationality, diversity of images and ideas should not only be expected, but encouraged as a contribution to the multiversity. Radical change in the dominant patriarchal pattern of relationships may require the suggestion of a multiplicity of alternatives to male-defined hierarchy. A variety of concrete options will be necessary for opening the way to real, novel possibilities in human relating.

I propose that the philosophy of organism constructed by Alfred North Whitehead may provide a basis for a feminist theory of relations. An over-arching reason for experimenting with process philosophy as a contribution to feminist construction of a new view of relations is that it provides a cosmology radically different from dominant mechanistic and patriarchal world views. I suggest that it is inadequate to work, however critically, within the dominant worldview. A change in worldview will more adequately take account of and emerge from feminist concerns. In addition, a new worldview will be necessary to effect the radical changes required by feminism. While process philosophy is not a prefabricated feminist theory of relations, it provides a worldview which is compatible with feminist perspectives in several respects, and the complementarity of feminism and process philosophy suggests the fruitfulness of Whiteheadian metaphors for feminist theory.

When feminists have spoken personally about the relevance of Whitehead’s philosophy to womens’ experience, their reasons for relating process thought to feminism have been grounded in conceptual and experiential intuitions. Penelope Washbourn experienced process thought as an encouragement for her feminist questing:

It was process thought that taught me to be a feminist, certainly it was process thought that taught me to be interested in questions concerning women and religion. Perhaps I could say now in retrospect that my being drawn to the study and development of a process mode of thinking may also have been related to an unconscious awareness that it offered me not only a more viable theological and philosophical framework than any other, but also an opportunity to integrate my identity as a woman within a religious framework. (DFE 83)

Marjorie Suchocki discovered an experiential identification with Whitehead’s philosophy. Whitehead was a philosopher who seemed to have experienced the world in much the same way that Suchocki had, and his perception of the nature and dynamics of the world was expressed in a comprehensive metaphysics which seemed meaningful to Suchocki in light of her experience. In a personal sense, Suchocki subjected Whitehead’s philosophy to the criterion of fitness to women’s experience and concluded, "I came to it not as an interesting speculative system, though it is surely that, but from my need to understand my world in holistic terms through a conceptuality which fits my experience" (OM 62-63).

Valerie Salving found in process thought a conceptual framework for her emerging feminism. Following the awakening of her feminist consciousness, Salving found that process philosophy provided a conceptual framework within which to interpret the profound transformations taking place in her life. Whitehead’ s philosophy suggested an androgynous vision which confronted the nonandrogynous ideal which had previously shaped Salving’s life. The coincidence of feminist awareness and process thought led Salving to draw two conclusions.

On the one hand, not even an intimate acquaintance with Whitehead’ s ideas is capable of creating feminist consciousness; such consciousness arises out of certain kinds of life experience, explored in dialogue with other women. On the other hand, feminist consciousness, once awakened, seeks a conceptual framework for self-understanding, and process philosophy may provide such a framework. (AL 12-13)

Thus, the compatibility of feminism and process thought rests in two dimensions. First, process thought "rings true" to women’s experience by virtue of its comprehensive ability to take account of women’s experience. Second, process thought provides a conceptuality within which women may understand and interpret their experience. While Whitehead’s process philosophy is not a feminist philosophy, it may contribute one interpretive tool to women who desire a holistic understanding of women’s experience.

Methodologically, experience is the feature which links process philosophy and feminist thought. Valerie Saiving recognized that Whitehead affirmed the expansiveness of experience both in his epistemology and in his conceptuality itself. Mary Daly’s assessment of process philosophy is more reserved. Daly’s affirmation of process philosophy in Beyond God the Father prefaced the warning that women must beware of easy acquiescence to prefabricated theory, since the essential aim of feminist theology/philosophy is to elicit, express, and interpret women’s experience (BGF 189). Valerie Saiving has noted, however, that the sentiment expressed by Daly is present in Whitehead. In the first place, the experiencing subject is the primary datum for process metaphysics (AL 13).1 In the second place, Whitehead himself held no allegiance to systems at the expense of experience. In Modes of Thought, Whitehead praised William James for the character of his intellectual life, which was "one protest against the dismissal of experience in the interest of system" (MT 4). In addition, Whitehead was willing to work within a philosophical framework without being imprisoned by it. Recall, also from Modes of Thought, that Whitehead lamented the fact that there are traps in the pursuit of learning. It is easy to become consumed by details, which lead us into closed systems of thought and blindness to the limitations of those systems. In this passage, Whitehead reminded us of an important principle – "In order to acquire learning, we must first shake ourselves free of it" -- and, through a criticism of John Stuart Mill, Whitehead explained that the danger is that we may inherit a "system before any enjoyment of the relevant experience" (MT 7-8). These priorities advocated by Whitehead are relevant for feminist theorists (even for those of us who look to Whitehead for philosophical suggestions). Experience precedes theory.

Whitehead’s criticism of substantialist philosophies led him to broaden the range of experience included in his metaphysics. Hence, Whitehead insisted upon the inclusion of every variety of experience. One passage from Adventures of Ideas is often quoted to indicate the infinite range of experience to which Whitehead referred. "Nothing must be omitted, experience drunk and experience sober. . . ." (AI 226). The lengthy list of experiences which completes this passage suggests the diversity and intensity of experiences to which philosophy must be held accountable. If Whitehead can be taken seriously here, feminists must conclude that the range of experiences which funds philosophy includes women’s experience. Making this point explicitly, Valerie Saiving has amended "experience female and experience male" to Whitehead’s list (AL 12).

The inclusiveness of the experience which Whitehead wished to embrace in his philosophy was affirmed earlier in Process and Reality: "Philosophy may not neglect the multifariousness of the world -- the fairies dance, and Christ is nailed to the cross" (PR 338/513). Narrowness in the selection of experiential evidence for philosophy results in serious distortions, and this evil is born of several sources.

This narrowness arises from the idiosyncrasies and timidities of particular authors, of particular social groups, of particular schools of thought, of particular epochs in the history of civilization. The evidence relied upon is arbitrarily biased by the temperaments of individuals, by the provinciality’s of groups, and by the limitations of schemes of thought. (PR 337/512)

Feminists would support this statement by reference to patriarchal philosophies which are narrow and limited by virtue of the exclusion of women’s experience from their range of data. It is also inadequate for women’s experience to be co-opted into patriarchal schemes of thought which preserve system at the expense of experience. The unjustified exclusiveness and narrowness of experiential evidence is not merely to be augmented by the inclusion of other experiences (for example, women’s experience). An inclusive philosophy is urged beyond the status quo in fashioning ideals by movement between two contrasts -- permanence and flux, order and novelty. This movement suggests that the result of being inclusive of the vast range of experiences is a dynamic philosophy which promotes and reflects change.

In addition to the priority of experience in process philosophy, many feminists have noted the importance of Whitehead’ s attempt to overcome classical dualisms. Mary Daly first noted, in Beyond God the Father, that Whitehead eliminated the Creator-creature dichotomy by replacing the notion of God the Creator with the view that God is with all creation. Daly described Whitehead’s thought as a unity of technical and ontological reason, intended to overcome the dualism of intellectuality and shallow objective consciousness. In addition, Daly pointed toward the encouraging character of Whitehead’s denial of the duality of purposive human existence and non-purposive nature (BGF 189).

More recently, Dorothee Soelle has recognized the promise of process philosophy for a non-dualistic theology of creation. Soelle has suggested that the traditional distinction between God and the world is captured in a set of "godly"/"worldly" dualisms -- Creator/Created, Lord/Servant, Maker/Made, Artist/Artifact, Will or form/Stuff or matter, Cause/Effect, Subject/Object.

The problem with the supposedly unbridgeable gap between the creator and the created is that it has been transposed, for example, into sexist dichotomizing, in which we ascribe "godly" characteristics to the male and "worldly" characteristics to the female. The ontological concept is used in a sexist sense. Indeed, many injurious dichotomies flow out of our positing an unequivocal separation between God and humanity. Must we subscribe to this imperialistic concept of creation? Is there not a different way of construing creation and the relationship between God and the world? (TWL 24)

Soelle’s obvious answer is that there is a way to overcome the God/world dichotomy (and attendant dualisms) through a non-imperialistic re-conception of God. Soelle has credited Whitehead and process thinkers with the advancement of one option which images God as dynamic and relational with respect to the world.

In part, Soelle’s assessment of process philosophy has embraced the idea of process and dynamism itself, a feature of Whitehead’s philosophy which is essential to relationality and, hence, another aspect of Whitehead’s thought which is compatible with feminism. Soelle has highlighted the importance of becoming as an ontological category in contrast to the category of being. Becoming-ontology gives priority to process instead of substance and thereby affords a more suitable conceptuality for a theology of creation. Becoming-ontology also lifts relationship into centrality; so that events, life, and life’s processes constitute reality in its interrelatedness (TWL25).

Because process philosophy is essentially a relational philosophy, it has in common with feminism an emphasis upon the interconnectedness of persons and of humans with nature. Feminism, particularly with respect to sisterhood, has felt the importance of interrelatedness for each individual self-actualization. The doctrine of internal relations in process thought suggests a philosophical interpretation of the importance of relationships for the becoming of an individual event, including a person-in-the-making.

Internal relations are distinct from external relations in that they are essential for the creation and existence of events, while external relations are not essential to the character of the events (or substances) to which they usually refer. In external relations, substances first exist and then enter into relationships. The essential nature of a substance is not affected by its relations. Internal relations are those relationships which constitute both living and non-living events with respect to their character and existence. Events owe their very existence to a particular occurrence of relationships within a spatio-temporal location.

Internal relations are instrumental in the creative process. Creativity is instantiated in each event, when through internal relations the many become one and are increased by one. Each concrescing event is a subject which prehends or feels the past. The concrescing event creates itself in freedom by taking account of objective data from the past and a divine persuasive lure toward rich experience which influences the way in which an event constitutes itself. When the event concresces as an actual occasion, it contributes to the actualization of future events.

Beverly Harrison has applied this philosophical perspective to a feminist Interpretation of creativity, freedom, and relationality.

In feminist terms, God is not the One who stands remotely in control, but the One who binds us and bids us to deep relationality, resulting in a radical equality motivated by genuine mutuality and interdependence. In a community transformed by this utopian vision, power would be experienced as reciprocity in relation. In other words, our individual power to act would be nourished and enhanced by mutual regard and cocreativity.

Freedom, when understood as the power of creativity, achieves its consummate expression in deepened community . . . . To be free means possessing the power to imaginatively interact with others, to give and to receive, to act upon and to suffer (that is, to be acted upon), to participate with others in cocreating a world. (ORC 99-100)

Harrison empowers sisterhood with the suggestion that freedom is the power of creativity. The power of creativity is not diminished by interconnectedness, because it is a power rooted in relationality, mutuality, and cocreativity. This is an empowerment born of the relationship of women with each other and with God.

Whiteheadian feminist Catherine Keller has applied the doctrine of internal relations to the patriarchal problem of separate and soluble selves. The separate self is the illusion that persons are discrete, disconnected, autonomous selves (for example, the "self-made man"). The soluble self is the stereotypical role of women in patriarchy which binds and dissolves women into the role of relationship makers and keepers. Whitehead’ s doctrine of internal relations provides a conceptuality for relational selfhood which arises from a multitude of relationships (indeed, the person herself is a society). Keller has argued that this conceptuality affirms both relationality and selfhood while eliminating the dualistic choice between soluble selfhood and separate selfhood.2

The organic worldview weaves together the concepts of internal relations, subjectivity, freedom, creativity, and prehension (feeling). The doctrine of internal relations has the potential for additional fruitful applications and expressions of feminist concerns.

Finally, of further interest to feminists is the postmodern understanding of God proposed by process philosophy. God is a participant in the reality described by the dynamic process ontology. God is in relationship, not incidentally or accidentally, but essentially. As such, aseity is no longer a viable descriptor for God, since every action is an interaction which implies change. Potentiality is appropriate to God’s experience in itself and to God’s influence upon free entities. In the dynamic character of God is the capacity to affect and to be affected. Thus, it is meaningful to speak of mutuality and interrelatedness between God and the world.

With respect to the formulation of an understanding of God, Whitehead and feminists are united in the creative effort to supersede traditional theism. In Process and Reality, Whitehead explicitly rejected the idea of God as ruling Caesar, ruthless moralist, and unmoved mover for the Galilean vision.

There is, however, in the Galilean origin of Christianity yet another suggestion which does not fit very well with any of the three main strands of thought. It does not emphasize the ruling Caesar, or the ruthless moralist, or the unmoved mover. It dwells upon the tender elements in the world, which slowly and in quietness operate by love; and it finds purpose in the present immediacy of a kingdom not of this world. Love neither rules, nor is it unmoved; also it is a little oblivious as to morals. It does not look to the future; for it finds its own reward in the immediate present. (PR 343/520-521)

Whitehead’s refusal to accept imperial ruler as a metaphor for God found expression in Modes of Thought as well. The ancient world borrowed characteristics from ‘touchy, vain, imperious tyrants" to describe God. This history still influences contemporary civilized religion to envision gods as dictators. As Whitehead observed, only in Buddhism and the Christian gospels are there scattered repudiations of this image of divinity (MT 68).

John B. Cobb, Jr., and David Ray Griffin have expanded the list of metaphors which are unacceptable in a Whiteheadian conception of God to include five: God as cosmic moralist, God as the unchanging and passionless absolute, God as controlling power, God as sanctioner of the status quo, God as male (PT 8-10). Clearly, the sentiments of feminists and Whiteheadians are similar in their rejection of traditional theism and in their effort to discover metaphors for God which are more inclusive of diverse experience.

In the Whiteheadian understanding of God, new paradigms of power and love have been envisioned in ways which may be informative for feminism. In Plato’s writing, Whitehead found what he proclaimed to be one of the greatest intellectual discoveries in the history of religion – "that the divine element in the world is to be conceived as a persuasive agency and not as a coercive agency" (AI 166). Along with the insights of Charles Hartshorne, Whitehead’s concept of persuasion (in contrast to coercion) has formed the basis for development of both divine and social images of power. John B. Cobb, Jr. described this divine persuasive power as the means of exercising power over the powerful. Divine persuasion "depends rather on relations of respect, concern, and love, and the vision of a better future" and "is a balance between urging toward the good and maximizing the power -- therefore the freedom -- of the one whom God seeks to persuade" (GW 90).

Bernard Loomer formulated an idea of relational power based upon the process-relational view of reality and in contrast to a linear or unilateral conception of power. Linear power is unidirectional power which is intended to produce an effect in another by virtue of a capacity to "influence, guide, adjust, manipulate, shape, control, or transform the human or natural environment in order to advance one’s purposes (TCP 8). Relational power, on the other hand, is grounded in mutuality. It assumes the capacity to influence others and to be influenced by others. Thus, if one is powerful, one is able to include in oneself feelings and values of others without passivity or loss of identity. Relational power is active openness. "Our openness to be influenced by another, without losing our identity or sense of self-dependence, is not only an acknowledgement and affirmation of the other as an end rather than a means to an end. It is also a measure of our own strength and size, even and especially when this influence of the other helps to effect a creative transformation of ourselves and our world" (TCP 18). While these formulations of divine persuasive power and relational power are not without problems for some feminists, they do represent alternatives to coercive, hierarchical power patterns and are suggestive of feminist reformulations of power in the context of mutuality. As one example, Rita Nakashima Brock has made use of Loomer’s understanding of relational power in her construction of a theology of erotic power (PPS 17-35).

William J. Hill has specifically addressed the topic of divine love in the Whiteheadian conceptuality. In his analysis, he found in Whitehead a concept of divine love which lies in contrast to New Testament agape and medieval amicitia and which identifies with Platonic eros. In Adventures of Ideas, the primordial nature of God is referred to as Eros. The love implied by eros relates to the divine envisionment of possibilities for fulfillment in each occasion. Hill has suggested three structural points in Whitehead’s philosophy which support this interpretation of divine love. First, God’s relation to the world is neither strictly free nor creative, since both God and the world are necessary. Second, God’s motive with respect to loving the world is God’s own satisfaction. Third, values realized in the world immediately perish and are preserved in God in such a way that they fund God’s own creative becoming. Hill has also suggested that the strength of this view of love is God’s involvement in the suffering of the world (TGL 258-259).

Hill has certainly selected the relevant features of Whitehead’s concept of God which support the concept of divine eros; however, Hill’s interpretation tends to diminish the rich vision intended by Whitehead. Whitehead’s point was certainly that God is relational, but if God’s power is persuasive, then God’s loving relating is directed toward maximal freedom and creativity for the world. Such love can only be directed toward entities which represent other centers of power. In its immanence, this love lures toward novelty and participates in every creative moment. In the second and third points, Hill has shifted the discussion to the consequent nature of God, which clearly deviates from an application of Eros to the primordial nature of God. This is not entirely objectionable, since it is the genius of Whitehead’s metaphysics that God and the world are truly in relation such that "it is as true to say that God creates the World, as that the World creates God" (PR 348/528). If God and the world are related, then within the Whiteheadian conceptuality it must be expected that God will affect the world and that the world will affect God -- that the world will receive from God and that God will receive from the world.

From a feminist perspective, why not affirm this mutuality of relationship and re-vision the divine eros? The redefinition of eros will then refer to an aim toward mutual satisfaction. Thus, God lures the world toward satisfaction and the world contributes to God’s satisfaction. God’s appreciation for the world becomes an Investment of Godself in its values and suffering, for God is willing to receive both into Godself. Eros, then, may be understood as creative, responsive, and empathetic. If God’s love is named eros by this definition, then the transformative power of God’s love as a paradigm for human loving feeds the feminist vision of mutuality.

To summarize, there are four major points at which feminists have made contact with Whitehead’s philosophy. First, feminists identify with Whitehead’s emphasis upon experience as the basis of metaphysics. Second, feminists can affirm the Whiteheadian attempt to overcome dualisms. Third, the doctrine of internal relations may suggest a concept and fruitful metaphors for feminist expression of relationality. Fourth, feminists can point to the Whiteheadian conception of God as an alternative to traditional theism. These compatibilities suggest that feminists may find it useful to interact with Whiteheadian thought in the re-vision of interrelatedness. Embracing this process of encounter itself embodies the potential for emergence of a process feminist theory of relations.

In spite of Whitehead’s sympathy for women’s issues and the compatibility of Whiteheadian thought and feminism, it is important to remember Mary Daly’s warning that feminists should beware of prefabricated theory. Whitehead’s philosophy of organism must also be examined for the patriarchal/hierarchical elements which it contains.

One question that feminists raise about Whitehead’s understanding of internal relations concerns the problem of relationships among contemporaries. Only external relationship pertain between contemporaries, because contemporaries cannot directly affect each other as they concresce. Contemporaries do not have internal relations. This means that Whitehead’ s doctrine of internal relations does not apply to inter-subjective relations. Internal relations always occur in subject-object interactions. The concrescing occasion is a subject which is constituted by its internal relations with actual occasions which function as objects. It is possible to speak about inter-subjective relations between enduring objects -- each enduring object may be thought of as a subject in relation to another enduring object which is a subject. Thus, humans have inter-subjective relationships. However, in microcosm, the internal relations taking place between the two enduring objects occur between subject and object. There are no inter-subjective relations among concrescing occasions. My feminist suspicion is that what we believe in microcosm is, in fact, what we practice in macrocosm. If internal relations are based upon subject-object interaction only, then Whiteheadians have not really overcome a dualism which may be used to justify treating others as means rather than ends. My intuition and the experience of other women would suggest that inter-subjective relations actually exist among contemporaries. Perhaps this is an area of experience which needs to be included in the Whiteheadian cosmology.

A more significant problem with Whitehead’s cosmology is the perpetuation of hierarchy. In one interpretation of Whitehead’s cosmology, Charles Birch and John B. Cobb, Jr., have discussed a hierarchy of value based upon Whitehead’s process philosophy. In the Liberation of Life, the hierarchy of value among living and non-living creatures is based upon the balance of intrinsic value (capacity for richness of experience) and instrumental value (LL 152-153). In some sense, value is assessed from God’s perspective, since value is related to the ability to contribute rich experience to the consequent nature of God.

According to Birch and Cobb, all events are both means and ends. Events have instrumental value, but all events have intrinsic value as well. Subjective experience at the level of sub-atomic particles, atoms, and molecules is negligible. The intrinsic value of these experiences is minimal. Since aggregates, such as rocks, are made up of sub-atomic particles, atoms, and molecules, intrinsic value is also limited for aggregates. Sub-atomic particles, atoms, molecules, and aggregates may be treated in terms of instrumental value only. The living cell has greater intrinsic value than aggregates, but cells may still be treated primarily as means. Plants have significant instrumental value, but the intrinsic value of plants is based largely upon the cumulative value of their cells. Plants may be used primarily as means. Animal life introduces the central nervous system and a much higher capacity for richness of experience. Animals cannot be treated merely with respect to their instrumental value -- they ought to be treated primarily as ends.

From the perspective of feminist consciousness, this hierarchy seems unlikely to effect the liberation of life that Cobb and Birch envision for nature. The hierarchy has been altered little from the patriarchal pyramid of domination, even though animals are afforded rights based upon attribution to them of intrinsic value. I would agree with Cobb and Birch that it is inappropriate to assign equal value to all events, but it may be possible to assess the value of events from the perspective of the primordial nature of God. When God generates an initial aim for each event, God’s aim is toward the richest possible experience for each moment. At that moment, each event is related to God as a unique instance of value. If the universe is understood in this sacramental perspective, our relative decisions about the value of all events in the world will be less dependent upon hierarchical formulas.

While Whiteheadian thought is not free of patriarchal and hierarchical elements, it is not a closed system. As feminist ideas and experiences are applied to process philosophy, it may be transformed and revised to more appropriately reflect the widest possible range of experience. I would propose that Whitehead’s organic philosophy is remarkably helpful for constructing a feminist theory of relations and that feminists may make a contribution to process thought by constructing a postpatriarchal process relational philosophy.

 

References:

AL -- Valerie C. Saiving. "Androgynous Life: A Feminist Appropriation of Process Thought." Feminism and Process Thought: The Harvard Divinity School/Claremont Center for Process Studies Symposium Papers. Ed. Sheila Greeve Davaney. New York and Toronto; The Edwin Mellen Press, 1981.

BGF -- Mary Daly. Beyond God the Father: Toward a Philosophy of Women’s Liberation. Boston: Beacon Press, 1973.

DFE -- Penelope Washbourn. "The Dynamics of Female Experience: Process Models and Human Values." Feminism and Process Thought: The Harvard Divinity School/Claremont Center for Process Studies Symposium Papers. Ed. Sheila Greeve Davaney. New York and Toronto: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1981.

FBW -- Catherine Keller. From a Broken Web: Separation, Sexism, and Self. Boston: Beacon Press, 1986.

GW -- John B. Cobb, Jr. God and the World. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1969.

LL -- Charles Birch and John B. Cobb, Jr. The Liberation of Life: from the Cell to the Community. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981.

OM -- Marjorie Suchocki. "Openness and Mutuality in Process Thought and Feminist Action." Feminism and Process Thought: The Harvard Divinity School/Claremont Center for Process Studies Symposium Papers. Ed. Sheila Greeve Davaney. New York and Toronto: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1981.

ORC -- Beverly Wildung Harrison. Our Right to Choose: Toward a New Ethic of Abortion. Boston: Beacon Press, 1983.

PC -- Margaret A. Farley. Personal Commitments: Beginning, Keeping, Changing. San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1986.

PF -- Janice G. Raymond. A Passion for Friends: Toward a Philosophy of Female Affection. Boston: Beacon Press, 1986.

PL -- Mary Daly. Pure Lust: Elemental Feminist Philosophy. Boston: Beacon Press, 1978.

PPS -- Rita Nakashima Brock. "Power, Peace, and the Possibility of Survival." God and Global Justice: Religion and Poverty in an Unequal World. Ed. Frederick Ferré and Rita H. Mataragnon. New York: Paragon House, New Era Book, 1985.

PT -- John B. Cobb, Jr., and David Ray Griffin. Process Theology: An Introductory Exposition. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1976.

SD -- Charlene Spretnak. The Spiritual Dimension of Green Politics. Santa Fe, NM: Bear & Company, 1986.

TCP -- Bernard Loomer. "Two Conceptions of Power." Process Studies 6:1 (Spring 1976).

TGL -- William J. Hill. "Two Gods of Love: Aquinas and Whitehead." Listening 14:3 (Fall 1979).

TWL -- Dorothee Soelle with Shirley A. Cloyes. To Work and To Love: A Theology of Creation. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984.

 

Notes:

1Saiving’s reference is to Alfred North Whitehead, Process, and Reality: Corrected Edition, ed. David Ray Griffin and Donald W. Sherburne (New York: Free Press, 1978), 16. See also 160.

2 See especially chapter 4 of Keller, FBW.

A Critique of Process Theodicy from an African Perspective

Introduction

For several years I have been teaching a course on the problem of evil to seminary students using texts such as Hick’s Evil and the God of Love, Griffin’s God, Power, and Evil, and Davis’ Encountering Evil. Students responded well to the class lectures which drew heavily upon process thought in dealing with the issue of divine power and they read with appreciation texts which reflected the influence of Whitehead’s philosophy. The course from all external evidence seemed popular and effective. Yet I remained troubled by the adequacy of what was being offered. Particularly I questioned the applicability of texts and lectures to situations in other cultures, specifically third world societies. I had a suspicion that the approaches being used to deal with theodicy in a North American classroom may have been far removed from the actual encounter with devastating evil faced by so many in our world.

As a result, I fashioned a sabbatical proposal which would allow me to study the application of first world theodicies to a third world situation. With funding provided by a grant from the Association of Theological Schools, it was possible to travel to Africa to study theodicy in a third world culture, looking at the people of Eastern Africa and particularly the Shona people of Zimbabwe. I expected to spend the time collecting the data that would demonstrate the enormity of evil in southern Africa and that would stand in mockery of ideas such as Hick’s "epistemic distance" or Whitehead’s "poet of the universe." The fact is, however, I encountered in the Shona culture of Zimbabwe an approach toward the problem of evil that entirely altered the focus of the project. One finds in the Shona people a steadfastness in the face of suffering that is difficult to imagine. In spite of living in poverty conditions, having recently survived a long struggle for independence, and even more recently having dealt with an extended drought, the Shona seem to be a fairly contented people.

The Shona in large part do not display a sense of being overwhelmed by evil. They do not spend their time calculating the degree of evil in creation nor do they express anger at spiritual forces for permitting the world to crush them so. Rather they have developed a society that is based on values so foreign to our own Western thought that it raises the important issue of whether our Western based theodicies are irretrievably culture-bound. Where I began the study focusing on the inability of Western theodicies to account for the high incidence of evil in the third world, my focus was now changed to look at the irrelevance and incongruence of the values of Western theodicies in relation to the traditional cultures of southern Africa.

An Introduction to Shona Culture

Shona Spirituality

Because of our own inability to see the whole spectrum of reality as a realm of spirit and because of our own propensity to bifurcate the sacred and the secular, we have tended in the West to interpret reverence for the presence of spirit in nature as a sign of worshiping natural entities themselves. A correct approach to African traditional religion must begin with recognition of the wholeness of an African worldview. Osadolor Imasogie, a Nigerian theologian, writes:

. . . the earth for the African is not just a physical reality on which he lives. It is physical interpenetrated by spiritual forces, and like an onion, it has many layers hidden by the outer layer which is open to observation. The earth is, therefore, not only mysterious but sacred and impregnated with both good and evil as well as neutral spiritual forces. . . . (ATR 56).

For the Shona people of Zimbabwe, there is no realm apart from the spiritual. No object and no creature is "natural" if by that term is meant existing apart from spiritual influence. Prior to the coming of the Christian missionaries there was no Shona word for religion. It was not some part of life one could step back from and analyze, for all of life was thoroughly spiritual.

It is difficult for the Westerner to grasp fully the extent of Shona spirituality. We tend to think of the "spiritual" person as one who meditates often, or who sees God active in many ways, or who recognizes a holiness pervading some events in the natural order. These are each timid and half-way steps in comparison to Shona thought. Perhaps this point is best seen in a rejection of Christian missionary spirituality. Imasogie of Nigeria argues that the missionary movement in Africa has not heightened general spiritual awareness but has in fact led to a stark despiritualization of the African people. That is, the Christian missionary movement has been a key secularizing force among traditional cultures. Why? Because along with their gospel message the missionaries also brought with them their scientific mindset which presupposed secondary causation, accident, a separate natural order, and a generally bifurcated worldview. Imasogie concludes: "traditional Christian theology has been ineffective in Africa because it is conditioned by a quasi-scientific world view which bends it, and thereby makes it "unresponsive to, the reality of the African’s self-understanding within his own world view" (GCT 47). John Mbiti makes the same point even more forcefully when he cries out that "Africa does not want imported Christianity because too much of it will only castrate us spiritually, or turn us into spiritual cripples" (CCA). By preaching a gospel that accepted a spirit-nature dualism unknown in traditional culture, the Christian missionaries to Africa have brought with them the seeds of unbelief and secularization.

In terms of application to the issue of theodicy, this intensity of spirituality is expressed through a rejection of the idea of accident. There is no such thing as an event without purpose in Shona thought. Disease, death, a stillborn child, a fire caused by lightning, are each the result of the confluence of the anger of the spirit-world and the waywardness of persons. According to John Pobee, "the primary cause of evil in traditional society is the spirit beings . . . and the secondary cause is the man who has done something wrong" (TAT 100). Misfortune is thereby understood always to have a metaphysical cause. This position is upheld even in the face of modern technology. The skill of the medical doctor can deal with the manifestation of most diseases. The Shona realize that; but they would go on to insist that no amount of medical knowledge can deal with the real cause of the disease itself. So a child is treated successfully with Western medicine for an attack of malaria. Still Western medicine cannot answer the question, why did the mosquito bite my child? Persons must always look beyond physical events to their spiritual etiology.

The focus of Shona religion is on the highly developed role of ancestor spirits. The Shona believe that upon death one’s spirit (the Shona word is mweya meaning breath or wind) leaves the body continuing to influence community life in the realm of the living-dead. The power of the living-dead is understood in Shona life in terms of spirits maintaining the traditional life of the community through continued influence. Thus the living-dead act as the basis of the moral life of the family and village, rewarding or punishing as the case may be.

Shona religion functions so as to meet two crucial needs of the believer. First, it provides a mode of communication with those powers seen to control individual and tribal welfare. The most common ritual is the brewing of beer for ancestral spirits both to invite their blessings and to appease their displeasure. A second important function is that Shona religion provides a framework for understanding the events of everyday life, explaining the sources of weal and woe through references to the living-dead.

Shona Community

Before all else in Shona life, a person is a member of the community. Initial greetings given upon the meeting of strangers are efforts to determine what totem, tribe or family the individual represents. In a dramatic contrast to Western individualism, Shona culture subordinates the separateness of personal identity to the well-being of the community as a whole. Michael Gelfand notes the importance of communal identity when he writes:

One of the outstanding features of Shona life, which also determines to a great extent the behavior of the individual, is the emphasis placed on the family unit . . . . the Shona family is a strong, closely knit unit with a powerful magnetic pull, drawing each one into its bonds. This family unit reminds me of a small fortress designed to protect and aid each person inside it, who also contributes towards the maintenance and sustenance of the rest. (AB 9)

The strength of the family ties is fortified by intimate bonds at both extremes of the life span. A young child is kept close to the mother, being carried on the mother’s back in a comfortable sling. For two years the child will be carried in this manner during most of its waking hours. At the other end of age spectrum, the family bonds are understood to include the spirits of the living-dead, the family’s ancestors to whom they look for protection and guidance.

The sense of community is best expressed in the use of names in Shona culture. Individual names are rarely used. Instead persons are addressed by relational titles. Even husband and wife would use titles (mai-mother, baba-father) in talking to one another. It can be extremely offensive to call a named woman by her individual name. I first realized this emphasis on family titles when I called at a friend’s home and was greeted by his young nephew who had been living with his uncle for several months. I asked to speak to Henry, my friend, and received as a response only a blanic stare from his young nephew. Only when I requested to speak to Baba va Rutendo (the family title: father of Rutendo) did the young boy know for whom I was asking. One’s identity rests upon family relationships.

The sense of community is expressed in a deep commitment to community well-being. In Shona society one can depend upon family ties for sustenance and protection. There is a felt obligation to care for family needs up to three or four degrees of relationship. When one is in need that person expects help from the family; when one has a surplus he or she expects to share with the family. One Shona man put it in these words: "If my brother has two chickens, I go and get my chicken. If my brother has two shirts, I go and get my shirt. I need no invitation to eat my brother’s food."

In this setting it is easy to understand why sin is defined as an act against the family and community. Kwame Bediako writes, "in our tradition, the essence of sin is in its being an antisocial act" (BCC 103). Sin is seen as damaging the collective life. Pobee states plainly, "Egocentricity is wicked and self-defeating and as such is deprecated" (TAT 116). Time and again when asked to give examples of that which is evil, Shona people would name those acts which alienate the individual from the group. It is for this reason that the crucial challenge now facing Shona culture is not technology; that can be accommodated. The primary threat is urbanization which inherently weakens family and tribal ties and thereby undercuts the very foundation of traditional culture.

Shona Conformity

The most intriguing aspect of Shona culture is its strong emphasis upon normalcy. Because of the central role played by the living-dead in the life of the community, moral expectations are tied directly to past traditions. The tribal and family leaders who established and maintained society’s customs are now the spiritual enforcers of those customs. As a consequence culture places a premium not on creativity, individuality, or unique expression, but rather on sameness and continuity.

This desire for conformity means that evil is identified as that which deviates from the norm. The examples of this drive for uniformity and fear of the unusual abound in everyday Shona life. If a community were to encounter an evil which they came to blame on a witch, a Western observer could perhaps understand how a village could turn on a deformed woman. Yet the same Shona villagers would also be inclined to seek revenge upon an extremely beautiful woman. We can understand how extreme poverty would be seen as a sign of the forces of evil at work, yet the Shona would also insist that ostentatious wealth is a sure sign of evil power in one’s life. It would trouble many Shona parents for a person to approach their child with compliments such as "What a beautiful baby!" Any event out of the ordinary is interpreted as an evil omen or the eruption of evil power into the midst of life. Though now rare, a generation ago could have provided more gruesome examples of this enforced uniformity at work as sometimes twins were killed, children whose upper teeth protruded before the lower ones had the teeth forcibly removed, breech births or prolonged labor were treated with fear and as an occasion for confession. Mbiti notes, "such births were experienced as heralds of misfortune. The people concerned experienced them as a threat to their whole existence, as a sign that something wrong had happened to cause the births, and that something worse still would happen to the whole community if the ‘evil’ were not removed" (ARP 117-118).

Combined with the strong emphasis upon communal values the stress placed on uniformity results in a dramatically different valuation upon individual expression than one would find in the West. Though not generally true in Shona life, Mugambi and Kirima note that even the counting of people or cattle is forbidden in many African cultures. "One of the reasons for such prohibition is the fear that misfortune might befall those who are pointed out during the counting. Another reason may be that people generally prefer to be considered as members of social units . . . rather than as individuals" (ARN 12). A medical doctor described the de-emphasis upon individual expression in this telling story of a Shona woman:

An old woman was admitted to our hospital and refused to give her own name. In the end she gave a name, not her own but that of one of her grandchildren . . . . When asked why she had given us a wrong name, she said: "what does it matter whether you have my own or the child’s name, we are one anyway. (SL 296-297)

This brief story not only points to the grandmother’s willingness to erase her own individuality for the sake of communal values, it also suggests that the grandmother expected of her descendent a sameness of desire and expression.

The ethical structures of Shona culture are built upon a foundation of communal harmony and social equilibrium. In such a society the ideals of individualism, ego-assertiveness, or the unique acts of genius are not greatly appreciated. The desire to change, the conception of progress, the expectation of individuals in competition, none of these presuppositions of Western life finds support in the conforming and traditional society of the Shona.

Shona Values and Process Theodicy

Is it fair to raise the question of the congruence of process theodicy and a third-world culture? Process thought has developed largely within the matrix of Western values without many sustained attempts to incorporate third-world understandings or criticisms. Can we rightly expect such a first-world phenomenon to reflect third-world concerns? The answer to these questions it seems must be an unqualified yes. Yes, we should attempt to broaden our philosophical and theological projects to be as inclusive as possible. We should always remain conscious of the cultural bias that taints our thinking. This is a particularly important reminder for process thought for two reasons: (1) process thought and its development of a concern for a post modern world does seek for universal applicability, and yet (2) process thought has in fact been birthed and nourished within a largely elite, middle class, Western, modern environment. If process theodicy is to achieve recognition in the two-thirds world, it must develop the broadest possible base while at the same time speaking with meaning to specific cultures. Imasogie in developing guidelines for an African theology suggests, "Theology, if it is authentic, must participate in universality. However, the aim is to stress that no theology is authentic and unusual if it does not meet the integrated needs of a particular people in a particular historical context" (OCT 19). What then can we say of process theodicy in relation to traditional Shona culture? There are, of course, both points of convergence and areas of divergence.

Points of Convergence

Reality As a Society

The one point at which process theodicy and Shona culture speak with a single voice is in understanding the world according to an organismic model which then leads to an ethic valuing communal structures. The sympathetic unity of Whitehead’s universe is reflected in traditional culture’s appreciation for the oneness of all existence. The circle is an ever present pattern in Shona life, giving shape to the roundoval or thatched hut, surrounding a circular cattle kraal or enclosure.

The circle is the most telling symbol of the African world view. To comprehend its nature is to come close to the African feeling of unity and harmony. The area circumscribed by the circle is unbroken and whole. It has no top or bottom, no more or less. All the dynamics in this area combine to form a balanced harmony. (UA 112-113)

The refusal of Shona thought to separate life from nature, matter from spirit, or persons from one another is the keystone of dialogue between process thinkers and traditional cultures.

Reality as Spiritually Alive

A second issue on which there is a high degree of compatibility is the affirmation found in traditional and process thought of the liveliness of the universe. Both process theology and African traditional religion stand in stark contrast to the secularity of so much in Western life. Whitehead’s writings rejecting the implication of a naturalistic scientism speak in concert with the insistence in Shona life upon a thoroughgoing spirituality. Rena Karefa-Smart has referred to secular materialism as "the unconscious missionary faith of the West." Against this interpretation of reality as being composed of dead, lifeless stuff, process thought and African faith stand together in opposition, affirming a mentality permeating all creation. At this point process theodicy has an opportunity to help in the "Africanization" of Christianity by insisting that Biblical faith need not be tied to outmoded theories of physical science once current in Western life. Bediako raises a haunting question concerning the Christian missionary enterprise up until the present time:

Africans could only receive and articulate the faith insofar as they kept to the boundaries and models defined by the Christian traditions of Europe. Christ could not inhabit the spiritual universe of the African consciousness except, in essence, as a stranger . . . ; must we become other than African in order to be truly Christian? (BCC 87)

By affirming the depth of Shona spirituality and by repudiating secularity as the proper presentation of modern-day faith, process theology can serve as a valuable support to African forms of Christian expression.

One clear caveat must be stated in discussing this topic of theodicy and African spirituality. There is a point where the traditions of African faith and the teachings of process thought diverge widely -- the African insistence upon an ontology of evil. As John Pobee argues, African theodicy "starting with a spiritual ontology (that the world is surrounded by hosts of spirit beings) attributes evil to personal forces of evil" (TAT 99-100). While affirming the liveliness of the universe, process thought must equip itself to respond to the African insistence upon personalizing this spiritual force in the realm of the living-dead.

The Disvalue of Triviality

Perhaps the point of greatest tension between Shona society and the values of process thought is precisely confronted when we turn directly to the issue of triviality. In its past formulations process theodicy has argued that triviality is the supreme disvalue; in fact, Griffin plainly labels unnecessary triviality as genuine evil. The disvalue of trivial existence is the presupposition upon which Griffin goes on to argue for the goodness and the necessity of the creative process. He writes, "Recognizing that unnecessary triviality is an evil provides a basis for understanding the evolutionary development of our world as manifesting the creative purpose of a good God" (GPE 285). Arguing that persons may even prefer death to a continuation of life at a trivial level Griffin describes the human dimension of triviality as "boredom, lack of zest and excitement" (GPE 282).

If triviality is equated with evil, its opposite, creative intensity, is understood as the benchmark of goodness. Griffin insists that built into the very framework of Whitehead’s structure is the aim of escape from triviality. "Whitehead understands the subjective aim of every actual occasion as twofold: it is an aim at intensity in the present, and also an aim to contribute intensity to the future" (OPE 287). Whitney summarizes the process position when he states, "To achieve aesthetic value, variety and intensity are required" (EPG 145).

The contrast could not be more strongly drawn than between the value of variety and intensity in process thought and the value of conformity and uniformity in the traditional culture of the Shona. The Western scholar who has studied Shona culture most thoroughly, Michael Gelfand, underscores the emphasis upon normality.

The Shona avoids anything unusual. He likes to follow what is considered the customary or usual practices of his society. He would not want to be singled out for anything out of the ordinary. All he asks is that he be like others with a good name.

* * * * * * * *

The Shona do not want the brilliant or backward man. A genius would not survive in this society as he would want to change the way of living. . . . In a society where the wide extremes of intelligence are eliminated, the tendency would be to breed true to type -- that is to produce a man who is normal.

* * * * * * * *

In other words, the Shona, in order to survive in this land, realized that the one way of achieving this was for men to be as equal to one another as possible and endowed with a normal amount of personality or intelligence, and that they should work as a group or a part of a society rather than as individuals. (GS 162-163).

The hope of developing a sustainable dialogue between process thinkers and representatives of traditional culture will depend a great deal upon the willingness of Western theologians to reevaluate their definitions of triviality. Some way must be found to lessen the harsh indictment of triviality in order to encompass traditional communities within the vision of process thought. As it now stands one group’s value is precisely the other culture’s disvalue.

Process Thought and Evolutionary Progress

Process thought by its very name sees reality as a dynamic enterprise, but more than that, process theodicy would insist that evolution is a function of the purposeful luring of God moving creation toward higher degrees of expression. From the perspective of traditional society two questions would be raised. First, as we have just mentioned, the conception of change and development is not an innate value in African life; in fact it is often something to be avoided and feared. Second, from the viewpoint of the African setting, one would express utter bafflement at how anyone could survey current events and still hold to a cheerful optimism that life is being effectively lured onward by a loving God. Historically it is difficult to plot the course of human advancement in the creeping sands of the Sahel, the burgeoning slums of Nairobi or the utter destitution of the entire Mozambican economy.

The key issue here is the nature of God’s persuasive power. Frankly, on this issue, process theodicy lacks a needed precision. Whitney notes this fact when he states, "There is little by way of explicit and systematic definitions of ‘persuasive’ and ‘coercive’ power in the process literature -- an astonishing fact, bearing in mind that these concepts are of such central importance to process theism" (EPO 145). It would help greatly if process theology could be developed with more of an eye to the issue of divine management style.

Process Thought and Western Values

We have looked at the crucial process values of intensity and progress and yet there still remain laced throughout process theodicy other examples of glaringly parochial ideals. Naturally our cultural values are reflected in our theologies. This seems particularly true, however, of the writings up until the present in process thought. It is an enlightening experience to note as you read through process literature how often the central values of Western life surface as the ideals of Whitehead’s system. Let me list just four examples.

(I) Creativity -- process theodicy refers to creativity as "the ultimate metaphysical principle" which inheres in "the nature of things." Griffin insists that "creative power is not a contingent feature of reality. It is beyond all volition, even God’s" (GPE 279).

(2) Freedom -- Like creativity, freedom is so valued that it is placed beyond even God’s ability to curtail. Griffin ties the expression of value to the degree of freedom when he writes: . . . no significant degree of intrinsic value would be possible without a significant degree of freedom" (GPE 292).

(3) Novelty -- Whitehead himself defines God as "the organ of novelty." Griffin underscores the importance of novelty when he argues that "novelty of reaction is also necessary, if one is to achieve intense experience" (GPE 289).

(4) Self-determination -- If beauty demands a degree of order it also necessitates the presence of self-determination, and process thought identifies mentality with the very capacity for self-determination Griffin states: ‘The divine aim . . . . leads God to encourage the development of mentality or the power of self-determination in the world" (GPE 287).

To Western ears this list of attributes -- creativity, freedom, novelty, and self-determination -- sounds like the roll call of virtue. Each of these terms is, however, a word that sparks little attraction in traditional cultures. Even when the terminology may be identical, as in the cry of freedom used during wars of liberation, the content of that term bears a very different meaning in non-Western societies and in non-capitalist economies.

The fact that there is a gap between the vocabulary of process thought and the mindset of traditional culture is certainly not grounds for a devastating rejection of Whitehead and his influence. It is a call, however, for a heightened sensitivity in the future development of process theodicy so that the needs and worldview of the third-world citizen might not be ignored.

 

References:

AB -- Michael Gelfand. African Background: The Traditional Culture of the Shona Speaking People. Cape Town: Juta and Co., 1965.

ARH -- Jesus Mugambi and Necodemiss Kirima. The African Religious Heritage. Nairobi: Oxford University Press, 1982.

ARP -- John S. Mbiti. African Religions and Philosophy. London: Hunemann, 1982.

ATR -- Osadolor Imasogie. African Traditional Religions. Ibadan, Nigeria: African University Press, 1982.

BCC -- Kwame Bediako. "Biblical Christologies in the Context of African Traditional Religions." Sharing Jesus in the Two Thirds World. Ed. Venay Smauel and Chris Sugden. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 1984.

CCA -- John Mbiti. "Christianity and Culture in Africa." Recorded speech.

EPG -- Barry L. Whitney. Evil and the Process God. Toronto: Edwin Mellen Press, 1985.

GCT -- Osadolor Imasogie. Guidelines for Christian Theology in Africa. Achimota, Ghana: African Christian Press, 1983.

GPE -- David Ray Griffin. God, Power, and Evil. Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1976.

GS -- Michael Gelfand. The Genuine Shona. Gweru: Mambo Press, 1984.

SL -- Herbert Aschwanden. Symbols of Life. Gweru: Mambo Press, 1982.h

TAT -- John S. Pobee. Toward An African Theology. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1979.

UA -- Theo Sundermeier. "Unio Analogica: Understanding African Dynamistic Patterns of Thought." Missionalia 1:3 (November 1973).

God Beats Up on People Who Ask Useless Questions

"Every profession is a conspiracy against the laity."

George Bernard Shaw

Peter L. Berger, the most eminent sociologist of religion in the world today, many of whose sociological works as Berger says "read like a treatise on atheism," has written a mature and skeptical affirmation of Christianity in his new book Questions of Faith: A Skeptical Affirmation of Christianity. Berger calls his book an exercise in "lay theology." By questioning the theology produced by professional theologians Berger realizes that theological bureaucrats will hold any activity of "free enterprise," such as his book, with suspicion. He disavows being a professional theologian and intends the book for similarly "unaccredited" people. Taking the role of an open-minded skeptic, Berger asks probative questions about religion without being bound by tradition, church, scripture, or personal experience.

It is difficult to predict how history may judge this iconoclastic book. But it may well end up a religious classic in the genre of, on one hand:

    • Christian mathematician Blaise Pascal’s book Pensees (i.e., "thoughts");
    • The 5th or 6th century pseudonymous writer Pseudo-Dionysius’ formulation of a negative theology that stresses the impotence of human’s attempts to penetrate the "cloud of unknowing;"
    • Catholic philosopher Simone Weil’s Waiting for God.

On the other hand, it is oddly in the same league with:

    • Francois Voltaire’s "candid" satire against Christian perpetual optimism entitled Candide;
    • Eighteenth century Danish existentialist philosopher Soren Kierkegaard’s Attack Upon Christendom, and;
    • Renaissance political thinker Niccolo Machiavelli’s oft-mischaracterized notion of unscrupulous consequential ethics contained in his book The Prince.

In fact, Berger integrates the insights of all of the above seemingly disparate writers in his book. Questions of Faith won’t likely be attractive to what Berger calls "Golden Rule" Christians who embrace the images of "gentle Jesus," the exemplar and teacher contained in so much Protestant Christian literature. Nor will it probably appeal to those "New Age" religious seekers of what Berger calls "The Mythic Matrix," defined as a childlike belief in the one-ness of God, nature, and man. Neither would it resonate with those academics and so-called liberals who reduce religion to mere ethics or diversity, to some inner psychoanalytic conversation, or some Marxist egalitarian view of heaven on earth.

This is a well-written work that, nonetheless in parts, is not for the unserious reader. One may need to look up words not used in ordinary conversation to understand what Berger means when he writes: "the problem of theodicy was solved in terms of eschatology" or "one should not confuse epistemology (i.e., knowledge) with historical gratitude." Conversely, at points Berger flashes a riveting summary of a complex theological issue with an illuminating one-sentence proposition or even a joke. For example, when Berger points out that the puzzles of historical scholarship often lead Biblical theologians to crises of faith he expresses it this way: "I have sometimes asked myself how a gynecologist could manage to have sexual intercourse; by the same token, one could ask how a New Testament scholar could be a Christian."

Questions of Faith is a commentary structured around the Christian Apostle’s Creed as its scaffold. Berger tells us the Creed was formulated in the early days of Christianity, probably in cosmopolitan Rome. From the table of contents and the chapter subheadings the book appears like another dull commentary not meant to disturb the Christian cognoscenti or the average believer from their faith. However, underneath this superstructure Berger poses a number of probing questions to taken-for-granted Christianity.

Berger is not content to engage in what he calls a "salvage operation" of Christianity. Nor is he content to single out Christianity. He puts into question all forms of taken-for-granted religion whether it is Buddhism, Hinduism, mysticism, or secular "eschatologies" such as Marxism that claims there is a deterministic linear redemptive course to history. Likewise, he finds the machinations of professional theologians about the Christian Trinity (God, Son, Holy Spirit), and the historical Christian controversies over the heresies of Arianism, Adoptionism, Marcionism, and Marianism to be a dull and unimportant.

Put differently, Berger not only "kills the Buddha," but also finds the "quest for the historical Jesus," in both its religious and secular manifestations, to be futile. He finds the religious portrayals of Jesus as an exorcist (Graham Twelftree), a Jewish peasant cynic (John Dominic Crossan), a prophet of social change (Gerd Thiessen), as a Gnostic teacher (Elaine Pagels), or as an eschatological prophet (E.P. Sanders) as exasperating to the befuddled layperson. He is equally unimpressed by secularized versions of this quest with the image of Jesus as a deluded figure (psychoanalytic), a member of the proletariat (Marxist), or as personifying machismo or femininity (feminist). Here Berger states what many a layperson already knows beyond the views of the so-called professional experts: it is impossible to know whom Jesus was absent some incredible sort of time travel machine to help us find out. To those theologians who contend that the life and resurrection of Jesus is one of the most documented events in ancient history, both in scripture and recorded history, Berger asks them to produce "one single police report" from a nonpartisan source that wasn’t inserted into the text far after the fact! Thus, because we cannot know the historical Jesus, faith must be independent of the results of historical scholarship. Berger doesn’t necessarily doubt that Jesus existed, but says that this is a statement of very strong probability rather than certainty. Or letting Berger speak in his own inimitable way: "Let us put it this way: If CNN had existed in ancient times, most of the history of Israel and all of Jesus’ life would have been invisible on the radar screen."

Most of all Berger finds highly problematic the assertion by John Hick, the famed scholar of world religions, that the baseline criteria of all religion is whether it reduces selfishness and promotes altruism. To the uninitiated reader this may seem as perplexing. How can religion only be indirectly related with morality or ethics? Berger’s answer is that religion has no monopoly on morality, as morality is grounded in human perception rather than norms (i.e., good and bad). He however does not deny that all sorts of commandments and normative prescriptions can be deduced from an accurate perception of a situation. But Berger, the sociologist-turned -lay-theologian, curiously doesn’t don his sociologist hat to tell us how to separate out the false from the true prophets of perception in a world of often distorting mass communications.

As a social scientist Berger avoids taking the position that religion is an irreducible reality sui generis (i.e., in a class all its own), as does someone like Ninian Smart, the popular professor of comparative religions, in his book The Science of Religion and the Sociology of Knowledge (1973). Conversely Berger does not believe that religion can be reduced to psychology, sociology, or economics or merely some system of ethics. Berger’s interpretive brand of sociology, following sociologist Max Weber, leads him to carve out an area for faith, defined as that which one does not know. Unbelief is defined as the unwillingness to step beyond what one is reasonably certain about. Religion is utmost an attempt to explain and come to grips with ultimate reality. And as Berger has written in his famous work, The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (1966), what one knows often depends on what society one lives in, where one resides in that society, and how one "chooses" his parents or occupation. As religion is a social enterprise, neither belief nor unbelief is a moral failing. The step of faith is not a delusion or an act of cowardice from the harshness of the realities of life, a la Karl Marx’s view of religion as an "opiate," or Sigmund Freud’s notion of religion as a neurotic delusion. Rather, Berger writes that the act of religious faith compels one to be able to explain why one is willing to take a step beyond certainty. Moreover, since to Berger certainty is a "social construction," all of life is a religious enterprise of sorts beyond the confines of institutionalized religion. Modern society makes this step of faith, or doubt, almost unavoidable in that it creates a high degree of heterogeneous and interpenetrating worldviews (i.e., pluralism). This makes religious, or irreligious, certainty a scarce commodity in the marketplace of ideas. Every religiously reflective person needs to become his or her own theologian so to speak. Or as Berger aptly puts it, theology should not be left to professional theologians alone.

This reviewer should point out that Berger acknowledges that the book was written over a period of two years "in moments snatched from other busy activities as a social scientist." Thus, the book has a number of central propositions scattered throughout that the reader may be left trying to cobweb together. The bibliography doesn’t account for all the written works cited in the text. And there are a few glaring typographical errors. Nonetheless, for those wanting to explore their own religious beliefs (or non-belief) by reading an honest and skeptical affirmation of the Christian faith by one of the world’s best thinkers and social scientists, this book recommends itself.

Near the end of Questions of Faith, Peter Berger relates the story of Martin Luther’s reply to a young man who asked him how God occupied himself in eternity. Luther replied, "God sits under a tree and cuts branches and rods, to beat up people who ask useless questions." Scattered throughout the book Questions of Faith are what Berger finds to be humanly unacceptable notions about the Christian religion that he believes need to be pummeled (i.e., "beat up") mainly because of their acceptance of suffering, death, and evil. He counters these propositions with those that he believes are humanly acceptable and yet square with the Christian faith and resonate with the human experience. The prototypical human experience for Berger that becomes the acid test for religion is the suffering of innocent children. Berger returns again and again throughout the chapters of his book to this prototypical relationship between a parent and child and finds the unnecessary suffering and death of children, and all innocents, to be humanly unacceptable. To Berger no theodicy (i.e., religious explanation of suffering, death, or evil) is tolerable if it cannot be recited face-to-face to suffering children and their parents.

Berger’s theological method is reminiscent of the ancient pseudonymous writer Dionysius the Areopagite who asked the question "what are the affirmative theologies and what are the negative?" Below I have excerpted some of the taken-for-granted negative theological notions discussed by Berger, followed by the reasons they ingratiate him.

  1. Religion is supposed to be necessary as the basis for morality. No thanks! With admirable exceptions here and there, religions over the centuries have not been famous for their moral excellence. Religion has been shown as not necessary for morality because moral judgment is grounded not in the imperative mode (do this, do that) but in the indicative mode (see this, look at that) [p. 164]. Morality is perceptual. The historical record shows that some of the greatest religious figures engaged in really dubious behavior (Luther the anti-semite), some were downright monstrous (Medici Popes) – while agnostics and atheists have been morally admirable. There are atheist saints.
  2. Religion demands submission to God’s will, even in the face of the innocent suffering of children. No thanks. This is not humanly acceptable. I submit to God who does not will the death of innocent children. (One might add that God does not will the death of innocents on the sacrificial altar of the holocaust, that of the Gulag, or that of an Islamic suicide bomber socially justified on the basis of some totalitarian religion or secular ideology such as Marxism. For more on this see Peter L. Berger, Pyramids of Sacrifice: Political Ethics and Social Change [1974]).
  3. Religion may seek to console us all by saying that eventually we will be absorbed into some ocean of cosmic divinity (i.e., the mythic matrix). No thanks. To absorb those who suffer into an ultimate reality in which all individuality, uniqueness, and the irreplaceableness of persons, and the infinite preciousness of children, is lost is but another version of death.
  4. Religion offers certainty in scriptures, spiritual experiences, and in institutions from the chaos of life. No thanks to the certitude purveyors and certainty wallahs. Scripture is inspiring, but not inerrant, religious experience of the holy spirit has been found to be inducible by social psychological manipulation, and totalistic religious institutions can be replaced by totalistic secular institutions (e.g., big tent politics).
  5. Religion provides powerful symbols for the exigencies of human existence. No thanks. To be sure, it does, but there are other (competitive) sources for such symbols.
  6. High religion says man is saved, not by works, but by God’s grace and forgiveness. No thanks. Some notion of damnation is necessary if one affirms the justice of God in the face of evil. Nothing short of damnation will be adequate for the perpetrators of the Holocaust. None of us, and certainly none of the victims, should be urged to forgive them.
  7. Both religious and atheistic eschatologies (i.e., world views) often claim to know the course of history. No thanks. Those who ascribe to the popular eschatology -- rapture, end times -- or who claim to know what the secular course of history is, then proceed to help it along by their own action typically will only add to the endless accumulation of suffering, as seen in the horrific Marxist experiments.
  8. Religionists, particularly of the orthodox and neo-orthodox schools of religion, often claim that God has spoken to them directly -- or through scriptures God has spoken to them directly. No thanks. Most of us may be considered the metaphysically underprivileged, as it were, and must acknowledge that God has not spoken to us in such a direct manner. His address to us, if that is what it is, comes to us in a much more mediated manner. It is always mediated. It is mediated through this or that experience, and most importantly it is mediated through encounters with the scriptures and with the institution that transmits the tradition. To proceed as if one had spoken to God directly is to base one’s existence on a lie. It seems plausible to propose that, if God exists, He would not want us to lie.
  9. Religion must say no to every freedom-denying scientism or any Buddhist understanding that all reality is non-self (an-atta), and which results in a denial of the existence of the autonomous and responsible self. In the perspective of the Biblical faith the self is not an illusion, neither is the empirical world, because both are creations of God. It is possible to affirm this faith in a threefold no to the Buddha’s Three Universal Truths: All reality is not impermanence, because at its heart is the God who is the plenitude of being in time and eternity. All reality is not suffering because God’s creation is ultimately good and because God is acting to redeem (repair) those parts of creation, especially humanity, where this goodness has been disturbed. And all reality is not non-self, because the self is the image of God, not because it is itself divine but because it exists by virtue of God’s address.
  10. The collection of Jesus’ sayings constituting what we know as the Sermon on the Mount forms the moral and ethical basis for the organization of society. No thanks! Any human society that would organize itself on the basis of the Sermon’s unrealistic demands would promptly lapse into chaos. For goodness to result we must get our hands dirty and we must recognize that many of our actions have unintended consequences. We may desire good ends and employ good means, and nevertheless the results may be unbearably evil. Jesus as a great teacher and exemplar is eminently uninteresting, and we can do well without him.
  11. The criteria distinguishing true and untrue religion asserted mainly by academics and liberal North American Christians is whether a religious tradition induces its adherents to cultivate selfishness and altruism. No thanks! The weakness of this criterion can be seen by transferring it from religion to, say, physics: is one to accept or reject a discovery in physics on the basis of a physicist’s moral qualities? Does the theory of relativity depend on Einstein having been a nice man? If religion has anything to do with reality – transcendent reality – then the test of it being true does not depend on the "saintliness" of its representations.
  12. Petitionary prayers are selfish and therefore to be eschewed. No thanks. This argument is completely fallacious. To put it concretely: one may pray to be delivered from an illness that is afflicting oneself, but one may also pray for the recovery of my neighbor’s sick child. And there is nothing selfish about that. But is one then asking that God should save this child, and by implication that He need not save the child down the block? Of course not. If one has faith, one cannot, not pray.
  13. The atonement is defined in virtually all strands of Christian thought as the process by which God forgives mankind. But the atonement can also be understood as the process by which mankind can forgive God. Is such an understanding blasphemous? I don’t think so. A God who "impassibly" presides over the endless pain of His creatures…is a being whom one would repudiate morally if He were a human individual. In an ironic way, he would be a sort of cosmic Pontius Pilate. One could hardly worship Him with love: at most, one could submit to Him in a masochistic posture. That, however, is unthinkable. God’s goodness is a necessary aspect of His nature, as the Biblical witness insists. However, God’s nature can be described in the bubbling conceptualizations of human thought, He cannot be understood as morally inferior to the best of us. Put differently, it is not credible that God is less merciful than man or even those considered saints.
  14. The conception of original sin is as an inescapable part of the human condition, of which I should feel guilty. Clearly, though, I cannot be held responsible for a condition that antecedes any deliberate act of mine, and I can thus legitimately refuse to feel guilty about it.

In sum, Berger the sociologist playing the role of "theologian-for-a-day," proves himself not to be an imposter. Put differently, the theological thought police and the totalitarian brainwashers didn’t have to "beat him up" to get him to answer often-useless theological questions with programmed answers. Perhaps it is fitting to close this review with one of Berger’s characteristic jokes:

"A Russian legend has it that there were three holy men who lived on an island, engaged in constant prayer and works of compassion. The bishop under whose jurisdiction the island fell was informed that these men were completely ignorant of the doctrines and rituals of the Church. He found this fact scandalous. He visited the island and spent some time teaching these men the basic creeds and prayers of the Church. He then left the island. As his boat was getting away from the island he noticed, to his amazement, that the three holy men were following the boat, walking on the water. They reached the boat and explained that they had forgotten the words of the Lord’s Prayer. The bishop told them that they should not worry about this – they did not need these words" (Questions of Faith, page 113).

 

 

 

For further reading:

Peter L. Berger, The Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion (1967).

Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (1966).

Peter L. Berger, Pyramids of Sacrifice: Political Ethics and Social Change (1974).

Peter L. Berger and Hansfried Kellner, The Homeless Mind: Modernization and Consciousness (1974).

Peter L. Berger, Facing Up To Modernity: Excursions in Society, Politics and Religion (1977).

Peter L. Berger, A Rumor of Angels: Modern Society and the Rediscovery of the Supernatural (1970).

Peter L. Berger, The Noise of Solemn Assemblies (1961).

Peter L. Berger, The Heretical Imperative (1979).

Peter L. Berger, The Other Side of God: Polarity in World Religions (1981).

Peter L. Berger, A Far Glory: The Quest for Faith in an Age of Credulity (1992).

Peter L. Berger, Against The World-For The World: The Hartford Appeal and the Future of American Religion (1976).

Linda Woodhead, Peter Berger and the Study of Religion (2001).

Wayne C. Lusvardi, is a lay sociologist, Pasadena, California

(E-Mail: wlusvardi@yahoo.com)

When I Get to Heaven: Picturing Paradise

Is it dangerous to dwell upon heaven? Many of the world’s great religious teachers seem to have thought so. Confucius told his disciples to pay respect to the spirits, but keep them at a distance; it was the will of heaven, he believed, that we keep our eyes trained on earth. What becomes of the enlightened after death was one of the ten questions the Buddha refused to answer because indulging opinions on such matters is not conducive to liberation. The sages of classical Judaism displayed similar restraint. The Talmud includes the cautionary tale of four sages who entered paradise: "Ben Azzai looked and died; Ben Zoma looked and lost his mind; Elisha ben Avuyah became a heretic; and Rabbi Akiba entered in peace and departed in peace."

The moral is: Don’t delve into the mysteries of heaven uninvited or unprepared. It is all too easy to go off the deep end. Aside from those few who have been set apart for a special role -- prophets, shamans and mystics -- most of us are better off taking the normal road to heaven, which goes by way of performing one’s assigned duties in life.

Such reining in of curiosity can be found in every religious tradition; but we should not mistake it for skepticism or indifference to the reality of heaven. On the contrary, it stems from the recognition that heaven is so real, so fascinating and so unsettling to our normal way of being that we need to be very careful how we approach her gates.

These days, under the corrosive influence of secularism, few of us are in danger of neglecting our earthly responsibilities because of an overwhelming passion for the afterlife. The effect of secularism on our dealings with heaven has been curious. It has not diminished the quantity of belief in heaven (which registers at 70 to 80 percent on recent social surveys), but it has diminished the quality of that belief. One regularly hears the complaint that popular belief in heaven smacks of a generic and sentimental spiritualism, far distant from the robust, Christ-centered resurrection faith of classical Christianity.

We believe in heaven, it seems, because we cannot bear not to, because we are either too optimistic or too despairing to deny ourselves the consolation of looking forward to a blissful reunion with the loved ones we have lost.

At the same time, we think that science and public reason go against this belief. Since we rely on science and public reason to regulate much of our existence, our belief becomes something private, tepid and inhibited. It does not animate our common life in the way that it did for past generations of believers. What is the source of our inhibitions? Whence this loss of nerve?

First, heaven appears to have fallen off our world map. Recall cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin, the first human to travel in space, who sent down the report, "I don’t see any god up here." Recall Rudolf Bultmann, the giant of 20th-century New Testament studies, who took as his starting point the assumption that the old mythical three-story picture of the cosmos (heaven above, earth in the middle, hell below) is as dead as a doornail. Their legacy is powerful. Today just about the only thinkers who seriously attempt to find room for heaven in the heavens are intellectual dreamers of a theosophical bent, who wax lyrical about the many dimensions through which the spirit wanders on its way home to the land of bliss. The rest of us share something of Walker Percy’s sense of being "lost in the cosmos.

The old synthesis of Ptolemaic cosmology and Christian worldview has collapsed and nothing has emerged to take its place. Efforts to tell a new story of the cosmos have been noble but flawed, producing embarrassing science or catch-all spirituality. Kant’s ethics of immortality attempted too little; Frank Tippler’s Physics of Immortality attempts too much.

Heaven has lost its coordinates; therefore we have lost our bearings. But the key thing is not to lose heart, remembering the assurance given in John 14:1-3: "Let not your hearts be troubled; believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And when I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also."

The old Ptolemaic cosmology cannot reserve this place for us any more than Copernicus or Einstein can take it away. In fact, if we take a closer look we find that the Christian doctrine of heaven was as problematic for ancient science as it is for modern. Gagarin could not see God in the heavens, but ancient cosmology could not see humans there. Aristotle taught what would become axiomatic for Greco-Roman thought: that everything from the moon down is subject to change and death, and everything above the moon is eternal. Among the fixed stars and the crystalline spheres of the heavens, there is no place for the changing human heart.

Similarly, the creation myths of the ancient Near East hinge on the separation of heaven, the realm of the gods, from earth, the realm of mortals, and in several accounts this separation of heaven and earth is the first significant act, When the gods created humans, Gilgamesh learns, "death for mankind they allotted, life in their own hands retaining." Israel inherited this idea: "The heavens are the Lord’s heavens, but the earth he has given to the sons of men" (Ps. 115:16). The Tower of Babel story echoes the old rumor of an ancient time when an invasion of heaven was attempted, with disastrous results.

It is all the more remarkable, then, that out of Israel came a strange new rumor: that God has prepared a welcome in heaven for those who love him -- for the martyrs who die in his cause, the prophets who transmit his word and, eventually, for all who die in his grace and friendship. This new rumor, which emerged at first only as an inchoate longing, gradually developed into the articulate hope and steadfast assurance that although we are mortal creatures, composed of dust and God’s breath, we may look forward to sharing in the immortality and blessedness that is God’s alone to give.

The world of classical Greece and Rome was prepared to accept the idea that our souls might journey to heaven, for heaven is the native climate of the immaterial soul. But nothing in classical cosmology could make sense of the specifically Christian understanding of heaven, determined as it is by the incarnation, passion and resurrection -- events that break all metaphysical rules. On his way down from heaven, Christ broke the rules of divine decorum; on his way down to Hades he broke the law of death; and on his way up to heaven he broke open the gate that separates the changing world from the eternal world. And he let the human riffraff in.

On Ptolemaic principles, heaven is by definition impenetrable by material bodies. The ascension is therefore as great a scandal for ancient science as for modern, as are all subsequent human incursions into heaven, from the assumption of Mary to the rapture of St. Paul to the final resurrection. No less scandalous is the belief that heaven has its outposts on earth, preeminently in the eucharistic presence. Try as it may, the modern world cannot make these revealed works of grace any more improbable than the ancient world did. Yet they come to us hearing the marks of sacred testimony and internal consistency, which is what we discover when we try to cast doubt selectively on any of the articles of faith.

The sophisticated will tell you that it is better to let dead maps lie: heaven is not a place but a state of being, a condition of communion with God. Moreover, it is often said that heaven is utterly mysterious; our endlessly varied pictures of heaven can only be endlessly varied ways of getting it wrong. True enough, but we are beings of imagination, and abstract ideas cannot animate us the way pictures can. We have to visualize in order to conceptualize. Better to picture heaven as a concrete place and then purify that picture of its crudeness than to be deprived of all pictures.

This is what our tradition provides us: a way of picturing heaven and a way of correcting that picture. A skeptic can tell us what is wrong with the old picture but cannot supply us with a new one.

But there are other worries. Next to the cosmological dilemma is a psychological one. What doctrine of man or theory of consciousness can render intelligible the notion of an afterlife in heaven? Philosophers have delighted in pointing out that the very idea of people surviving death is riddled with incoherence. The most enduring and popular version of this idea, which rests upon a dualistic model of personal identity, has come close to being laughed off the stage of respectable intellectual conversation.

Yet dualism has its strong points. When Sir Walter Raleigh was imprisoned in the Tower of London in 1618 awaiting execution, he took comfort from the thought that "Seeing my flesh must die so soone, / And want a head to dine next noone" he could look forward to carrying on quite nicely without his body, and with good company to boot: "And by the happie blisfull way / More peacefull Pilgrims I shall see / That have shooke off their gownes of clay / And goe appareld fresh like mee.

Raleigh did not stop to ask himself what would become of his personal identity when he shook off his gown of clay. But a philosopher might argue that with the gown of clay go most of the markers by which we identify him: adventurer, historian, soldier, champion of the Huguenots, captain of the queen’s guard, founder of the lost colony on Roanoke Island, fortune hunter, seeker of El Dorado and now doomed convict. How many of these facts of his biography, how many of his personal features, memories and idiosyncrasies could survive the loss of his head?

And this is a puzzle for everyone: How will I recognize myself when I am disincarnate and so little remains of the me that I once knew? What consolation is it to me or to my loved ones if the spiritual being I am to become in heaven cares little for the mundane being I have been here below?

Despite these difficulties, some competent philosophers still defend dualism (notably Richard Swinburne), and others propose new ways of imagining personal survival of death, Yet every such attempt is followed by a counterattack. The debate is endless, the quarrels are legion. The puzzle of immortality is turned this way and that, as if it were an improbable fossil or a three-legged duck, its paradoxes unpacked with the playful logic of a thought experiment in time travel. There is only one rule that governs this otherwise anarchic philosophical game: ignore God. When the argument about survival reaches a deadlock, to invoke God as a tiebreaker is viewed as a cheap trick, like the ploy of the physicist whose lengthy formula culminates with "and then a miracle occurs."

Philosophers may be right about the paradoxes of personal identity that arise when we try to imagine journeying to heaven after death, but similar paradoxes dog us throughout the course of our natural life. In life as in death we are creatures of inconsistency, discontinuity and self-contradiction. Dying only makes this more dramatic. We can never be sure that we are who we seem. Our only reliable identity card is a baptismal certificate, testifying that the One who made us has remade us in Christ, who, in Paul’s words to the Thessalonians, "died for us so that whether we wake or sleep we might live with him" (1 Thess. 5:10). Now and in the world to come, our identity consists of this communion and cannot be secured by any philosophical guarantee. Conversely, if we begin by ignoring God we will never make philosophical sense of the survival of death.

Certainly it is paradoxical, if not downright preposterous, to speak of someone, previously known to us only as this embodied person whom we meet for coffee, suddenly and unaccountably checking out of our space-time lodgings and showing up -- in the twinkling of an eye -- in a realm beyond all telling. Have you ever been struck by the oddness of dying? Along with the sorrow, when a friend dies, it sometimes hits us: what a very strange thing for Harry to have done on a Sunday afternoon. But this is the kind of paradox that comic artists, rather than philosophers, handle best. Leaving the body is not so much a logical contradiction as a particularly ungainly and undignified thing to do, in the same way that sex is ungainly and undignified and that being born is ungainly and undignified. It is essentially comical and has all the marks of a pratfall.

The word comedy comes from the Dionysian revels; the classical Greek view of comedy was that it depicts the clash of our animal energies with our rational intellect. If this is what comedy means, then it is comical to give birth and comical to be born, comical to cut teeth and comical to grow long in them. Puberty is comical and aging is comical. Only death, seen as the end, is tragic, for here the clash of body and spirit ends in defeat for both sides.

Yet if death is not the end but a translation to a new life, then the comedy resumes. Dante realized that the journey to heaven is essentially a comic matter, a commedia divina. He called his work a comedy because it has a happy ending, and he wrote in the rustic speech of vernacular Italian because his subject was a practical and popular one: the ordinary happiness of souls after death.

Humor trades in incongruity. The practical joker pulls the chair out from under the guest of honor, revealing that he, no less than the rest of us mortals, is a helpless subject of gravity. The divine joke is to pull the gravity out from under the chair. In the divine comedy, we play the part of the fool, but this turns out to be our best role. For our folly conducts us to paradise, bringing us into the arms of the beloved (as in the Shakespearean comedies of mismatched loves resolved) and lifting us to the court of the Most High, where by all logic and etiquette we most certainly do not belong. When finally we come to prostrate ourselves before the divine throne, it will very likely be because we have tripped.

So far I have set forth some of the obstacles to belief in heaven and have suggested that they need not be viewed as fatal. But I have a nagging sense that there is something wrong with this approach. Do we really want to make heaven plausible? Recall how Søren Kierkegaard anathematized the intellectual "approximation-process" by which we try to render religious ideas increasingly probable and free of offense. Why should we expect something of such surpassing goodness as heaven to fit into our minds in a believable way? If we manage to construct an altogether believable picture of heaven, we should count this as a strike against it. Conversely, it should count for the plausibility of heaven if there are elements of the preposterous or even the grotesque in our image of it.

The son of Rabbi Joshua ben Levi died and went to heaven but then returned to life. When Rabbi Joshua asked him what it was like, his son replied that it is exactly like this world, only everything is upside down, for there the lofty are brought low and the lowly raised to high esteem. Some of the best critical satires of heaven render its upside-down character very effectively. However merciless may be their send-up of heavenly ascents, they do more to make heaven real and attractive than any number of dry theological treatises, for they do justice to the comedy of it all.

Henry Fielding, the 18th-century English satirist who gave us Tom Jones, accordingly fights on the side of the angels in his unfinished book A Journey from This World to the Next (1743). It begins as follows:

On the first day of December 1741 I departed this life at my lodgings in Cheapside. My body had been some time dead before I was at liberty to quit it, lest it should by any accident return to life: this is an injunction imposed on all souls by the eternal law of fate, to prevent the inconveniences which would follow. As soon as the destined period was expired (being no longer than till the body is become perfectly cold and stiff) I began to move; but found myself under a difficulty of making my escape, for the mouth or door was shut, so that it was impossible for me to go out at it; and the windows, vulgarly called the eyes, were so closely pulled down by the fingers of a nurse, that I could by no means open them. At last I perceived a beam of light glimmering at time top of the house (for such I may call the body I had been inclosed in), whither ascending, I gently let myself’ down through a kind of chimney, and issued out at the nostrils as the window was wide open, I sallied forth into the open air: but, to my great astonishment, found myself unable to fly, which I had always during my habitation in the body conceived of spirits; however, I came so lightly to the ground that I did not hurt myself and, though I had not the gift of flying (owing probably to my having neither feathers nor wings), I was capable of hopping such a prodigious way at once, that it served my turn almost as well. I had not hopped far before I perceived a tall young gentleman in a silk waistcoat, with a wing on his left heel, a garland on his head, and a caduceus in his right hand.

The young gentleman turns out to be Mercury, attired as he appears in the theater, who in his traditional role as psychopomp (conductor of souls to the realm of the dead) directs the author, still hopping, to a coach that is set to depart for the next world.

The picture of this hapless soul hopping to meet his Maker lingers longer than any skeptical message Fielding may have wished to convey; it is so preposterous that it may as well be true. At least it is consistent with the other preposterous and indecorous positions in which we find ourselves as we hop from womb to cradle and from cradle to grave. Why should the transition from death to eternal life be any tidier than these have been?

Perhaps the greatest obstacle to a robust belief in heaven is tile curious notion that a life of eternal blessedness would be boring. This charge has been made by theologians as discerning as Paul Tillich, satirists as sharp-witted as Mark Twain and countless others of much duller perception. It’s not really a very subtle point. My five-year-old son raised the same objection early one morning while he was bouncing on the bed where I was trying to sleep. "Momma," he said, "you’re Mary and I’m the baby Jesus. Up here is heaven, downstairs is earth. And in the basement there’s a secret passageway that goes to another world." To which I gave a half asleep "Uh-huh." Then Andy, still bouncing, said, "Let’s go downstairs. There aren’t enough rooms in heaven." To which I replied, hoping to buy more time in bed, "But I thought you said your father’s house has many mansions!"

Given eternity, many of us fear that there will not be enough mansions to keep us entertained. Because the liturgy gives us our best image of heaven, because the words and actions of public worship mimic the divine service performed by the angels and saints who attend God’s throne, a rumor has gotten out that heaven will be church services that never end, This is a terrifying prospect to my 13-year-old. It reminds me of the story about the little girl who asked whether, if she were very good up in heaven, they’d let her go down to play in hell on Saturday afternoons,

But boredom is in the eyes of the beholder. My son also thinks it’s boring to go to a museum, to sit still or to do anything contemplative for very long. We all have different boredom thresholds. Is it too much to hope that our boredom threshold will be raised when we are raised? Even in this life there are moments when church is truly enthralling; why should the inability to be bored not be one of the gifts with which the Holy Spirit endows the blessed?

Entry into eternal life means being remade in the image and likeness of the one who made us, being transformed by the renewal of our minds. Dante establishes this principle at the outset of the Paradiso, when in gazing upon Beatrice, he is "transhumanized" so that he may eventually be capable of looking upon God: "Gazing at her, I felt myself becoming / what Glaucus had become tasting the herb / that made him like the other sea-gods there."

By definition, heaven cannot be boring. If our picture of heaven is boring, then the fault lies with the picture and not with heaven. It simply means that we have not yet tasted the herb that would allow us to see, that we have not taken seriously the promise of transhumanization -- or deification, as it is called by the church fathers and in the Christian East.

There are times when heaven does look boring, however, and that is most often when it is made too generic. A general-issue heaven, made to please everyone, ultimately satisfies no one, as John Hick’s heaven illustrates. Hick, one of the few prominent philosophers of religion who concerns himself with personal eschatology, has labored over the past few decades to construct a picture of heaven that is free of religious particularity. Hick’s heaven is a pluralistic realm in which souls progress through a series of religiously influenced dream worlds toward ever higher planes of existence. As they progress they discard the specific elements of their own religious traditions and gravitate toward an all-inclusive Reality -- a reality that bears a striking resemblance to the universalistic teachings favored by late-20th-century religion professors.

I prefer a more primitive conception of heaven, a heaven that is concrete, peopled, concatenated, hierarchical and symphonic; as lush as the pure land of the celestial Buddha Amitabha, as visceral as the Islamic garden of the houris, as engrossing to an academic like me as the rabbinic vision of heaven as a Talmudic house of study, and as immediate as the paradise that Christ promised to the good thief dying at his side.

Heaven will no doubt be much more real than can be conveyed by such poor images, for as St. Paul says, "No eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man conceived, what God has prepared for those who love him" (1 Cor. 2:9). But certainly it will not be less real, In this realm there is no eating or drinking, no marriage or giving in marriage, no procreation or aging; yet everything good that we experience in eating and drinking, in love and sex, in our young bodies and our aging bodies, will be translated there to perfection. We will recline at banquet tables and feast on Leviathan. Although the ultimate experience of heaven is beyond imagination, there is no reason not to exploit our imagination until its resources are exhausted and we say with Dante, "Here power fails the high fantasy."

The truly boring heaven is one from which the prospect of a personal relationship with God is absent. What could be more dreary than life everlasting without God? Conversely, conceptions of heaven with God as center and source are, or should be, endlessly rich and appealing. In communion with God, in the beatific vision, we are promised the perfect happiness and fulfillment that never wanes. As Jonathan Edwards puts it, "They shall see every thing in God that gratifies love. They shall see in him all that love desires. Love desires the love of the beloved. So the saints in glory shall see God’s transcendent love to them; God will make ineffable manifestations of his love to them. They shall see as much love in God towards them as they desire; they neither will nor can crave any more."

Perhaps it is not boredom that this vision evokes in us so much as fear. We may be told that it is wonderful to be taken up into eternity, but we are well aware that it will cost us the sacrifice of our narrow ego-self and most of the things to which we are attached. Along with fear of eternity, there is fear of perfection, fear of having our deepest wishes granted, fear of our own desires. In John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, as the heroes Christian and Hopeful approach the celestial city they fall sick with desire; but ultimately this sickness heals them and makes them strong enough to bear the delights of the beatific vision. In effect they have been through purgatory, which is one of our best defenses against the fear of heaven.

There was a time when my son Andy suddenly became afraid of heaven. It lasted only a few days, but he was quite stricken with fear. He had heard that heaven was a perfect place, where nothing is lacking for our happiness -- families reunited, harmony, delight, Popsicles aplenty -- but none of this could console him. He wasn’t ready to imagine leaving our little house on a quiet hillside road with ant colonies in the driveway and moss on the steps. I tried to convey to him, as a rule of thumb, that whatever he found missing from his picture of heaven should be made up by the exercise of his imagination. If our picture of heaven fails to inspire longing and delight, the problem is not with heaven but with us -- we have not pictured it right.

How, then, can we exercise our imagination to make heaven more real? Not, I would like to suggest, by giving it free rein. Not by subtracting features that strike us as conventional or mythological. Improvisation will make the picture shallow, turning the vault of heaven into a mirror in which we discern only our own face.

We do better to let our imagination steep in tradition. Think of the great artists of heaven: heaven’s poets Dante, Spenser, Milton, Donne, Herbert, Vaughan, Traherne, Bunyan; or heaven’s painters Fra Angelico, Luca Signorelli, Botticelli, Correggio, Van Eyck, Lochner. Only because they have fully assimilated the traditional Christian iconography of heaven are they able to play freely with its conventions. Only because their imagination is thoroughly saturated with Christian symbol and doctrine are they able to manifest a fully realized and believable heaven.

Let me take a stab, then, at painting a believable picture of heaven, as our tradition teaches us to envisage it. Heaven is the realm of God and the reign of God, the realm of the saints and the future world of the resurrection. Here the Father rules with Christ in glory, in the power of the Holy Spirit, one God the only immortal. Here is the Sabbath morning of creation, in which all time is enfolded and from which all times radiate. All light comes from here, all energy, goodness, love, holiness, intelligence and truth.

Here kingdom is commonwealth and empire is family. Here is the Madonna in the Rose Garden with the child Jesus in her lap. Here is every mother with her young child. Here is every young child grown to full stature. Here is every moment in which we discovered heaven on earth, God has saved these memories for us and purified them of the falseness with which they were inevitably mixed, restoring them to us no longer as isolated vanishing points but as his and therefore as more truly and reliably ours. In the same manner he will restore us to ourselves and to one another.

Those who die in God’s grace are drawn irresistibly by the beauty of God until they arrive at their proper station in the celestial hierarchy and find their complete happiness in adoration of the divine face. Not by their intrinsic merit or power do they travel, but solely by the good pleasure of their Creator and Lord who will not see his image in us shattered, his design for us brought to nothing. The blessed have arrived at perfection, a state of complete wholeness and maturity that is at least as incomprehensible to us now as the rewards of adulthood are to those caught in the hectic fever of adolescence. But each one has a unique purchase on perfection. Glory is unequal, hierarchically distributed as in a Fra Angelico painting, for the relationship between God and humankind is not a generic condition but a person-specific one, composed of divine election and our free response.

The idea of the unequal glory of the blessed may run against our egalitarian instincts, but it is really a way of saying that individuals count, Saints are highly idiosyncratic. Between Bernard and his namesake Bernardino, Teresa of Jesus and her namesake Teresa of the Infant Jesus, Anthony the Great and his namesake Anthony of Padua, there is the greatest difference in the world. They followed the same ideal, they conformed their life to that of Christ, and they adhered to the ways of his church, yet all this conforming made them freer than most to be their own peculiar selves. From the lives of the saints we get an inkling of the kind of personal existence that is fit to emerge intact from the altar fire of death and enter into the divine fire of heaven.

Some pictures of heaven are strongly theocentric, depicting the blessed as caught up in an endless rapture of adoration; others are sociable and anthropocentric. But a more adequate picture of heaven would be theocentric and anthropocentric at once. We find such a picture in the tenth-century Irish Vision of Adamnan, in a curious scene that captures the sociability of the beatific vision. Adamnan discovers that the company of saints who encircle the divine throne have acquired the power to face in all directions at once: "None turns back nor side to other, but the unspeakable power of God has set and keeps them face to face, in ranks and lofty coronels, all round the throne, circling it in brightness and bliss, their faces all toward God,"

A similar episode occurs at the end of Dante’s Paradiso, when Dante reaches the apex of heaven and the end of his wits. Only because he is empowered by grace can he gaze directly on the divine light without being annihilated. And the longer he gazes the more clearly he sees, until gradually he discerns that the Great Light is shining in three circles. "The first seemed to reflect the next like rainbow on rainbow, and the third was like a flame equally breathed forth by the other two."

We have all heard ultimate reality described as a dazzling light -- the motif is in Shelley, it forms the centerpiece of the Tibetan Buddhist Book of the Dead, indeed it is well-nigh universal. But what we have in Dante’s vision is a complex trinitarian dance of lights, a luminous and effervescent assembly, rather than a single searing radiance. More amazing, Dante sees a human form imprinted upon and united with the three circles of light. This human form is no mere projection; it radiates from the divine essence. From this we learn that the beatific vision does not cancel out our personality or God’s, but rather gives us the measure by which we may understand all human possibility, and it places sociability at the heart of divine union, It is a profoundly ecclesial vision. Our fear of eternity might be overcome if we were capable of envisioning it as a fellowship of this kind.

Andy recovered from his fear of heaven after he had a dream, on Epiphany 1999, of which I give his verbatim account: "I dreamed I was with all the nuns and monks and there were nice animals there too. There were nice pigs and raccoons and giraffes. All the animals were there and they were nice. And all the nuns were there. And one was named Father Anselm. And my brother was there and you and Dad and Mom. And Cassidy was there, And lots of nice animals. And my teachers were there. All the nuns and monks and my family and everybody I love was there. And nice animals."

Here is a perfect image of the peaceable kingdom, or paradise regained. It has a terrestrial quality to it, but that has never deterred Christian writers from pressing such images unto service as previews of heaven. Andy ceased to fear heaven when he learned how to conceive it after the image of his own sociable and pastoral heart, as a realm where nuns and nice pigs dwell in friendship.

If we wish to make heaven believable, we would do well to follow the method of St. Anselm, the 11th-century Benedictine who is famous for devising the one argument for the existence of God that asks God to provide the argument for his own existence. Anselm begins by addressing God directly: Lord who made me and remade me -- me fecisti et me refecisti -- illuminate my mind so that I may understand that You exist so truly that You cannot be thought of as not existing. We might consider doing the same: Lord who made me and remade me, illuminate my mind so that I may understand that you exist so truly that you cannot be thought of as forsaking your creatures, forgetting your revealed promises, or bringing to naught the work of redemption you began with the incarnation and sacrifice of your beloved Son.

Mister Rogers

In the two decades since MTV captured the restless souls and short attention spans of our youth, it has become increasingly evident that teaching and learning require new strategies. The classroom lecture is dead, reading is an endangered art, and memorization belongs next to exorcism in the dustbin of discarded teaching arts. To engage the interest of young people, we have to dazzle them with quick-cutting graphics in an environment that is interactive, fast-changing and stylishly fragmented.

The above statements, commonplace as they are, are all false. How do we know they are false? Because of Mister Rogers, the saintly Presbyterian minister and TV presence whose death on February 27 felt to millions like the loss of a friend, a teacher or even a father. Mister Rogers won his devoted audience by breaking the rules of entertainment technology: he bestowed attention instead of grabbing it.

From its debut in 1966 until filming stopped in 2000, Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood steadfastly refused to evolve. It kept the steady camera work, the meager props and the familiar performers who looked more like local talent than TV stars. But it would be a mistake to think that the shows were artless. There was high art in the way they conducted the viewer by trolley from the toy world of the village, to the innerworld of the living room, to the outer world of factories and offices, to the otherworld of the Neighborhood of Make-Believe, and safely home again.

I’m tempted to call it sacred art, for it’s clear that this gentle and canny minister saw himself as offering through television the biblical hospitality that makes pilgrims and strangers welcome. Imagine, if you will, a televised moving icon of Abraham and his three guests.

Sacred hospitality requires homeliness. Therefore Mister Rogers’ living room could not keep pace with the current standards for an American home. Where is the open floor plan? Where are the yawning abysses from conversation pit to cathedral ceiling? Instead, we are in a slightly frayed but cozy little sitting room, where we can be ourselves. When Mister Rogers changes into his sweater and takes off his shoes, it’s a biblically charged gesture of self-emptying humility and welcome. Moses took off his shoes for God, and now Mister Rogers takes off his shoes for us, as he talk-sings the familiar litany: It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood, / A beautiful day for a neighbor. /Would you be mine? Could you be mine?

Unfailingly Mister Rogers displays courtesy rather than folksy familiarity, using titles rather than first names, and keeping his tie on along with the comfortable cardigan, as if to say that unlimited kindness expresses itself best through limits and routines. Mister McFeely, the Speedy Delivery postman, is a courier of courtesy as he travels from house to house, making a neighborhood out of what would otherwise be just a zip code. We are reminded that neighborhoods are arbitrary, tumbling us together with people we didn’t choose; and that what makes a good neighborhood is not emotional bonds but bonds of courtesy, a virtue whose courtly origins become transparent in the Neighborhood of Make-Believe.

Oddly, Mister Rogers shows the same courtly attention to inanimate objects. True child of Pittsburgh, his vision of heaven is industrial-pastoral, a world of natural beauty and of marvelous yet human-scale machines. Looking through the Picture-Picture Machine into a crayon factory, Mister Rogers observes with awe the crayon’s journey by conveyor belt and human hands from bucket to mold to label machine to collating machine to boxing machine to stores.

In a wagon factory, we see a robotic arm paint metal-stamped frames wagon-red, as wheels upon wheels, spray-painted white, pop into a giant bin. It’s as we’ve been privileged to look into the hidden world where things are made, and see at the heart of this shining contrivance the dignity and holiness of human work. Pausing near an assembly-line worker in a sneaker factory, Mister Rogers reflects, "She works carefully . . . I never knew it took so many people and so many machines to make a pair of sneakers. . . . I wonder if she ever thinks about the people who wear the shoes that she makes?" An industrial training film on the same subject would he a mind-numbing bore, but under the warm light of Mister Rogers’ attention the factory becomes an Elysian plain. Here’s proof that the antidote to boredom is not distraction but attention.

The disciplined, courteous, loving attention which he gave to each person, as a marvel of supreme worth, was what made Fred Rogers a source of endless comfort for his young viewers. You are special, he sang to them, and you can never go down the drain. In a message taped after September 11, Fred Rogers told parents, "Probably what children need to hear most from us adults is that they can talk to us about anything and that we will do all we can to keep them safe in any scary time."

Keeping children safe is our inescapable obligation and the measure of our adulthood. You and I may differ about what must be done to keep the world safe from moral chaos, tyranny and terror. We may not be pacifist vegetarian teetotalers like Fred Rogers, but if we can learn from him about the life-giving power of self-emptying attention, then there will always be reason for hope.

"I’ll be back when the day is new, and I’ll have more ideas for you." Where have we heard that promise before?

Labors of Love (Jn. 5:1-6; Jn. 15:9-17)

These are some of the nicest, happiest verses in scripture, easy to read because we all agree that we should love one another. Sunday school teachers affirm the thought; countless potholders and pillows are embroidered with it. Jeffrey Moses, in a book called Oneness, offers Jewish, Christian and Buddhist texts in the hope of showing that the three religions share the message: Love one another.

And then there’s Robbie. Robbie wore out her welcome at the social service agencies a long time ago. Her poverty is real -- I’ve seen the place where she lives. But she lives a hard life and runs through help like water. After a while you want to tell her enough’s enough.

Recently she called the church repeatedly to ask for groceries. When I picked up the last call, I invited her to come to the food pantry on Monday. She said she didn’t have a car. Couldn’t someone drive some food out her way? "I haven’t had nothing to eat in four days," she moaned. Folks who come to the pantry take whatever we have, but Robbie wanted smoked turkey, lean roast beef and a pound of coffee (decaf).

A bad storm had dumped a foot of snow on the community. Unwilling to saddle someone else with this request, I trudged down to the food pantry, filled a few grocery sacks and drove 20 miles out to her place, now and then muttering under my breath. The apartment was as awful as you can imagine: a single-story cinderblock building with a rotted roof. No one had bothered to plow the lot.

Bobbie could see me coming. She stepped out of her door, smoking a cigarette. "Did you bring me the coffee?" she asked. "Decaf?"

I stopped about 20 yards out from her door. The snow was thick.

"Pastor," she said, "could you pull up a little closer?"

"Robbie, just stay there," I said, and waded through the drifts with first one sack, then the other, feeling the burden in my lower back.

She beamed, but before a conversation could begin I said, "Well, I think that’s about it," and left without asking anything about her or what more she might need. It was not one of my better days in ministry.

I did, however, feel lighter. In spite of myself I felt glad to have been of some help. And about a hundred yards down the road, I had the odd feeling that when I am judged, it will be by what I do for Robbie.

Love one another. Today’s scriptures don’t just advise us; they command us, with the same force that Moses brought the law down from Sinai. Jesus himself says, "I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another." He calls us to love whether or not we feel love. Sometimes the feeling comes first, and the work is easy. In any event, says the First Letter of John, "His commandments are not burdensome."

We read these words, as we are meant to, in the context of Easter. God has given the ultimate love gift, one that recognizes and answers all the pain in the world, and it’s not a warm, fuzzy feeling. For God to bring good out of all things -- even out of the cross -- is an act of love.

Of all the Gospel writers, John gives us the most pointed post-Easter story, one in which Jesus repeatedly asks Peter, "Do you love me?" and commands him to "feed my sheep." It’s a story that recognizes that even the miracle of Easter doesn’t always motivate us as it ought, at least not on schedule. One by one, we come around and "we love because he first loved us," by which John means that we act. Surely God’s hope is that our feeling will join our actions so that ministry happens spontaneously, naturally and joyfully.

Today’s mail brought a package from a friend in Chicago. Sam is a large, shambling, shy man who can’t quite look you in the eye when he speaks, but who does the most extraordinarily kind things. He has always lived simply so he can devote most of his time to these quiet works. Whenever he baked communion bread for his church, he would bring extra loaves to those of us at the seminary, and he’d add insights from his devotional readings of Henry David Thoreau, W. H. Auden and Wendell Berry.

When I was in seminary, I was often in real need. That bread made a one-course meal for me on many Saturdays and Sundays, when hardly anybody else knew that I was desperately hungry. I didn’t have a car, and I burned a lot of calories walking. Sam did without a car, too, and the unassuming, almost angelic way he ordered his life taught me a lot about ministry.

Sam is in bad health these days and shuffles around on numbed feet. Traveling by elevated train has become difficult. But getting out to do things for others "is what really gives me pleasure these days," he says. Now he’d sent me a book and a long note. At the bottom of the note was this verse: "A new heart I will give you and a new spirit I will put within you."

That is what Easter is supposed to do.

Christ’s commandments are not burdensome. "My yoke is easy, and my burden is light." Love is the lightest of responsibilities, What else do we mean by a labor of love? The difficulty is when we take up the labor before the love. When we get it right, the work of love is hardly work at all.

A Wandering Faith (Heb. 11:1-3, 8-16)

In 1492, the Jews were expelled from Spain. For centuries they had been tolerated there, and their labor had helped to build a great country. But King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, anxious to establish their hold over a newly united Spain by means of the Catholic Church and the Inquisition, gave the Jews a stark choice: they must be baptized or flee.

Even though they were not allowed to take gold or silver with them and had to forfeit their homes, 165,000 of them reluctantly chose to go. All they took with them, besides a few simple possessions, was their faith. These Sephardic Jews settled in North Africa, Greece and Turkey. Today their descendants number 2 million. They still keep enormous, ancient house keys that last touched their locks some 500 years ago -- symbols of dispossession and of hope that someday they might go home.

The legend of the Wandering Jew, who supposedly refused to help Christ along the Via Dolorosa and so was condemned to a dolorous exile, is a cruel echo of Jewish history. It recalls the nomadic Abraham, "a wandering Aramean," and the Hebrews who wandered in the desert for forty years, as well as those exiled from Israel by the Babylonians and the Romans. The irony of the legend is that somehow this terrible history of dispossession didn’t destroy the Jews’ faith -- it established it. All those settled, comfortable ancient peoples have crumbled into the sands, while the Jews have survived with their faith intact. At times they have had nothing but faith. Maybe that’s the key.

Jesus was a wandering Jew -- an itinerant preacher who said, "Foxes have holes, birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head." His followers too were wandering Jews -- carrying not even cloaks, bags or sandals, only a powerful faith. Several years after his death and resurrection, they were still wandering, and wondering: Shouldn’t we have arrived at the kingdom of God by now? The Letter to the Hebrews encouraged those Christian pilgrims to keep on living by faith, "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

It was called not "the letter to the Jewish Christians" but "the Letter to the Hebrews," using the older term. It recalled how Abel, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and Moses all lived and died seeing only part of the promise realized; yet they were blessed along the journey. This wonderful letter suggested that Christians who become like those Hebrews become better Christians.

The truth is, we are all wandering Jews: Jews through Christ, who brought us into God’s family; and wanderers, pilgrims who hope to go home.

In 1492, the same year that Spain expelled the Jews, it defeated the Muslims, or Moors, and soon the Inquisition forced them either to be baptized or leave. To this day, some of their descendants treasure symbols of those lost homes.

Not long ago, at a news conference in North Africa. a woman from the PLO was presented to reporters as a genuine refugee. Her father keeps in his possession, to this very day, the key to the house that his ancestors left 500 years ago when the Muslims were driven out of Spain. You heard right. Amazingly, some Muslims and Jews remember their dispossession in just the same way -- by keeping the keys to their former homes.

We Americans may be amazed to learn that Jews and Muslims lived peaceably together in Spain for almost a thousand years, and later in North Africa, often in the very same neighborhoods. This lasted well into the 20th century. The only people they did not want to live near were Christians.

I think this story has a lot to tell us about why we Christians have not been able to bring peace in the Middle East. Memories of us run deep, and perhaps we are not the trusted outsiders we think ourselves to be.

But a larger problem may be that Christianity seems to be about possession. Our Western privilege is at odds with a faith that supposedly began in radical simplicity.

Faith blooms in dispossession. When you don’t have anything else to hold onto, when you can no longer clutch lesser things, you hold onto your God, and your God holds onto you. As the Letter to the Hebrews recalled of Abraham and Moses,

They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth, for people who speak in this way make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If they had been thinking of the land that they had left behind, they would have had an opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, he has prepared a city for them (Heb. 11:13-16).

For similarly dispossessed people, the apostle Paul wrote, "For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, but eternal in the heavens" (2 Cor. 5:1).

In this eventful year, it is good for us to remember that someday our wanderings will end, our keys will touch the lock, and all God’s people will be home. It would be ironic and just, however, if the door did not open at once to our fists, if we Christians were made to wander a little longer. In fact it might do us good to find our pockets empty except for faith. After some wandering and wondering, we might discover that faith itself is the key.

A Lot of Junk (Luke 12:13-21)

Here in the rural upper Midwest, it seems every other person has a pole barn. Usually it’s full of old tires, old brakes, a trailer, dozens of tools gathering rust, coffee cans loaded with lug nuts and screws. But then almost nobody in America lives like the desert monks.

Ed and Edna’s place is pretty typical, I think. Her cupboards, bureaus, cabinets, garage, attic and spare bedroom have been crammed full of things that define her. ("Oh, you know Edna Furbelow," says her neighbor, "she collected Hummels.") Every once in a while, Edna took some of the clutter out to the front yard and sold it, although no one stepping inside her house ever knew the difference. Now that Edna has died and her husband’s pole barn has finally gotten emptied, everything must go.

It’s too bad she’s not here for the lesson, because there’s something morally instructive about an estate sale. Absent the owners, the items lose their meaning, so that even Ed and Edna’s kids and closest friends think, My God, there’s a lot of stuff here. What a lot of junk! The agent, who doesn’t want to haul it away, has priced everything low: books go for 50 cents, a big set of plates for a few bucks. Here is an old rusty bicycle from the Eisenhower era and a once-prized lamp that now seems hideous. Set out on the green grass outside the barn, Ed’s band saw and drill press, his pride and joy, appear headed for retirement. Now the auctioneer calls out Lot 152, a collection of four hundred Hummels. Eyes roll and knowing smiles break out, but no one bids. The auctioneer looks at the estate agent, the agent looks at Edna’s oldest daughter: a lifetime’s hobby and a person’s identity have come to this. It’s almost possible to hear Jesus asking, And these Hummels, whose will they be?

Which brings us to Jesus’ story about the man who stored up grain for many seasons in his barns, with such a surplus that he thought of building bigger barns. The word is never used, but it would have been plain to Jesus’ audience that this man had ignored the tithe. He had left no grain for the gleaners, the widows and the orphans, and the only tithe he had offered was a sigh of contentment.

As usual, we are a little too ready to assume that Jesus is speaking of someone else. The scribes and Pharisees? Those must be other people -- conservatives, surely. The "rich young ruler"? This man with so much laid up in his barn? Surely not us.

But Jesus is speaking to us, to the widow with her mite no less than the rich; perhaps most of all to us of the middle class. Our modest homes contain hundreds of stewardship lessons. We have overlearned or misapplied Joseph’s counsel to lay up stores in fat years for lean years. Much of our money is tied up in tomorrow -- pensions, IRAs -- while our neighbors need help today. And we tithe less and less: less than 2 percent. During the recent recession, charitable giving fell through the floor. Here in Newaygo County, one of the poorest in Michigan, unemployment stands at 9 percent, and the relief agencies need all the help they can get, yet many of our driveways boast RVs, snowmobiles and hobby cars.

Just a few years ago, some rural Christians expected a catastrophe, the coming of the Antichrist, and on the advice of their pastors stocked their Y2K shelters with rice and beans, portable generators and ammunition. Never mind that this fear was totally at odds with the gospel, which promises that God looks after the sparrows and the lilies of the field no less than his own children. Never mind that hoarding food supplies and guarding these supplies with guns was totally at odds with the gospel. If that time was notable for anything, it was that Christians themselves had become anti-Christians.

So Jesus is speaking to us of the middle class. But this story is not just about what we do personally; it has implications for what we do together.

For our country is a very rich man. The United Nations has asked the wealthiest countries to give at least seven-tenths of a percent of their GNP to foreign aid. Among them, America’s giving ranks dead last: it gives one-tenth of 1 percent. (Of course, we do provide enormous military aid.) Denmark, Norway, the Netherlands, Luxembourg and Sweden lead the world in generosity. In 2001, with a population of 5.3 million, less than that of greater Chicago, the Netherlands gave $3.2 billion, almost a third of what we gave. We Americans debate what constitutes a tithe, how much is subject to it, if it is regressive and should be modified for people of modest means -- say, for us. Meanwhile those godless Scandinavians seem to be practicing the tithe.

To be sure, there are needs close to home.

Not too far from Ed and Edna’s place, two young parents are trying to make a go of it in a trailer on her folks’ property. Family obligations and the threat of financial ruin hang over them constantly and strain their marriage. She was working at Wal-Mart until the second baby came along; now they have to hunt for the very lowest bargains. So they are here at the estate sale, picking through the tables, gleaning what they can.

"Everything must go, says the sign over the children’s clothes. They date back to the 1970s, amazingly preserved in tissue by Edna for her grandchildren, never imagining whose hands would take them.

One-tenth of 1 percent? Two percent? Or 10? Everything belongs to God, so everything must go for a good cause. And if we have not been generous in our lifetimes, God will compel us to give those things away, for someday we must go, too.

Seeing with a Thousand Eyes

For several weeks I’ve toted around Bruce Chatwin’s book The Songlines, on the off chance of having more time for it. Before he died at 48, Chatwin wrote a handful of brilliant travel books, this perhaps the most brilliant -- a funny and fascinating account of the Aboriginal songlines. Invisible to Western eyes, the songlines crisscross Australia, chaffing every rock and hollow. They are songs of creation, handed down from the Dreamtime, mythic maps of lands that white settlers have taken away. When the Aborigines walk and sing them, they re-create the world.

Chatwin knew from his experience as an appraiser for Sotheby’s that possessions weigh down the soul. He preferred to travel light. Nomads such as the Aborigines resonated with him. So in the shadow of AIDS he carried out a spiritual quest in cheeky prose as good as Truman Capote’s. The Songlines is by turns fiction and nonfiction, hilarious and profound. A good third of it is given over to Chatwin’s notes about nomads, drawn from a lifetime of reading:

When I rest my feet my mind also ceases to function. (J. G. Hamann)

The song still remains which names the land over which it sings. (Martin Heidegger)

Here was a man determined to pare his life down to its essence, and he did it with the insights of other writers. Chatwin went to Australia and brought back entertaining firsthand anecdotes, yet there is nothing in the book more personal than what he took from Herodotus, Thomas Carlyle and Sun Tzu. Reading about Chatwin’s reading is like seeing with a thousand eyes.

I can hardly wait to get back to this strange book, but it will have to wait. First there’s the men’s prayer breakfast, then the worship planning and staff meetings, and soon the morning will give way to an afternoon filled with papers, reports, bulletins to proof, mass e-mails that senders thought cute and faxes that advertise trips to Orlando ("Dear Mr. and Mrs. Church"). Underneath all these words piled on my desk, Chatwin’s book shines like a diamond.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was Dr. Seuss, Robert McCloskey. Beverly Cleary, Robert Louis Stevenson, Roald Dahl, F. B. White; then Eudora Welty, John Updike, Alice Munro. Nominally one might be a Christian from the cradle, but I was definitely a reader before I was a Christian.

It now seems that I found God just as naturally as I enjoyed stories, because literature raises spiritual issues. The Christian stories drew out my own stories and spun them together into one thread. You don’t have to be Aboriginal to think of God as a storyteller. Once God had my attention, there was no getting away.

C. S. Lewis followed the same songlines to faith. As a boy he eagerly read and reread Treasure Island and The Secret Garden. Only as a grown man, a professor of literature at Oxford, did he surmise that his reading had always been a religious experience. In one of his last books he explored that delight:

The first reading of some literary work is often, to the literary, an experience so momentous that only experiences of love, religion, or bereavement can furnish a standard of comparison. Their whole consciousness is changed. They have become what they were not before. But there is no sign of anything like this among the other sort of readers. When they have finished the story or the novel, nothing much, or nothing at all, seems to have happened to them.

To this day, unlikely sources bring me back to spiritual issues. Each week’s sermon preparation presents another opportunity to learn about the 1914 Christmas truce, say, or a medieval English traveler in China, and to connect these stories to sacred stories. Frankly, I should be paying churches for the privilege.

We pastors have so little time for reading that we often confine ourselves to what we think is expected of us. But books sing to us only when we read them with genuine curiosity. Then they take us outside of ourselves. Books exercise our inner eyes and encourage us to wander mentally, to go walkabout.

I suppose I should admit what I haven’t read: Calvin’s Institutes, Barth’s Dogmatics, Tillich’s Systematic Theology. So far no layperson has discovered these yawning holes in my education. Somebody will, however, find out that I’m probably the only pastor in North America who hasn’t read The Purpose Driven Life. (It’s not about me, Rick Warren says, and I believe him.) Tim LaHaye’s books I have happily left behind. And even though Jan Karon has tried to make her fiction cozy, I’ve never really felt at home in Mitford.

There are things a pastor has to read -- such as the local newspaper, even if it’s really small. Page one of the news in my own Lake Wobegon this week carries a breathless report about a four-year-old boy at the tractor supply store who tried to talk his father into purchasing a duckling: "Word on the decision was not available at press time."

Of course every day brings more junk mail -- advertisements for church furniture, stained glass repair, conferences at Willow Creek I don’t even bother to open some of it, and live in dread of tossing out something important.

Truth be told, the reading life of a pastor can be deadly dull. We are supposed to read what’s edifying and practical, but the vast ocean of human experience that really prepares us for preaching and pastoral care lies elsewhere. Barbara Brown Taylor says she reads fiction mostly. Maurice Boyd, an artist in the pulpit, says the greatest religious journal of the age is the New Yorker. And Eugene Peterson has long encouraged pastors to find inspiration in novels and poetry. "Spiritual reading refers not to the content of what is read but to the way in which a book is read," he says. "Spiritual reading does not mean reading on spiritual or religious subjects, but reading any book that comes to hand in a spiritual way, which is to say, listening to the Spirit, alert to intimations of God."

I share some of these attitudes. My taste is for books that are secular -- or rather, secular until I read them. (Everything filtered through the mind of a pastor ultimately comes out as preaching.) Maybe I should be studying How to Grow a Church or Better Stewardship Now!, but I am a wanderer, a nomad, what Robertson Davies called "a rake at reading."

Oddly, I feel restless with even the most admirable religious novelists. Flannery O’Connor is supposed to be a Christian novelist, but amid all her black humor and scathing artistry I find little grace. Instead I encounter a horror of human nature, a hair-trigger sensitivity to the base, crass or selfish. Maybe this makes her a prophet. As for J. F. Powers, though he allows for the occasional worldly saint, the air in his stories feels fairly cloistered.

Maybe for me the songlines run elsewhere. I prefer to read fiction that is not obviously religious -- or at least not orthodox. It is often more forgiving and humane. The work of Ian McEwan is a good example. Despite its title his novel Atonement avoids heavy-handedness in its exquisitely drawn character studies. An old-fashioned novel in many ways, it abounds with revelations of wrongs that flawed people try to put right. Some of their attempts -- the production of a play, for example -- become almost ceremonial. And when a woman marries a man with whom she has a troubled history, we wonder if she has invested the ceremony with too much hope. This deeply moving novel is a good example of how the secular can validate the sacred.

The poet Billy Collins is not especially religious, but he sure is stand-up funny, and his work has delightful philosophical depths. Sailing Alone Around the Room, a sort of greatest-hits album by this former U.S. poet laureate, shows off the dazzling effects of his verse. In "Introduction to Poetry," Collins encourages his students to "water-ski /across the surface of a poem/waving at the author’s name on the shore. / But all they want to do / is tie the poem to a chair with rope / and torture a confession out of it."

Collins puts me in mind of Andrei Codrescu, whose essays can be heard on National Public Radio’s All Things Considered. In fact, even though Collins has won fame by reading his poems aloud, in my mind I always hear them in Codrescu’s Romanian accent, for like all good poems they apprehend the familiar with immigrant eyes. In "Dharma," Collins considers his dog’s world as an example of a life without encumbrance: "If only she were not so eager / for a rub behind the ears, / so acrobatic in her welcomes. / if only I were not her god."

Collins has not styled these as religious poems. And yet they are -- if only because my eyes and ears have made them so.

Every once in a while I have the pleasure of appropriating for religious ends a non-religious book by a Christian.

Millions of readers have acclaimed C. S. Lewis as a Protestant saint (with allowances made for his pipe smoking and sherry drinking). At several stages in my reading life, too, he has left a deep impression. As a boy I loved his Narnia books as adventure stories; the Christian symbolism was lost on me. In college a Campus Crusader named Bob, very lanky, very earnest, pressed into my hands a copy of Mere Christianity -- one of the turning points in my spiritual awakening. Later on I deeply appreciated Lewis’s A Grief Observed, his incomparably eloquent, naked account of losing his wife and, almost, his faith. Lewis is one of those rare writers who grow with you.

But my current favorite comes from his academic life and has no obvious religious theme. For that reason it is one of his least read books, and yet it may be his finest. In An Experiment in Criticism, Lewis considers why different readers respond to books in different ways. He avoids judging either the books or the readers and instead proposes that different readers want different things. Some want the familiar, some seek something new, even out of books they have read before. Lewis describes himself as passionately curious:

My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others, Reality, even seen through the eyes of many, is not enough. I will see what others have invented. Even the eyes of all humanity are not enough. I regret that the brutes cannot write books. Very gladly would I learn what face things present to a mouse or a bee; more gladly still would I perceive the olfactory world charged with all the information and emotion it carries for a dog.

I think this has a lot to suggest about the religious imagination and why people come to faith in the first place, and why some gravitate to expressions of it that are not literal or cut-and-dried. The final paragraph is a beautiful celebration of reading:

Literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege, of individuality. There are mass emotions which heal the wound; but they destroy the privilege. In them our separate selves are pooled and we sink back into sub-individuality. But in reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action and in knowing, I transcend myself, and am never more myself than when I do.

And then there is the Bible. No amount of other reading does me much good as a preacher unless I regularly read the Bible. It is different from any other book. We can talk all day about its authority, yet its other qualities -- its life, wit, anger, passion, questions, answers -- are what really amaze me, I will never get to the bottom of it. To make the Bible an object of study or even reverence misses the point. It is a glass, a lens for looking at the world, and also a mirror for looking at ourselves.

Rarely do I sit down to read some defined portion of the Bible straight through. Instead my eyes meander through the pages about a wandering Aramean and his wayward children, about the roaming in the desert for 40 years. I take in the psalms of believers in exile. "Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests," says Jesus, "but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head." And here is Paul, traveling light, pointing a way out of the material world.

It is here that stories find their fullest resonance. We all have our own stories, and some of them remain locked up until the Bible brings them out of us. The Bible is made up not of chunks of theology that can be sliced like rings from a sausage, but of these sinewy, evocative, wonderfully personal tales. All they ask is that I pull up stakes, allow myself to be carried away, transported to another realm entirely, or at least into another chapter. Lewis is entirely right: Reading is seeing with a thousand eyes.

Tutu’s Story

Book Review:

Rabble-Rouser for Peace: The Authorized Biography of Desmond Tutu. By John Allen. Free Press, 496 pp.

 

 

Americans have sometimes seen the campaign against South African apartheid as a reprise of their own civil rights movement. P. W. Botha and other Afrikaners with clipped accents seem to have inherited the Bull Connor role, while the impossibly heroic Nelson Mandela might have emerged from a 27-year stay in a Birmingham jail. But this particular drama had its own mercurial character, in part reflecting the complicated, very human Desmond Tutu.

No one better embodied the contradictory times. Standing all of five foot three, Bishop Tutu could whip a crowd into a frenzy, then insist on nonviolence. He was given to making intemperate remarks and offering breathtaking forgiveness all in the same speech. The title of John Allen’s biography captures the seesaw spirit of this "rabble-rouser for peace."

Considering the challenges of the first half of his life, few would have guessed that Tutu would become such a forceful figure. He was lucky to survive childhood: born into near-poverty, sickly from birth, he contracted polio in infancy and then was badly burned. A community of Anglican monks shaped his life, and perhaps saved it -- providing hospital care for more than a year as he narrowly survived tuberculosis.

Among the Anglicans, Tutu went from being an indifferent student to a promising one. Unable to afford medical school, he followed his mentor, the activist Trevor Huddleston, into the priesthood. Tutu did not feel particularly called; it just seemed an expedient thing to do. His response to the Sharpeville massacre of 1960, in which police fired on an unarmed crowd, did not suggest his later faith or politics. Being part of "a very apolitical bunch," he felt "a kind of anger at God" at the time, but he never thought of demonstrating against the authorities.

Some questioned Tutu’s motives for becoming a priest. He developed a reputation as a spendthrift, which may have come from supporting an extended family, although he also sent his children to private schools. Other priests resented his rapid rise and considered him ambitious.

Huddleston had been right to see Tutu’s promise, however, and travels abroad raised Tutu’s political consciousness. As a student in England, he experienced such freedom and equality that apartheid could never again seem normal to him. Later, working for the Theological Education Fund of the World Council of Churches, he visited newly independent African nations and noted the pitfalls that South Africa might someday face. For example, Uganda under Idi Amin Dada had become a madhouse. Tutu’s letters from this period are remarkably prescient. He took Islam seriously and saw that Christianity had to address the continent’s appalling poverty: "How do you speak about a God who loves you, a redeemer, a saviour, when you live like an animal?" Having absorbed liberation theologians, he moved on to a specifically black theology.

In 1975, as Tutu returned to serve as dean of St. Mary’s Cathedral in Johannesburg, the Afrikaner government moved to further disenfranchise millions of blacks. Sensing that the poorest townships could explode, Tutu publicly pleaded, "Please do not provoke us into despair and hopelessness. Please for God’s sake." Privately he wrote President John Vorster a long letter of warning:

Freedom, Sir, is indivisible. The whites of this land will not be free until all sections of our community are genuinely free. . . . I am writing to you, Sir, because I have a growing nightmarish fear that unless something drastic is done very soon then bloodshed and violence are going to happen in South Africa almost inevitably.

Within six weeks, the Soweto uprising began almost literally on Tutu’s doorstep.

Tutu faced a difficult balancing act: voicing black discontent while leading a largely white parish. Alternately charming and challenging them, he appealed to their Afrikaner heritage, recalling that their forebears had endured British concentration camps. Somewhat to the bewilderment of other black leaders, he patiently courted Vorster’s successor, P. W. Botha, explaining that even Moses continued to reason with Pharaoh. But white liberals grew nervous when Tutu called for a boycott of South African products.

What scared whites most about Tutu was that he would not renounce armed struggle. The use of violence was, of course, a desperate measure -- but blacks, he said, were desperate. Tutu professed himself "flabbergasted at how most of the Western world turned pacifist all of a sudden. The same Western world lauded to the skies the underground resistance movements during the last world war."

The farther Tutu waded into the fight, the braver he became, especially after receiving the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984. (From what Allen has learned, the Nobel committee selected Tutu because he was "less controversial" than some other South African candidates. State broadcasters thought otherwise and gave his award little mention.) Believing victory against apartheid to be inevitable, he also spoke against black violence -- even threatening to leave the country should it get out of hand.

Tutu’s nature at times might have seemed contradictory, but Allen says,

Tutu the ebullient extrovert and Tutu the meditative priest who needed six or seven hours a day in silence were two sides of the same coin. One could not exist without the other; in particular, his extraordinary capacity to communicate with warmth, compassion, and humor depended on the regeneration of personal resources, which in turn depended on the iron self-discipline of his prayers.

Perhaps. Compared to, say, Mandela, Tutu was anything but disciplined. "If the Russians were to come to South Africa today then most blacks who reject communism as atheistic and materialistic would welcome them as saviours," he declared. After standing up to Botha in a shouting match, he admitted, "I don’t know whether that is how Jesus would have handled it. But at that moment I didn’t actually quite mind how Jesus would have handled it. I was going to handle it my way." He flatly called Ronald Reagan a racist, and fired this off for good measure: "I am quite angry. I think the West, for my part, can go to hell."

Such bluster made it possible for people to miss that he was right about so many things – disinvestment, for example. Even if disinvestment threw blacks out of work, Tutu argued, at least they would be suffering "with a purpose." And disinvestment did succeed, causing the value of the Rand to plunge and pressuring the government toward reform. Operating by intuition rather than calculation, Tutu knew when it was safe to press an advantage. Never were his instincts better than in September 1989, when F. W. deKlerk took office. Without consulting other leaders or obtaining legal permission, Tutu called for a march. Thirty thousand people filled the streets of Cape Town, and peaceful protests broke out all over the country. That was the turning point: within months, Mandela was freed from prison, and apartheid was beginning to crumble.

Allen was Tutu’s media secretary and has known the archbishop for 30 years. One might have expected a tame, worshipful "authorized" biography of South Africa’s black Anglican archbishop (now emeritus), but this one really captures a full man. Heavily researched and benefiting from Allen’s long experience as a journalist, it will probably remain definitive.

The book’s most fascinating chapters tell of Tutu’s work with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, to which Allen was an eyewitness. Believing that apartheid had damaged whites as well as blacks, Tutu put the nation on a very Christian path toward repentance, restitution and forgiveness. "There is no future without forgiveness," he insisted. Some proud figures, such as Botha and deKlerk, did not want forgiveness, and others, such as Winnie Mandela, offered only slender apologies. But Tutu’s commission went a long way toward reestablishing ubuntu-botho, or humaneness, in South Africa.

Tutu has not shied away from other contentious issues. Allen notes Tutu’s support for homosexuals, AIDS patients and Palestinians -- all victims of apartheid, he says.

Allen tells one of the great chapters in our faith, one that we may not have fully appreciated until now. An unlikely prophet, Desmond Tutu brought the Christian gospel into a real world of slums, pass laws, detentions and deferred hopes. He merits the highest praise anyone can give a mere human being: he made the gospel come alive.