Season’s Greetings (Luke 19:28-40)

On the day after Christmas, my family and I moved from New Jersey to Georgia. In order to set up housekeeping as swiftly and smoothly as possible, we had carefully marked the packing boxes holding our more urgently needed belongings with such labels as "coffee maker!!!" "linens," "clock radio" and "kitchen utensils." These we opened quickly, but it was many weeks before we got around to the last few boxes, those inscribed as "stuff from the den closet" and "miscellaneous/guest room."

Out of one of these last boxes tumbled a surprise -- a stack of Christmas cards received from friends just before we moved. On top of the stack was a lovely blue card showing the night sky over Bethlehem ablaze with stars and angels. Inside were the familiar words from Luke: "Glory to God in the highest! Peace on earth! Good will to all people!"

Abruptly confronted by these words deep into the season of Lent, I realized how fleeting much of our religious language is. For a brief season we sing, "Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled," but then the carols fall silent, we stuff the hopeful cards into a drawer and turn again to the wearying march of days. "Glory to God! Good will to all people!" Like pebbles slung across a pond, vows of faith and love skip across the surface of life for a moment before sinking out of sight and memory.

Arthur Schlesinger Jr. tells a story about Philip Gourevich, who has written about genocide in Rwanda. One day Gourevich was standing in front of the Holocaust Museum in Washington reading a newspaper. On the front page were photographs of murdered Tutsis, their swollen bodies floating down a river. And as he stood there, Gourevich noted, "People were walking by me on the way to work wearing buttons saying ‘Remember’ and ‘Never Again."’

Remember. . . Never Again. . . Peace on Earth . . . Good Will to All People. . . . If these are to be more than easy expressions of cheer and fleeting good intentions, they must be seen not as sentiments but as commands, words that summon not just a mood but a steady and faithful obedience. This is why Luke tells us that a nearly forgotten Christmas card fell across the path of Jesus as he rode down from the Mount of Olives. "Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!" cried the disciples. Luke wants us to know that these words we so cheerily send to each other at Christmas come with a Good Friday price. The words sung at Jesus’ birth are now marking his path to Calvary. The angels’ cry of "Glory to God in the highest! Peace on earth! Good will to all people!" was not merely a birth announcement but a set of marching orders to which Jesus was obedient throughout his life.

When Jesus entered Jerusalem, he did so as a king, but his royalty was not pomp and power but humble obedience. In obedience he set his face to Jerusalem, knowing that violence awaited him at journey’s end. In obedience he traveled along the way, eating and drinking with sinners, and remaining faithful to God’s desire to gather the rejected and the lost. Then he entered the city to make peace with the offering of his own life.

To live the Christian life is to assume the pattern of Jesus’ obedience, to allow "Glory to God in the highest! Peace on earth! Good will to all people!" to become a drumbeat marking our own steps along the pilgrim way. For Jesus, obedience meant carrying the cross; for most of us, it means lifting a thousand little and daily crosses in the complexities and demands of our many relationships.

That is surely one of the reasons we are given the rather odd account of the disciples being sent to fetch a colt for Jesus. Strange, isn’t it, how in the midst of the great and suspenseful drama of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, Luke devotes part of the narrative to fussing about this rather peripheral matter of Jesus’ transportation? Yet what we have is the story of the disciples’ small obedience performed under the canopy of Jesus’ great obedience. In the securing of the colt, they do as they are told and in so doing, the small and tattered strands of their lives are woven into the great story of redemption. Maintaining hope, claims Glenn Tinder in The Fabric of Hope, is largely a matter of obedience. "People who strive, without pride, to meet the responsibilities they encounter in their historical and personal situations will . . . encounter Christ."

In Saul Bellow’s Mr. Sammler’s Planet, Sammler gazes at the face of his dead friend Elya Gruner as he prays, "Remember, God, the soul of Elya Gruner, who as willingly as possible and as well as he was able, and even to an intolerable point, and even in suffocation and even as death was coming was eager.., to do what was required of him.... He was aware that he must meet, and he did meet -- through all the confusion and degraded clowning of this life.., the terms of his contract. The terms which, in his inmost heart, each man knows... For that is the truth of it -- that we all know, God. . . ."

Because Jesus "even as death was coming" knew what was required of him and did what he was called to do, the whole of creation can now sing confidently, "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest heaven!"

Cityscape

Book Review:

Gods of the City: Religion and the American Urban Landscape

Edited by Robert Orsi. Indiana University Press, 581 pp., paperback.

The Gold Coast Church and the Ghetto:

Christ and Culture in Mainline Protestantism.

By James Wellman. University of Illinois Press, 304 pp., paperback.

A Particular Place: Urban Restructuring and Religious Ecology in a Southern Exurb.

By Nancy Eiesland. Rutgers University Press, 256 pp., paperback.

Public Religion and Urban Transformation: Faith in the City.

Edited by Lowell Livezey. New York University Press, 280 pp., paperback.

Hardly anyone likes suburban sprawl. Although most suburbanites prefer to live in suburbs, many of them regret that so many others have followed them out of the city, thereby destroying the advantages that attracted them in the first place. For many, the answer is to move still farther out. Rural landscapes recede, traffic increases and strip malls proliferate.

The cities and suburbs in which we live significantly affect our lives, including our religious lives. But too many churches of all denominations, especially metropolitan ones, are unreflective about the implications of their particular geographic location. Once they have chosen a favorable spot (a corner lot in a populated area, a visible intersection), their reflection about place tends to cease. Some megachurches intentionally appeal to an entire region, effectively cutting the link between congregation and local place.

But as Robert Orsi notes in his introduction to Gods of the City, place is important both for the questions asked of religious faiths and the answers they propose. "Specific places structure the questions, and as men and women cobble together responses, they act upon the spaces around them in transformative ways. . . . Religion is always, among other things, a matter of necessary places." Religious life is deeply embedded in physical space -- something we forget at our peril. This neglect of place would be of little concern if it were only geographical. But it is, in fact, essentially theological.

My thinking about these things has been shaped to a considerable degree by my own place -- the mid-sized metropolitan area of Louisville, Kentucky. During the past year Louisville’s news has been dominated by several seemingly disparate issues -- the troubled relationship between the police department and the African-American community; efforts to build more mixed-income housing in the city; adoption of a regional plan intended to moderate suburban sprawl; disagreement about the number and location of proposed new Ohio River bridges linking Louisville and southern Indiana; a campaign to attract high-tech business to the downtown area; and a lively election campaign around the issue of a city-county merger.

Similar issues and the questions they raise can be found in many cities. What does it mean for contemporary Christians to live in the city? What is the proper relationship between center city, suburb and exurb? Where should political power reside and why? What are the distinctive opportunities and responsibilities of local religious leaders? What is the good life in the contemporary metropolis? What opportunities and temptations does the city offer? What about the automobile? What about the environment? What about suburban sprawl? What do and what should religious institutions contribute to urban life?

Historically the church has played an important if sometimes heavy-handed role in attempting to shape urban life. Calvin’s Geneva comes to mind, as does colonial Boston. And many urban pastors have exerted their influence on today’s cities. But our willingness to think seriously about the relationship between our Christian faith and the places in which we live seems to come and go. For a few brief decades at the turn of the 20th century, such Protestants as Graham Taylor and H. Paul Douglass thought and wrote about the emerging industrial city. In the ‘60s Gibson Winter and Harvey Cox praised some urban churches but found suburban ones sadly lacking in religious vitality. Now, it no longer makes much sense to distinguish sharply between suburbs and city.

If the church abdicates its role in the shaping of 21st-century metropolitan America, developers, politicians and individual consumers will make those decisions by themselves. But the shape of the city should not be determined solely by political and economic concerns, since the nature of metropolitan life, our responsibility to the earth, and the physical and social conditions necessary for human flourishing are deeply theological issues.

Three of the many issues facing contemporary metropolitan areas impact churches directly: a rapidly growing ethnic and religious pluralism; the ethnic, racial, physical and economic boundaries between city, suburb and country; and the changing economic realities of the postindustrial city. The increasing religious and ethnic pluralism of American cities is among the most obvious challenges confronting American Christians. Initial reports from the 2000 census suggest that 9.5 percent of the American population is foreign-born. This diversity is most obvious in the larger cities, especially those on the coasts. But it is increasingly evident in mid-sized cities like Louisville and in many rural areas as well. While many of these immigrants are Christian, many others, especially those from Asia and the Middle East, are not. Not since the turn of the 20th century, in fact, have American cities confronted such ethnic multiplicity, and never have they confronted such religious diversity.

Those who wish to understand this diversity and its implications for American religious life should consult Orsi’s book. Its portraits of urban Hinduism, Afro-Cuban Santeria, Japanese Presbyterianism and popular, ethnic Catholicism vividly illustrate the growing religious diversity of cities. Orsi’s thoughts on the relationship between urban space and religion are stimulating and provocative. He illustrates the remarkable creativity of religious groups as they remap their physical surroundings so as to understand what otherwise would be alien urban territory. The book includes Jack Kugelmass’s portrait of Moishe Sacks, a lay Jewish rabbi -- a masterful and moving account of an innovative religious leader in a challenging urban neighborhood.

Unfortunately, by concentrating almost exclusively on the inner city, and inner city New York in particular, Gods of the City contributes to a preoccupation with the major metropolises (New York, Los Angeles and Chicago) that has characterized most scholarship on urban religion. One of the greatest gaps in the literature is an account of religious life in small and medium-sized metropolitan areas. In addition, the book focuses so much on religious diversity that it distorts the more mundane reality that religion in the metropolitan U.S. continues to be dominated by Christianity.

The religious and ethnic pluralism described by Orsi and his colleagues reflects a shifting population. But as James Wellman and Nancy Eiesland show, boundaries of other kinds are also shifting. Wellman’s study of Chicago’s Fourth Presbyterian Church focuses on the relation between the church’s physical location on affluent North Michigan Avenue and the Cabrini-Green public housing project just blocks away. Throughout the church’s history, the physical boundary between church and ghetto has been reinforced by other boundaries of ethnicity, race and class, boundaries the church has sought to bridge through a variety of social ministries. Wellman’s discussion of these ministries is thorough and sympathetic. But he concedes that these well-intentioned efforts have left social, class and religious boundaries largely intact and unchallenged.

Fourth Presbyterian Church is also the subject of a particularly fine chapter by Matthew Price in Public Religion and Urban Transformation. Like Wellman, Price is very aware of the significance of the economic, social and racial boundaries that have separated Fourth Presbyterian from Cabrini-Green. Deftly exploring the impact of market forces, Price notes that the working poor may soon replace the desperately poor of Cabrini-Green. Such a shifting boundary, he suggests, could have significant implications for the wealthy congregation’s relationship to the city, and for its identity as a moral community.

The congregations in Dacula, Georgia, discussed by Eiesland faced a very different set of circumstances than those faced on Chicago’s Gold Coast. In the 1990s the residents of this rural portion of Gwinnett County found themselves firmly in the path of Atlanta’s metropolitan growth. Fields were turned into subdivisions, and the town’s small downtown was overshadowed by a sprawling regional mall. To ignore this change, as some churches did, could be institutionally fatal. Religious needs changed along with physical space. Styles of being church and doing ministry that were attuned to the rhythms of an agricultural small town no longer fit Dacula as it became increasingly suburban and danced to the beat of metropolitan Atlanta.

Eiesland shows how economic and social forces implacably reshaped this formerly rural hamlet, reminding us that contemporary urban restructuring includes not only traditional sub-urbanization but rapid development well beyond the suburban fringe. As one resident put it, "The way it looks from here is that the city’s coming out to meet us." Once that kind of rapid urban movement begins to alter the physical and economic face of a small town, its religious life is changed forever. Religious innovation thrives and new religious institutions come into being, while existing ones adapt, wither or die. Of course, the religious lives of their members change as well.

Related to the themes of growing pluralism and shifting boundaries is the changing nature of the postindustrial economy in contemporary cities and its implications for religious institutions. No one explores these implications more insightfully than Lowell Livezey and his colleagues. Assuming the importance of place at both the neighborhood and metropolitan levels, they studied religion in several diverse Chicago neighborhoods, including impoverished public housing projects, mixed-income ethnic/immigrant neighborhoods and highly prosperous suburbs. The resulting portrait of religious life in these neighborhoods is rich and nuanced.

Livezey and his cohorts craft these detailed neighborhood portraits against the backdrop of a changing urban economy. Today’s Chicago is a postindustrial metropolis quite different from the great manufacturing city that arose in the 19th century. Once "hog butcher to the world" Chicago is now broker of pork futures to the global marketplace, and this economic shift has enormous implications for life in the metropolis. In the traditionally middle-class black neighborhood of Chatham, for example, the decline in high-paying industrial jobs has important ramifications for Carter Temple (Christian Methodist Episcopal) and the other thriving African-American churches. Across town, the growth of a postindustrial economy has made the northern and western suburbs attractive destinations for a technically oriented immigrant population from India and Pakistan and its religious institutions. Economic factors strongly shape both urban and suburban space and the boundaries between them. The character of those physical spaces, in turn, powerfully shapes churches, synagogues and temples.

Chicago’s varied religious institutions -- from an ethnic Catholic parish, to an African-American, Afrocentric congregation, to a Hindu temple, to Fourth Presbyterian Church -- have responded to this urban restructuring in remarkably similar ways. In Livezey’s terms, adapted from Robert Wuthnow’s, they are more likely to engage in "cultural production," focused on theology, morality and community, than in traditional social action. Says Livezey:

The institutions of urban religion are made up of people whose frames of reference have been shaken by some combination of structural and cultural change. In response, these churches, temples, synagogues and mosques produce the cultural material that enables their members and adherents to locate themselves with respect to the places and time in which they currently live, to identify with others, to find their moral bearings, and to achieve some measure of efficacy with respect to their own needs and aspirations. Mainly through worship, education and social activities, these congregations appropriate symbols and generate new ones, claim and revise traditions, defend and bridge social boundaries, articulate and invent meanings and values by which to make sense of changing circumstances.

Different though they are, all four books remind us that physical space is religiously charged. Rural Dacula shaped Hinton Memorial Methodist Church in ways quite different from the way Atlanta is shaping it. Chicago’s Fourth Presbyterian Church would have been very different had it been located eight blocks west of North Michigan Avenue and may become very different yet if the nearby ghetto continues to be gentrified. As Karen McCarthy Brown notes in Gods of the City, "serving the spirits" of rural Haiti in a Brooklyn high rise requires a lot of adaptation. Physical space shapes religion.

But religion, in turn, helps us to "map" our physical space, to interpret and make sense of the physical "given" of our lives. As Eiesland says, "Finding your place is no small feat, and perhaps particularly not in the midst of rapid social and religious change." Hinton Memorial helped the residents of Dacula make sense of the sudden changes occurring there by self-consciously linking Dacula’s present to its past. Fourth Presbyterian’s tradition of religious tolerance and religiously motivated service across social boundaries helps affluent Presbyterians to situate themselves in an increasingly pluralistic city.

My own reading of the contemporary urban situation and my understanding of the Christian faith lead me to care about education, housing, employment and transportation policies that affect the city, especially as they affect the needs of the poor. We need to control growth in view of the broader metropolitan fabric. We should balance the demands of the automobile with the needs of people. And while Christians may disagree over specific policy recommendations, they must not live as if physical location and faith have nothing to do with each other. For Christians, place matters.

The Discovery Channel (Gen. 15:1-l2, 17-18; Lk. 13:31-35; Phil. 3:17-4:1)

Some grow in their faith by imitating the faithful. Some enhance their faith through study. But today’s lessons suggest that faith involves discovery. Discovery happens in the moment when we shout, "I see!" In that moment we not only learn what was discovered, but we make our own discovery.

The apostle Paul was trying to express this when he asked Philippian Christians to "join in imitating me." His suggestion did not arise from a satisfaction with himself. He writes of his anguish when people live as "enemies of the cross" -- an experience he had known firsthand.

But the Philippian Christians had to do more than hear the phrase and follow instructions. "Join in imitating me" involved challenging all the allegiances that laid claim to their lives. Only as they discovered who they were in their own integrity -- apart from external pressures -- could they move toward saying, "I am a citizen of heaven."

Centuries before Paul, another man had discovered his true identity. We find Abram in a Genesis story "cutting a covenant" with God. The ritual involved cutting animals into two halves from nose to tail. According to the ancients, when the halves were laid apart opposite one another, a holy space was created. After it was dark Abram saw visions. We translate what he saw as a smoking fire pot and a lighted torch. But what Abram himself experienced was the discovery that his life belonged not to himself but to God.

Why did Abram need to go to such lengths? To discover for himself that God had great plans for him, greater plans than he could cobble together out of his own desires. He "believed the Lord; and the Lord reckoned it to him as righteousness" (Gen. 15:6). If we modify the translation slightly, it is possible to read, "And he discovered the Lord’s will; and the Lord attributed the discovery to him as righteousness." Righteousness can be understood as living the humanity which God wishes us to live. The experience enabled Abram to reflect God’s glory for all who came after him, and suggests that we ourselves may be hindering God’s design for our lives.

In the dusty days of Rome when Paul was alive, it must have seemed that the glory of God found little expression in human society. As the 21st century opens, the glory of God seems equally eclipsed. "The god of the belly" was Paul’s image for human allegiances that destroy justice and love. Destructive allegiances dominate our society too. Our groans or joys over interest-rate changes remind us that we measure and are measured by economic worth. Thus people with little economic strength have little value to us. Third World scenes flash across TV screens unnoticed, and poor people scarcely make us uncomfortable even when we pass them on the street. Why be concerned for them when we are not poor? Even our children are sent to schools where the discussion is not about creative challenge but about the budget. Is self-serving affluence a god? The god of the belly? Are there any citizens of heaven? Where is our allegiance? Our citizenship?

In his Gospel, Luke leaves no doubt that Jesus Christ was the "citizen of heaven." Some unnamed Pharisees came to Jesus with a concern for him, "Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you." To their warning, Jesus replied, "Tell that old fox to stuff it!" His only commitment was to his Father in heaven. Herod himself knew of Jesus’ allegiance to God, and that alternative allegiance made Jesus dangerous. It was not just his popularity that threatened the tetrarch, but his teaching. "Do not fear those who kill the body and after that can do nothing more." What was a kingdom if people were able to give or withhold their allegiance to a king? The clarity with which Jesus saw his commitment to God is what we wait to discover in ourselves.

These lessons ask us to identify the provinces of power that demand our allegiance. One such province is in our family ties. Jesus had harsh words for these family allegiances. We have all wondered about his stinging challenge not to love father or mother more than himself. Beyond the family, society lays claim to us. Our political commitment and our religious commitments insist that we lay aside the complexities of truth in favor of party spirit or doctrinal purity. Partial truths make good politics but leave little room for the kind of human interactions that uncover the nuances of truth.

A religious community can pressure us not to think outside the lines of its doctrine. We must, of course, make commitments and honor allegiances. But Paul’s experience warns us that even religious commitments can defeat the purposes of God. We must examine all our allegiances for their capacity to distort our integrity. Until we do, we embrace only a distorted kind of citizenship in heaven.

Nearly lost in the cacophony of voices bearing down upon us is the voice of Jesus the Christ, "You are the salt of the earth." To that affirmation he adds a warning. If we allow our God-given salt, the essence of what we are created to express, to lose its saltiness, we will be of little use to God. To that end Paul’s words come to us, "Our citizenship is in heaven." Faith depends on that discovery. When we are brave enough to seek the discovery, we will know exactly who we are.

Easy Affirmations (Luke 4:1-13)

Lent is the time when we prepare ourselves to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus from death. So why do we begin by thinking about temptations? Because the temptations belong not just to Jesus, but to us as well. Temptations arise in every area of life, even for the most faithful, as we approach the events of Easter Sunday. And for some of us, the first temptation is to dismiss the resurrection and take from the Gospels only what seems to us more reasonable.

We should not dismiss the logical conclusions of our experiences, even when they create conflict for us. The remarkable capacity of our mind to gather data, draw conclusions and dictate actions is a gift of our Creator. It frees us from superstitions. It saves us from folly.

Our logical deductions are a lot like stones. They do not break apart easily. They are realities that we bump into as we walk along.

Suppose a stonemason is busy at work on a wall when a quantum physicist comes along. The physicist says, "You know these stones are mostly empty space? They’re made up of atoms, and atoms are mostly space inhabited by bits off energy flying around in their orbits. The hardness of the stone is only a mysterious attraction that atoms have for one another." The stonemason shrugs. To him the stones are stones -- physical realities that can be broken only by strong decisive blows.

The logic of the stonemason may not yield to the logic of the scientist even though both are making true observations about the stones. Neither tells all there is to know about stones. Like our conclusions about the resurrection, no one logic tells us all there is to know.

The devil says to Jesus, "Command these stones to become bread," and Jesus answers, "One does not live by bread alone." Yes, Jesus is talking about our dependency on God. But he is also saying, "The reality of the stone is essential if we are to live in God’s creation as God intended us to live." To change the stone into bread is to do violence to the reality that God has set before us. That reality is the matrix of life for which we are designed.

Resurrection cannot be summed up with a yes or a no. The logic we depend on in daily life is not the medium through which Jesus empowers his followers. Instead, the resurrection story requires that we think more deeply about what it is that God wants and helps us to understand.

A second temptation is to respond to the account of the resurrection in a way that is generally acceptable, popular with others. In an instant the devil shows Jesus all the kingdoms and the people of the earth. "I can pour that popularity on you and give you great power if you will do as I say." It is easy to believe that the devil has a lock on what is popular. We need only listen to the hype for Temptation Island to know that the devil has a great deal to do with what people tune in to see. And even in the church, popularity can be the devil’s province. It would be a rare church where one’s honesty in struggling with the issues of the faith is rewarded with popularity. If you are elected to office and asked to affirm your orthodoxy, it is not likely that you will confess that you are "still thinking about it." But easy affirmations of the resurrection do not give the risen Christ a commanding presence in the church.

There is a third temptation. The devil calls forth a god of his making called Certainty. Certainty has power to preclude reflection on or even discussion of those things we feel sure are true. The devil takes Jesus to the pinnacle of the temple and says, "Throw yourself down and God will protect you. You won’t even have a hard landing!"

Here is appeal to scientific proof. Here is a repeatable experiment with empirical results. If it worked, the resurrection would cease to be a matter of faith and become an easy certainty. Certainty could replace faith. We would know Jesus was the Son of God.

But certainty has serious drawbacks. Our freedom as humans is destroyed by those who are certain. Our effort to discover God in ever new and more profound ways is laid waste when we convert beliefs into certainties. People who are certain that the King James Bible is the only true Bible, for example, are kept from a growing knowledge of scripture. Certainties can freeze our understandings and solidify the limited data that create our prejudices.

The resurrection is a call to faith. If the resurrection is only a certainty, then Easter means this year precisely what it did last year. Isaiah reminds us that a living God is always doing new things. Jesus replied to the last temptation, "Do not put the Lord your God to the test." Even scientists can test only for what they envision to be possible. If we test for what we know or envision, then the god we discover will be only the size of our certainties, and as dead as our faith. On Easter we say, "He is alive!" because we are confessing a living relationship. There is always more for us to understand and much for us to do.

Resurrection invites us into the mystery of creation and into the presence of the living God. In that place, even death itself is not a certainty.

The Incoherence of Whitehead’s Theory of Perception

In his theory of perception, Whitehead attempts to do justice to all our various and apparently conflicting perceptive experiences. By reconciling two seemingly incompatible traditional accounts of perception, he hopes to cut through the Gordian knot of problems which have bound the theory of perception since the seventeenth century. Unfortunately, the boldness of his aims precludes their successful attainment. I shall try to show this not so much by recounting Whitehead’s systematic treatment of perception as by analyzing the reasons he gives and the experiences he cites for the adoption of his theory in the first place. Thus, this paper is not an account of Whitehead’s theory of perception solely in terms of the categories of the philosophy of organism; rather, it is a critique of the coherence of that theory from a point of view outside it.

I

To put Whitehead’s theory of perception in perspective, let us consider two traditional accounts, each widely held historically and each -- separately -- commanding considerable intuitive appeal. These two are what I shall call (i) the phenomenological (Or sense-datum) and (ii) the causal (or physiological) accounts of perception. (Alternately, rather than as explicit theories, these might be seen as primitive dispositions toward the criteria one chooses to employ in framing or judging a theory of perception.)

(i) The phenomenological or sense-datum account of perception, which Whitehead attributes to Hume, claims to be nothing more than a description of what is given in immediate experience (it being taken for granted that the recognition of "immediate experience" and what is "given" in it present no difficulties). It is not at all concerned to explain how these experiences were caused. Indeed, since Hume and his followers can find no causes in immediate experience, they hold that a search for the causes of experience is in principle mistaken. This is because they believe that what is given in immediate experience is absolutely certain, and any mode of "knowledge" which departs at all from such immediacy (for instance, an inference from experience) is to some degree doubtful. All that can be found in experience, according to (i), are geometrical areas and the sense qualities which inhere in them. Thus a legitimate account of perception can only describe what is perceived, and all that is clearly and distinctly perceived are such areas and sense qualities. Such perceptions arise, therefore, from "unknown causes.

(ii) The causal account of perception, in contrast to (i), purports to be not just a description but an explanation of what is perceived. The exact content of the explanation depends on which sciences are taken as supplying the most relevant information about perception. Usually those are physics and physiology. The standard explanation recounts the existence of a material object, its reflection of light waves of a certain length, the transference of these light waves from the object to the perceptual organs of the observer (in this case, the eyes), the interaction of the light waves with the rods and cones of the retina, the transference of nerve impulses along the relevant nerves to the brain, and, finally, the production of the sensation of sight. Of course this is a crude abstraction from any actual physiological explanation of perception, but from a philosophical point of view, the details of the theory are irrelevant.

What is important is that this type of theory, in whatever form, takes the experience of perception as a result of an extensive series of unperceived antecedent causes, not as something arising from "unknown causes" or perhaps from no cause at all. In this way it goes beyond what is immediately experienced in perception and in fact asserts that what is immediately experienced is relatively unimportant compared to the causal mechanism which contributed to its production. The general strategy, then, is to take one "behind the scenes" to lay bare the mechanism by which the effect was produced. According to (ii) one does not perceive objects directly; such an assumption would be naive. Instead, one perceives through and by means of a complicated medium. In ordinary, unreflective experience this medium goes unnoticed. It is the business of the causal explanation of perception to draw attention to this medium, to show how it transforms objects, and to explain how it produces the effects experienced in perception.

Now it might be thought that (i) and (ii) do not actually conflict but in fact complement one another. Thus, they might be seen not as rival theories about the same subject matter but as complementary accounts of related phenomena. (i) describes the data of perception but does not attempt to explain it. So if clarity about exactly what one perceives is one’s aim, one favors an approach such as (i). On the other hand, (ii) goes beyond what is given in direct perception to find explanations for why it is perceived. In this it does not tamper with (i)’s account of what is perceived but takes it as veritical. If one is interested primarily in an explanation of why one perceives what one does, one looks to a theory such as (ii). Different interests dictate different theories. In either case it seems that there can be no conflict because there is nothing in common to dispute about.

However, (i) and (ii) are not really as compatible as they seem. Each theory has implications which trespass on the territory of the other. For this reason, it is not possible consistently to hold both (i) and (ii) at the same time.

For instance, suppose that one accepts (i). Then several conclusions follow which are incompatible with (ii). For non-solipsistic versions of a theory such as (i), the subject is inescapably in the world in the sense that it is always tied down to a particular position within it and no other perspective is experienced with an immediacy equal to its own. Thus it follows from the principle which equates immediacy of experience with certainty of knowledge that there can be no legitimate perspective on the world by an individual subject from a point of view outside that subject, a point of view which places the subject within a larger -- "objective" -- context. This rules out causal explanations of perception such as (ii), if it be assumed that there is not immediate awareness of such causal mechanisms within an individual act of perception itself, if one does not have a perception and at the same time experience all the causes which produced it. For from the point of view of an advocate of (i), to hold (ii) would require that the subject wrench itself away from its own immediacy of experience in order to view that same experience within a larger explanatory context. According to (i), even if -- contra Hume -- one could perceive causes, one could concentrate at one time purely on what one clearly and distinctly perceives and at another time on the mechanisms which produced such perceptions, but what one cannot do is to perceive the causal mechanism which is producing the very perceptions one is currently having. There is not enough "room" in consciousness for that. One can occupy only one perspective at a time; the field on which one can focus one’s attention is limited.

Now if it were possible at the same time and in the same act of experience to be aware of both a datum of perception and of the causal mechanisms which produced it, this would still not help the advocates of (ii) in the opinion of the supporters of (i). For in that case there would still be a causal mechanism which was producing the awareness of the original perceptual datum and its cause together. That mechanism would go unnoticed in that act of perception. Perhaps another act could include it, but then a further mechanism would be required, and so on ad infinitum. In any case, the productive mechanisms would always be one step ahead of awareness. Thus there would be no awareness of this cause producing this perceived effect. So the hypothesis of a cause would always be at least somewhat removed from experience. It would be based on an inference, not directly perceived. There could be no direct assurance that this perceptual datum was produced by causes analogous to those experienced in the past, or even that it was caused at all.

Thus someone who consistently held to (i) would have to reject (ii), because either (a) there is never any direct experience of a causal chain in perception, or (b) if there is, it is not of the datum that is now being perceived. In this way, taking (i) seriously precludes accepting (ii) fully.

On the other hand, if one begins by placing primary emphasis on (ii), one is led to reject or at least to discount the claims of (i). Accepting the causal account, one can come to see the perceived datum as only the final link in a long causal chain, only that part of the iceberg which is visible above the surface of the water. With this perspective on the whole act of perception -- the true or "real" perspective, according to the advocates of (ii) -- one is apt to discount the significance of that small part of the causal nexus which is consciously experienced. If one takes (ii) seriously, then, one is led to a belief in the "mereness" of what appears. What "really" happens in perception is that light waves, reflected off physical objects, excite the rods and cones of the retina, etc., etc. We just think the world is as we perceive it; it is actually far different.

Thus (i) and (ii), as here stated, are incompatible. For an advocate of (i), (ii) is trivial to actual experience at best and incoherent at worst. An advocate of (ii) considers (i) naive and illusory, not a correct picture of "reality." One cannot legitimately hold both views together.

II

Following intuition and tradition Whitehead acknowledges two "modes" of perception: presentational immediacy and causal efficacy. These correspond roughly to (i) and (ii). He differs sharply from these previously discussed views, however, in the way he relates his two modes. This constitutes the uniqueness and, in view of the difficulties, the boldness of Whitehead’s theory of perception.

Presentational immediacy, as the name implies, indicates that component of consciousness which is most vividly present now. It is immediate awareness. It is "our perception of the contemporary world by means of the senses" (PR 311/ 474). Whitehead is careful to point out, however, that perception in the mode of presentational immediacy is not identical with the entire content of our present consciousness. In this he differs from (i). It is only one aspect or "part" of consciousness, though it is that part which is most clear and distinct and, hence, most noticeable. Perception in the mode of presentational immediacy is confined to an awareness of spatial areas and the sense qualities inhering in them (PR 121/ 185). Presentational immediacy discloses nothing about the past or the future: it shows us only the world experienced now. The only relations it exhibits are geometrical; no causal connections between the various spatial regions are evident. Nor is there any awareness of the causes of that immediate experience. Fortunately, Whitehead thinks, our knowledge is not limited to what is provided by presentational immediacy. This saves it from being a "barren aesthetic display" (PB 324/ 494).

Causal efficacy, Whitehead’s other pure mode of perception, makes up for these deficiencies of presentational immediacy, but what it gains in relatedness and explanatory power it loses in vividness and sharpness of definition. As its name indicates, perception in the mode of causal efficacy is supposed to give some kind of awareness of causal relationships. Exactly what kind of awareness it is supposed to give, however, is far from clear. Sometimes, especially when he is speaking pre-systematically and citing examples from ordinary experience, Whitehead seems to claim that causal efficacy merely discloses relations among the data of presentational immediacy and to indicate that "something is going on in nature and some things are affecting other things." This is Christian’s interpretation: "What is felt [in causal efficacy] is an activity going on in that situation, an activity which relates the entities . . . in the situation in a dynamic way" (IWM 147). If this were all Whitehead meant by perception in the mode of causal efficacy, he would merely be describing a commonplace experience of which we are all aware, and his doctrine would be philosophically innocuous; in fact it would not be able to sustain the weight of the philosophical edifice he builds upon it.

At other times, however, especially when he is speaking systematically and not illustrating or supporting his argument with concrete examples, Whitehead seems to make a stronger claim for causal efficacy. He seems to indicate not only that it presents a vague sense of activities and dynamic relations in nature, but that it also discloses in considerable detail the causal mechanism by which the perceptions in the mode of presentational immediacy were produced. In this sense, causal efficacy provides the basis for the physiological account of perception. In human beings, this type of causal efficacy is exhibited in the phenomenon of the "withness" of the body: according to Whitehead, we know that we touch with our hands, taste with our palates, see with our eyes, etc. In this way, he thinks, we have direct awareness of our bodies as the cause of our perception in the mode of presentational immediacy.

In either case, a perception in the mode of causal efficacy occurs in the same act of awareness as a perception in the mode of presentational immediacy, though it is distinguishable from it. We do not alternate between the two modes but experience both at the same time. In the former case (Christian’s interpretation), causal efficacy merely relates dynamically the percepta of presentational immediacy without being an additional percept of the same type. In the latter case, a vague awareness of the causes which produced a perception in the mode of presentational immediacy is present with it, though not in the same way. In this sense, causal efficacy represents an awareness of the culmination of the past routes of causation in the present act of awareness while that present act continues with undiminished vividness. In just what sense and with what legitimacy the past (qua cause) can be said to be in the present, it is my purpose to determine.

Presentational immediacy and causal efficacy complement one another; each makes up for the deficiencies of the other. Presentational immediacy presents vivid, clearly defined data, but exhibits no significant connections among them; causal efficacy provides causal relationships, but its data are vague. It follows "that what we want to know about, from the point of view either of curiosity or of technology, chiefly resides in those aspects of the world disclosed in causal efficacy: but that what we can distinctly register is chiefly to be found among the perception the mode of presentational immediacy" (PR 169/ 257). This produces something of a dilemma: for unless presentational immediacy and causal efficacy overlap in some way, unless there is a common ground between them, there is no assurance that they are giving information about the same entities and the beneficial effects of their complementary relation would be lost. Whitehead argues that in fact there is such a common ground, that the two pure modes are related by symbolic reference."

This can be achieved in two ways. (1) The two modes may share a common spatial region. This is defined sharply in presentational immediacy and vaguely in causal efficacy, but in the latter case the definition is apparently precise enough to be recognized as the same area as is presented in the first mode. (2) Or they may exhibit a common sensum (eternal object). The same sense quality which makes its appearance in presentational immediacy is recognized in the route of causal inheritance presented in causal efficacy. In this way "symbolic reference is the acceptance of the evidence of percepta, in the mode of immediacy, as evidence for the localization and discrimination of vague percepta in the mode of efficacy" (PR 179/ 272).

In ordinary experience the pure modes of perception rarely occur in isolation; they are normally "unified by a blind symbolic reference" (PR 180/ 273). "In order to find obvious examples of the pure mode of causal efficacy we must have recourse to the viscera and to memory; and to find examples of the pure mode of presentational immediacy we must have recourse to so-called ‘delusive’ perceptions" (PR 121f/ 186).

The epistemological consequences of Whitehead’s theory of symbolic reference are much more far reaching and revolutionary than his protestations of its commonplaceness would suggest. For symbolic reference clearly requires that presentational immediacy and causal efficacy be present together in a single, unitary act of awareness. Consider what this means. It means that an awareness of the cause of a perception -- in the mode of causal efficacy -- must be copresent with the experience of the effect -- in the mode of presentational immediacy. We must be aware of the causes of our sensations while we are experiencing them. As I pointed Out in section I, some traditional views regard this as impossible. It is clear, then, that in his doctrine of symbolic reference Whitehead parts company with the Cartesian epistemological tradition and attempts to mediate the dualities which have plagued it.

Thus Whitehead’s doctrine acknowledges that we perceive through a medium while denying that this amounts to a representative theory of perception. According to Whitehead’s view, the original datum of perception is transformed by the time we perceive it: one actual occasion is in another not formaliter -- as the original occasion is in itself -- but objectively. Yet the first occasion is really in the second, not its surrogate or representative. This rather implausible result is made possible, Whitehead thinks, because we perceive in the modes both of causal efficacy and of presentational immediacy. Presentational immediacy shows the datum objectively, and causal efficacy shows us how it was transformed to that state. Thus, awareness both of the effect and the causes that produced it enable Whitehead to maintain both that perception is mediated and that we perceive actualities. In this way he combines the direct realism of common sense with the causal theory of physiology. He makes room both for the vividness of immediacy and for the explanatory power of science. He acknowledges both what we see -- sense qualities -- and what we "really see" -- molecules, light waves, etc. According to Whitehead’s theory we are in effect able to experience the world from the perspective of the ideal scientific observer -- whose standpoint is outside the world -- and from our own limited point of view within the world. And we are able to do both at the same time.

III

I now turn to a consideration of the evidence Whitehead offers for this extraordinary and daring theory. It seems obvious that he wants -- or should want -- to place most stock in the arguments which attempt to show how an awareness of causal efficacy can be elicited from ordinary experience. For on his own principles if there were not some kind of awareness of causal efficacy, there would be no warrant for making statements about it: "Nothing is to be received into the philosophical scheme which is not discoverable as an element in subjective experience" (PR 166/253). "We can only discuss experiences which have entered into conscious analysis" (PR 179/273). "The elucidation of immediate experience is the sole justification for any thought" (PR 4/6). Unfortunately, those things of which we are most acutely conscious are not the most significant. Our perspective on the world is inverted. "Those elements of our experience which stand out clearly and distinctly in our consciousness are not its basic facts" (PR 162/ 245). "It must be remembered that clearness in consciousness is no evidence for primitiveness in the genetic process: the opposite doctrine is more nearly true" (PR 173/ 263f).

There need be no conflict between these two positions, however, if there is some original awareness, however faint, of "the basic facts of experience" from what later turns out to be the inverted perspective of consciousness. In that case, the task of the philosopher is to elicit into prominence those elements of experience whose importance was obscured by the distorted perspective of unreformed consciousness. He is to effect a re-formation of consciousness, rearranging what had always been there so as to highlight what was previously only dimly perceived. This is in fact the procedure that Whitehead seems to be following in his account of the man who knew the light caused him to blink (PR 175/265) and in his discussions of the "withness" of the body.

Whitehead counters Hume’s contention that we have no direct experiences of causes by drawing attention to this common phenomenon: "In the dark, the electric light is suddenly turned on and the man’s eyes blink" (PR 174/ 265). "The man will explain his experience by saying, ‘The flash made me blink’; and if his statement be doubted, he will reply, ‘I know it, because I felt it’" (PR 175/266). In such a case, Whitehead thinks, we have direct experience that causes are operative in nature and, moreover, that they are operating on us. Because of this, our experience is not limited to a mere succession of data which have no causal connections with one another. Christian has argued that this experience of causality is not just another percept in the same way that the flash and the blink are percepts; instead it is an awareness of a dynamic relationship between the flash and the blink (see section II above). Also, Christian thinks Whitehead is merely pointing out that experience is richer than Hume said it was, and he does not intend this example to prove that there actually is anything like a causal nexus operative in nature and that we have direct awareness of its functioning. I believe this particular example really does not show anything more than Christian claims it does. Whitehead probably thought it proved more. This is a moot point, however, since Whitehead provides other, more convincing examples which he definitely does believe give a direct awareness of the operations of causal mechanisms.

These experiences are of what he calls the "withness" of the body. We see with our eyes, hear with our ears, touch with our hands, etc. We know, says Whitehead, that these organs are the means by which our various sensations are produced. We know that we experience the world through the medium of our bodies. We know this, not because we have all been exposed to physiology, but because we have direct experience of it. "For instance, we see the contemporary chair, but we see it with our eyes. . . . Thus colors objectify the chair in one way, and objectify the eyes in another way, as elements in the experience of the subject" (PR 62/ 97).

The datum transmitted from the stone becomes the touch-feeling in the hand, but it preserves the vector character of its origin from the stone. The touch-feeling in the hand with this vector-origin from the stone is transmitted to the percipient in the brain. Thus the final perception is the perception of the stone through the touch in the hand. In this perception the stone is vague and faintly relevant in comparison with the hand. But, however dim, it is there. (PR 120/183)

Thus, according to Whitehead’s theory, each perception contains within itself the vector marks of its origin: we are directly aware of the routes by which we have inherited our feelings. In this way we are conscious at the same time of our feelings and of their causes. Causal efficacy and presentational immediacy coincide in the same act of awareness: symbolic reference is achieved.

With respect to this evidence, I shall now proceed to argue (1) that the experiences Whitehead cites do not prove what they need to prove in order to substantiate his theory, (2) that we do not actually have such experiences anyway, at least not in the form Whitehead describes them, and (3) that such experiences of causes and effects together, when they involve a reference to the subject experiencing them, seem in principle to be impossible.

(1) In order to give direct evidence for the full physiological account of perception, which Whitehead clearly intends it to do, the experience of the "withness" of the body must exhibit all the links in the causal chain which are acknowledged by physiological theory. In none of the passages in which he is drawing attention to the withness of the body does Whitehead describe this phenomenon in anything approaching the detail of a physiological theory; he hits only the high points. Indeed, he admits that some points along the causal route of inheritance are vividly felt (e.g., the hand when holding the stone), while others fade to the fringes of consciousness (e.g., the nerves between the hand and the brain). Now if these intermediate links are so dimly "felt" as not to be evident to consciousness at all, then the "evidence" of this experience clearly does not prove enough to establish the full physiological account of perception. It would provide evidence only for a direct stone-hand-consciousness sequence. The intermediate links are certainly not felt, though they may be inferred.

(2) Now what about the "parts" of the causal chain of which we are vividly aware? Do we know for certain that we feel with our hands, see with our eyes, hear with our ears, etc.? We certainly think we do, but what evidence do we have for believing it? If our awareness of the efficacy of our bodily organs in producing certain sensations is not direct and indubitable, then Whitehead cannot count the experience of their efficacy in favor of his theory. That is to say, if this is the case, we must fall back on Christian’s weaker thesis that Whitehead is not proving that any real causal nexus exists and that we have direct awareness of it.

Actually, in the act of sight we do not see our eyes; they are the one thing we do not see. As Wittgenstein says, "Nothing in the visual field allows you to infer that it is seen by an eye" (TLP 5.633). The visual field stops somewhere around where our eyes are presumed to be. But the region where the visual field stops is vague: we might with equal warrant say that we see with the whole top half of our faces as that we see just with our eyes. Moreover, physiology tells us that it is the rods and the cones that are efficacious in sight, but if we were ignorant of physiology, we would have no way of knowing this. Thus, there is no direct experience of the efficacy of just that part of the eye which physiology tells us is actively productive of sight. In other words, the "knowledge" that "we see with our eyes" is learned or inferred and is not a direct experience.

In addition, the sensation of sight (or any other sensation) could be produced in a nonstandard way without our being aware of it. This is a common phenomenon with amputated limbs and toothaches. In such cases the sensory datum complete with the feeling of bodily efficacy is present. Therefore, the feeling of bodily efficacy, since it can be delusive, provides no certain knowledge about the operation of a causal nexus in nature.

(3) Moreover, direct awareness of the physiological causes of our contemporary experience seems to be impossible in principle.

Whitehead asserts that "colors objectify the chair in one way, and objectify the eyes in another way" (PR 62/ 97, emphasis mine). We do not see the eyes in the act of sight in the same way that we see the chair. We see the chair and we see it by means of the eyes. The eye is the medium through which we see the chair. In traditional language, the chair is the object of sight.

Despite his admission that we do not perceive the medium of perception in the same way that we perceive the object of perception Whitehead’s theory still depends on a merging of these two modes. We must somehow be directly aware of the causal mechanism of sight, i.e., this causal mechanism must be objectified for us, to escape from the "barren aesthetic display" of presentational immediacy. But while one is concentrating on the chair, the feeling of the efficacy of the eye fades from consciousness; and while one is concentrating on the feeling of the eye, the chair fades away. We can be conscious of objects and conscious of ourselves, but not with equal vividness at the same time.

But even if one could so crowd one’s consciousness as to find room both for the object and the objectified medium of perception at the same time, a further difficulty would remain. Perception for Whitehead is mediated: we do not perceive objects directly but only through a medium. This means that we do not perceive things as they are in themselves but only modified versions of them: "objectification relegates into irrelevance, or into a subordinate relevance, the full constitution of the objectified entity" (PR 62/ 97).

Yet Whitehead still opts for realism, because he thinks we have direct awareness of how these objectified entities have been changed by the time we perceive them. This is an idle assumption, however, unless we really do have some direct (unmediated) perception of the original datum of objectification, so that we can tell what it is that has been changed and that it has been changed. Otherwise, we will take modified objects for things as they are in themselves. But this violates Whitehead’s insistence on mediated perception: one actual occasion never experiences the full immediacy of another actual occasion; it feels it only objectively. B feels only a selection of A. But with no direct awareness of A as it is fully in itself, B has no legitimate way to tell that it is sampling only a selection of A and not A in itself. Once again, we see that Whitehead’s attempt to maintain two perspectives at once does not succeed, because he needs B to feel A as A is in itself (subjectively) and as A is for B (objectively). But if B can feel A as A is in itself, there is no need for B to feel only a selection of A; and if B can feel only a selection of A, then it is not possible for B to feel A as A is fully in itself. Direct realism renders mediated perception unnecessary, and mediated perception makes realism impossible.

Thus Whitehead’s theory of perception is unable to reconcile its opposing tendencies of realism and mediatism. Whitehead does not provide sufficient evidence for the unification of his two pure modes of perception, and his theory fails to overcome the traditional difficulties which prevent the consistent unification of theories (i) and (ii). The causal explanation of perception and the description of its immediate data are both legitimate and useful activities, each providing an essential perspective which is overlooked by the other. The mistake is to think these two perspectives can be enjoyed at the same time.

 

References

IWM -- Christian, William A. An Interpretation of Whitehead’s Metaphysics. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1959.

TLP -- Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Translated by D. F. Pears and B. F. McGuinnes. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1961.

Reading Islam

Prior to September 11, 2001, a substantial majority in the United States approached Islam with a strange kind of detailed ignorance. For many Americans the words Islam and Muslims evoked disjointed images of violence, religious fanaticism, rejection of the modern world, mistreated women, and praying men bowing in the direction of Mecca. Popular Western perceptions based largely on news reports and television images of war, revolution, hijackings, hostage-takings and mysterious societies seemingly closed to the outside world have been nurtured in the context of a long history of bias and misinformation.

Interest in Islam shifted to a completely different level after September 11. Three and a half years later we continue to be in an extended teachable moment. As anyone with expertise in Islam can readily attest, the demand for media interviews, university lectures and speeches in churches and at conferences remains very high. Publishers have responded to the demand with an array of books aimed at nonspecialists who want to know more about Islam in historical and contemporary perspective.

The stakes are very high in an interconnected and interdependent world where there are many weapons of mass destruction and where small numbers of zealots can wreak havoc. Ignorance is dangerous. How do we make sense of what is going on and anticipate what may come next? Which resources are most helpful and why? A wise friend once noted, "When you are standing on the edge of a cliff, progress is not defined as one step forward." For many, moving back from the brink requires a better understanding of the basics of Islam.

General introductions: A general introduction to Islam is a logical place to start. The best of these books cover similar terrain. They survey the emergence of Islam in the seventh century; provide an overview of the life and teachings of Muhammad and of major themes in the Qur’an; clarify Muslims’ understanding that theirs is the same religion God revealed through Abraham, Moses and Jesus; and explore the development, debates and practices of various Muslim groups as the religious system and broader civilization spread rapidly. The most useful introductions highlight the major doctrinal and legal frameworks that have guided Muslims for centuries, and they broadly frame contemporary developments in the context of the past two or three centuries.

Islam: Faith and History, by Mahmoud M. Ayoub (Oneworld), is an excellent and very accessible introduction. Ayoub, a Muslim born in southern Lebanon, is a professor of Islamic studies and comparative religion at Temple University. He has long been an articulate voice explaining Islam in the U.S. and throughout the Middle East. His years of teaching in the classroom and making presentations to non-Muslim groups clearly inform the structure and content of his book.

Two widely acclaimed introductions have been revised recently. Frederick Denny’s An Introduction to Islam (3rd rev. ed., Prentice Hall) is the most helpful book in this genre, and it now has a chapter that explores key issues in the post-September 11 world. Denny provides solid background information, substantial depth, footnotes and annotated suggestions for further reading. The paperback volume works well as the primary text for survey courses on Islam.

John Esposito’s Islam: The Straight Path (3rd ed., Oxford University Press) is a more affordable and very reliable guide that I have used successfully in many classes. It is a succinct, up-to-date survey of Islamic experience, an introduction to the beliefs and practices of Islam from its origins to contemporary resurgence movements, Following September 11 Esposito published a basic primer, What Everybody Needs to Know About Islam (Oxford University Press) and a text directly addressing the most pressing issues related to militant Islamist movements, Unholy War: Terror in the Name of Islam (Oxford University Press). In these books Esposito, professor of Islamic studies and head of the Center for the Study of Islam and Muslim-Christian Relations at Georgetown University, a prolific writer and one of the most articulate students of Islam, proffers clear and concise answers to many of the questions most non-Muslims ask.

Esposito also served as general editor for the recently published reference work The Islamic World: Past and Present (Oxford University Press). Its three volumes include more than 300 articles on key individuals (from Abraham, al-Ghazali and Rumi to Malcolm X, Salman Rushdie and Osama bin Laden), empires (such as those of the Mughals and Ottomans), contemporary countries (Algeria, Indonesia, Syria and so on), important doctrines (including those related to abortion, the afterlife, fasting and suicide), and groups and movements often in the headlines (such as Hamas, al-Qaeda and the Nation of Islam). These volumes are geared toward nonspecialists and include glossaries, maps, color plates and timelines. Most individuals will need to depend on a library for this resource, however, given the price of $325.

Vartan Gregorian’s short book Islam: A Mosaic, Not a Monolith (Brookings Institution Press) is a less known but exceptionally well-written introduction. Gregorian, president of the Carnegie corporation and former president of Brown University, was born into an Armenian family in Iran and grew up in Iran and Lebanon before coming to the U.S. for higher education. His book provides a thoughtful historical overview, then focuses on the developments within Islam during the past two centuries that help explain contemporary events. It is a particularly valuable resource for both individual and group study.

Those interested in the historical and theological interplay between Jews, Christians and Muslims should examine F. E. Peters’s completely revised edition of his classic book The Children of Abraham: Judaism. Christianity, Islam (Princeton University Press). Peters, an erudite scholar of Middle Eastern history and religion at New York University, explores the ways adherents think, how they talk about and worship God, how

they organize hierarchies, the ways they approach community, scripture and tradition, and how they develop legal systems. Understanding and appreciation of the shared beliefs and values of those whom Muslims call the People of the Book is increasingly important in the post -- September 11 world. Clergy, students of comparative religion and interested general readers will benefit from Peters’s clarifying and provocative insights.

The Qur’an: Many who want to understand Islam turn instinctively to the Qur’an to read the scriptures for themselves, They ask what the Qur’an says about Christians and Jews, the Day of Judgment, the status of women, martyrdom, the meaning of jihad and so forth. People planning to read the Qur’an face two questions Which English version of the text is preferable? And how can someone who did not grow up studying and learning about the Qur’an navigate the often unfamiliar terrain?

Muslims have always maintained that the Qur’an cannot be translated -- that because it must be read and recited in Arabic, any English version is already an interpretation. This is reflected in the titles of some popular and widely used texts: The Meaning of the Glorious Qur’an (Amana), by M. M. Pickthall; The Koran Interpreted (Touchstone), by A. J. Arberry; The Holy Qur’an: Text, Translation and Commentary (Amana), by Abdullah Yusuf Ali; and the more recent Al Qur’an: A Contemporary Translation (Princeton University Press), by Alamed Mi. The latter two translations include the Arabic and English text side by side as well as detailed notes. Pickthall’s translation, which also contains useful notes on each page, has long been a standard, but many read-. ers find it stiff and awkward at points. Arberry’s translation is by far the most poetic, capturing something of the lyrical quality of the Arabic. However, the uninitiated are likely to find it more difficult to understand than the more literal translations.

The Qur’an is less accessible than the biblical books of Genesis and Exodus or the Pauline epistles. Divided into 114 surahs, or chapters, it is a little shorter than the New Testament and is not arranged in chronological order. Many of the passages sound familiar to people who read the Bible, but the narrative often doesn’t flow as expected. Passages on Abraham and Moses, for instance, frequently assume that the hearer knows the background or context. For these reasons, readers wishing to engage with the Qur’an are well advised both to acquire a translation with notes and to have a companion text nearby.

Two of the most valuable newer introductory guides are Michael Sells’s Approaching the Qur’an: The Early Revelations (White Cloud Press) and Farid Esack’s The Qur’an: A User’s Guide (Oneworld). Sells’s book received national attention and became the focus of controversy in 2002 when it was a summer reading selection for incoming students at the University of North Carolina -- Chapel Hill. The content and value of the book were obscured amid the posturing and hyperbolic assertions of the many conservative politicians, clergy and outraged talk show hosts who criticized university officials. Approaching the Qur’an is a distinctive book, providing fresh translations, an audio CD for the earliest surahs and much more. Through careful scholarship and illuminating commentary, Sells opens up the rich and multiple ways the Qur’an conveys meaning to those who read it and hear it recited.

Esack takes a broader, more traditional approach as he identifies and explicates the Qur’an’s key themes and the history and traditions of interpreting the sacred text. He discusses language, style and arrangement of the Qur’an, as well as differences between the early (Meccan) and later (Medinan) revelations and the importance of the "occasions of revelation" for understanding particular passages. Both the Esack volume and the Sells book are valuable guides for non-Muslims who wish to read and study the Qur’an.

Islam in political context: New books on contemporary and possible future religious and political developments within Islam abound. A visit to Barnes and Noble to investigate options can be overwhelming. One good way to understand elements of the larger picture is to explore a particular setting.

Iran, which has been at the center of regional and global attention for over three decades, will continue to be a focal point for the foreseeable future. Azar Nafisi’s best-selling memoir Reading Lolita in Tehran (Random House) offers poignant and revealing images of this multifaceted country. Her compelling account of teaching Western literature in revolutionary Iran provides insights into the Iranian revolution, the Iran-Iraq war, the lives of courageous Iranian women and much more. Reading Lolita undermines simplistic portraits of Islam as monolithic. Nafisi challenges stereotypes on many levels and puts human faces on Muslims in Iran.

Stephen Kinzer’s All the Shah’s Men: An American Coup and the Roots of Middle East Terror (John Wiley & Sons) is a sobering study that reads like a page-turning spy novel. Kinzer, a veteran New York Times correspondent with extensive experience in Central America and the Middle East, regards contemporary issues as a direct outgrowth of many decades of British and U.S. intervention and manipulation within the convoluted political and religious history of Iran. The struggle for participatory government in a predominantly Shi’ite land didn’t begin with the 1979 revolution. Understanding the shifting internal and external forces shaping events requires geopolitical awareness of Iran’s place as a country with vast oil reserves situated along the soft underbelly of the former Soviet Union. In short, several U.S. "vital interests" converged in Iran throughout the 20th century.

Kinzer’s book should be required reading for every legislator on the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations or on the House Committee on International Relations -- and for President Bush, the secretaries of state and defense and others shaping U.S. foreign policy toward predominantly Muslim countries. Policy makers should also read Rashid Khalidi’s Resurrecting Empire: Western Footprints and America’s Perilous Path in the Middle East (Beacon). Although his focus is not Islam, investigating Western intervention in the modern Middle East is essential if one hopes to understand the sources of Islamists’ anger and frustration. Khalidi is also critical of various Arab and Muslim countries where human rights abuses, economic exploitation and a lack of political participation help create a context that fuels violence and extremism. A professor of Arab studies and director of the Middle East Institute at Columbia University, Khalidi is a frequent radio and television analyst. His ability to communicate to nonspecialists comes through nicely in this short book.

Kinzer and Khalidi provide a much-needed corrective to the analysis of Bernard Lewis, Princeton’s emeritus professor of Middle East studies. In his best-selling What Went Wrong? The Clash Between Islam and Modernity in the Middle East (HarperCollins), Lewis addresses contemporary anti-Western attitudes and the dysfunctional state of many Muslim lands today. He argues that the decline of Islamic civilization over the past 600 years resulted from defeats at the hands of the West -- in trade, technology, science, philosophy, political development, modernization, diplomacy and war. The debilitating impact of pervasively exploitative Western colonial rule and superpower domination over the past two centuries is strangely missing from his analysis. It is not hard to see why Lewis is a favorite "expert analyst" for the current U.S. administration.

Gilles Kepel, professor and chair of Middle East studies at the Institute of Political Studies in Paris, assesses the contemporary landscape differently. He examines the impact of global terrorism and U.S-led military responses in his provocative critique The War for Muslim Minds: Islam and the West (Harvard University Press). Exposing the striking convergences between as well as the divergent goals of "jihadist" Muslims and neoconservatives in the U.S., he emphasizes that a more healthy and hopeful future requires forms of democratic, participatory government in places where authoritarianism and corruption now prevail.

Contemporary Islamic reform: Both Khalidi and Kepel are sharply critical of what they believe are counterproductive approaches currently being employed by the U.S. Kepel argues that the most important battle in the war for Muslim minds will be fought not in Iraq or Israel/Palestine, but in the suburbs of Paris, London and other Western cities where Islam is now a fixture, Two prominent Muslims -- Feisal Abdul Rauf and Tariq Ramadan -- develop this theme in new books that have attracted considerable attention.

Rauf, the imam of Masjid al Farah in New York City, is an increasingly visible Muslim leader in the U.S. He appeared frequently in the national media in the months following September 11, and more recently he has been on programs exploring the impact and legacy of the interfaith initiatives of Pope John Paul II. Born in Kuwait and educated in England. Malaysia, Egypt and the U.S., Rauf has a very deep knowledge of the Islamic world and the West. In contrast to Lewis, who contends that the crisis is in Islam, Rauf locates the problem in the relationship between the Muslim world and the West. In What’s Right with Islam: A New Vision for Muslims and the West (HarperCollins), he argues that the Qur’an and Islamic principles support the values of pluralism and free society. He develops a hopeful new vision for Muslims that is based on affirmations of what is right with Islam and with the U.S.

Tariq Ramadan’s Western Muslims and the Future of Islam (Oxford University Press) charts another approach to reform within Islam. Ramadan, professor of philosophy at the College of Geneva and professor of Islamic studies at the University of Fribourg in Switzerland, provides guidance for growing Muslim communities that seek ways to harmonize their faith with a Western context. Appealing to Islamic sources, Ramadan argues that Western Muslims must fashion an independent Western Islam, anchoring themselves in the cultural context of Europe, the U.S. and Canada, not in the traditions of predominantly Muslim countries. He identifies the resources for this bold vision in universal Islamic principles, demonstrating that Islam need not be in opposition to the West in the spheres of economics, education and social values.

Finally, a new collection of 14 essays, Progressive Muslims: On Justice, Gender, and Pluralism (Oneworld), illuminates the breadth of the honest intellectual engagement with which many Muslim scholars today address critical and controversial issues. Edited by Omid Safi, assistant professor of philosophy and religion at Colgate University, the collection -- like the books by Rauf and Ramadan -- demonstrates the capacity for change, renewal and growth in the world’s second largest religion. These texts also demonstrate how the popular media too often gravitate toward the most sensational and simplistic images of Islam, failing to register and explore the self-critical and nuanced voices that are increasingly audible among Muslims.

Examining Islamic Militancy

Commentary since September 11 has produced a cognitive dissonance among Americans about Islam, the world’s second largest religious tradition. On the one hand, selected Muslim leaders declare that "Islam is a religion of peace" and President Bush asserts repeatedly that the U.S. has no quarrel with Islam, "which is a good and peaceful religion." On the other hand, taped messages from Osama bin Laden and Sulaiman abu Gaith, the five-page document of suicide bomber Muhammad Atta, and large public demonstrations supporting bin Laden in Pakistan, Indonesia, Iraq and Gaza reveal clear connections to a militant Islam.

Basic questions still abound: What does the Qur’an teach about jihad? Why do so many Muslims appear to hate the U.S.? How can we make sense of the mixed messages about Islam? What terminology is most appropriate to describe the Muslims who are demanding change?

Before engaging these pressing questions, it is essential to recognize the need for a more accurate understanding of Islam. Most Americans know very little about Islam. It is worse than simple ignorance: much of what people think they know is incorrect or distorted. The reasons are rooted in a long history of interaction between Christians and Muslims, much of which has been characterized by mistrust, misunderstanding and mutual antipathy. In order to make sense of the Qur’anic passages about jihad, for instance, it is helpful to know more about Islamic understandings of God, revelation, and the religious and social requirements for the faithful. The prospect of really coming to know another tradition is daunting, but it must not immobilize us. Understanding Islam more accurately and learning to live cooperatively with Muslims who share our society and fragile planet is not an optional task.

Some basic demographic information underscores the point. There are approximately 1.2 billion Muslims in the world. The four countries with the largest Muslim populations are in Asia: Indonesia (160 million), Pakistan (140 million), Bangladesh and India (120-130 million each). There are twice as many Muslims in China (35 million) as there are Southern Baptists (the largest Protestant denomination in the U.S.) in the world.

Islam is now or soon will be the second largest religion in the U.S., with approximately 7 million adherents. There are more Muslims in America than there are Presbyterians and Episcopalians combined. Islam continues to grow rapidly as a permanent part of the religious and political landscape throughout the world.

Given the size and scope of Islam and the obvious turbulence among many Muslims, the previous question comes into focus: What is the meaning of jihad? The Arabic word means "striving or struggling in the way of God." Muslims should strive to know and do the will of God. Historically, the "greater" jihad refers to the struggle each person has with himself or herself to do what is right. Human sinfulness, pride and selfishness are our major obstacles.

The "lesser" jihad involves the outward defense of Islam. Muslims should be prepared to defend Islam, including military defense, when the community of faith is under attack. While the vast majority of Muslims reject the violent extremism manifest on September 11, some Islamist leaders and groups clearly attempt to justify their behavior in the context of a holy war or struggle in defense of Islam. Thus, Osama bin Laden calls on the "nation of Islam" to join with him in this holy war.

Why are these people so angry? How can they justify turning airplanes into bombs and killing thousands as heroic actions? The answers are not simple or straightforward. Labeling the perpetrators terrorists or evildoers rings true, but it does not answer the questions. We can begin to get some clarity, however, by taking seriously the religious, historical, political, social and economic dynamics.

A number of factors are operating simultaneously in predominantly Muslim countries to give rise to politically active individuals and groups, often referred to as Islamists. At the same time, very specific historical, political, social and economic circumstances are giving rise to different movements in particular settings.

Many Muslims are convinced that Islam can provide a framework for the future. They point to the past and note how Islam led the world for centuries as the greatest civilizational system. A famous saying attributed to Muhammad enjoins Muslims to "seek knowledge wherever you may find it, even unto China." For many centuries, Muslim scholars and thinkers did just that.

The popular Western image of Islam as unsophisticated and anti-intellectual quickly disappears in the face of even a cursory survey of Islamic history. The error of this image is particularly ironic in view of the major ways Islamic civilization helped shape Western society as we know it. When Europe was languishing in the "Dark Ages," Islamic civilization was thriving from Spain to India. For several centuries, Muslims led the world in areas such as mathematics, chemistry, medicine, philosophy, navigation, architecture, horticulture and astronomy.

Muslims are proud of their history and civilization. But something went wrong. From the 16th through the 20th century many of the lands with a Muslim majority were under the control of outside powers. European colonial powers dominated prior to the rise of the two super powers following World War II. In the last decade, the U.S. has stood alone as the world’s superpower.

The formation of many new nations during the past 60 years adds another layer. Muslims who hoped and worked for revitalized, contemporary Islamic states have been thwarted time and again during recent decades. Although many Muslim lands now have indigenous leaders, there are not many examples where those who govern are in power by virtue of popular choice. Instead, one finds dynastic rule by kings or military and political leaders who seized and maintain power through force.

Movements for political reform have frequently been marginalized or crushed. Despicable human rights records in many Muslim countries add to the frustration. The details vary from country to country, but the pattern is all too familiar. The data are available through Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch and the annual reports published by the U.S. Department of State.

Economic disparity and perceptions of exploitation are additional ingredients contributing to political instability. Extraordinary wealth enjoyed by the ruling elite coupled with images of opulence in the West provide evidence for those who argue that their countries are still very much controlled by external powers.

Many believe that Islam can once again provide a viable framework for the state and for society. Many also believe that existing political, economic and social systems have failed. When most avenues for political change appear to be blocked, more and more individuals and groups are attracted to revolutionary movements.

Many groups take inspiration from the Iranian revolution. In a largely nonviolent process, Iranians toppled one of the most affluent and powerful leaders, the shah. A state-of-the-art military machine, a brutal secret police and full partnership with the U.S. proved no match for a popular revolution led by the Ayatollah Khomeini. A change few thought possible occurred with astonishing swiftness. I experienced these events firsthand as one of seven Americans to meet with the ayatollah and the students holding the U.S. Embassy in the course of three trips to Iran during the hostage crisis.

My work with the churches in the Middle East during the 1980s brought me in contact with many groups working for political change. I became aware of some of the groups that attracted considerable attention subsequently, namely: Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, Hamas and the Islamic Salvation Front.

It is vital to understand these and various other groups and movements in their respective contexts. Individual leaders and groups take shape in specific places with distinctive histories and contemporary circumstances. It is this factor that many analysts seem to miss. Islam is not monolithic. Sweeping generalizations devoid of careful contextual analysis will lead inevitably to erroneous conclusions. Egypt is not Algeria; Algeria is not Afghanistan; Afghanistan is not Iran; and so on. When journalists and pundits engage the question, "Why do they hate us?" they find partial answers in clashing value systems and general grievances related to inconsistent U.S. foreign policies. But the roots of frustration go much deeper. They are lodged in particular settings.

Consider Egypt. This poor, overpopulated country contains deep currents of frustration. For many centuries, Egypt, and al-Azhar University in particular, has been at the intellectual center of the Muslim world. Early in the 20th century, Egypt gave birth to the Muslim Brotherhood. Various reform movements have come and gone and some have been radicalized over the decades. Although Anwar Sadat, who made peace with Israel, was popular in the West, not all Egyptians felt the same way -- as was clear when Muslim extremists assassinated him in 1981. Fringe groups convinced that the regime of Hosni Mubarak is beyond redemption have surfaced in Egypt on a number of occasions over the past 20 years. They have attacked tourist groups from Japan and Germany as a way to dry up an indispensable source of revenue for Egypt: tourism. Their goal was to destabilize the Mubarak government.

A group of 12 Egyptian nationals, led by the blind cleric Omar Abdel-Rahman, was convicted of the first attempt to blow up the World Trade Center in 1993. They also had plans to kill Mubarak and Butros Butros Ghali, the Egyptian who served as general secretary of the United Nations. The apparent ringleader for the September 11 hijackings and attacks was Muhammad Atta, an Egyptian.

As for understanding Hezbollah, one must understand the religious, political and social dynamics of Lebanon. Similarly, the Islamic Salvation Front is inseparable from the French colonial past and more recent history of Algeria. Hamas -- which includes educational, social, political and military institutional structures primarily in Gaza -- cannot be understood apart from the tortured history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

The desire for clarity about the Islamic connections to turbulent forces is understandable. Bringing the picture into focus requires both an awareness of widespread aspirations among Muslims and a lot of hard, painstaking work in the dense thicket of the particulars present in specific situations.

The range of Muslim activists’ viewpoints -- which range from advocating socio-political-economic reform to seeking violent revolutionary action -- presents a challenge of terminology. Some journalists favor "Islamic fundamentalists" or "Muslim fanatics"; some speak of "militant Islam." Others, including the U.S. administration, wish to avoid any adjectival use of Muslim or Islamic. They speak instead of "evildoers" and "terrorists." I prefer the term "violent extremists" to describe the al-Qaeda network. It conveys both the modus operandi and the undeniable link to the fringes of Islam without unnecessarily furthering negative, stereotypical images of Islam.

While many Muslim activists share the vision that Islam can provide the framework for their respective societies, there is no consensus on precisely what an Islamic state should look like. If one were to ask 50 Islamist leaders to outline their vision for an Islamic state in the 21st century, the results would be anything but consistent.

Recent attempts to develop Islamic states illustrate the disparate visions. Iran developed an Islamic republic, a governmental structure based largely on the model of a Western parliamentary democracy. Pakistan, the only country created explicitly to be an Islamic state, has had a tumultuous history for more than 50 years. No Muslims I know look to Pakistan as the model they seek to emulate.

In Afghanistan, the Taliban (literally "the students" of Islam), a religiously inspired political and military faction, seized power five years ago after 15 years of devastating warfare. They imposed an extraordinarily rigid and extreme version of Islamic law -- to the horror of most of the world. Prior to September 11, only three countries -- Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates -- had diplomatic relations with the Taliban. Osama bin Laden’s rhetoric may strike a chord with some disgruntled and dispossessed Muslims in various lands, but there is no evidence that anyone (other than a few people with close ties in neighboring Pakistan) is lining up to take courses from the Taliban on how to organize an Islamic state.

There are many other voices within Islam. Given the nature of our pluralist, interdependent world, some Muslims believe that secular democratic states that guarantee religious freedom are the best model for the future. Many Muslims are deeply troubled by the very real problems of religious intolerance, persecution of minorities and the treatment of women within their societies. This debate will continue.

Anger and frustration inspiring violence directed toward the United States is not new, but the events of September 11 shifted everything to a different level. The meticulous planning as well as the locations, magnitude and audacity of these attacks were unprecedented. While the vast majority of Muslims worldwide were horrified and disgusted by such indiscriminate violence, clearly there are some on the fringes of Islam who interpret these acts in the context of a holy war. The perpetrators ignore Islam’s absolute prohibitions against suicide and the taking of innocent life, even in war. They see only the Qur’anic texts that promise paradise to those who die struggling in the way of God.

The depth of anger toward the U.S. is unmistakable. The extremists’ numbers may be relatively small, but, as we now know, it doesn’t take many people to wreak havoc.

The search for simple answers continues, with both Osama bin Laden and many analysts citing U.S. support of Israel and continuing sanctions against Iraq as primary sources of anger toward the U.S. Such rhetoric reflects only part of the truth. There seems to be little focus on the various ways Arab states have treated Palestinians over the years or the internal dynamics among Palestinian leaders as complicating factors. Why does Saddam Hussein bear no blame for using resources to fortify his regime while hundreds of thousands of children suffer in his country?

I do not want to diminish the importance of these things or the suffering of people caught in the middle. Positive movement forward is urgently needed, and it will help on many levels. But the lifting of sanctions on Iraq or the resolution of the Israeli-Palestinian problem would not eliminate the frustration toward the U.S. The deeper issues, in my view, are tied to the enormous power of the U.S. and the inconsistency of policies affecting the Muslim countries in question. Far too often, our government has pursued short-sighted, self-serving policies that contradict the ideals most Americans believe we espouse. We don’t pay much attention to the inconsistencies in foreign policy. People in other parts of the world who feel the impact of those policies pay close attention. And they take notes.

General Norman Swartzkopf has acknowledged several times on national TV that the U.S. helped train bin Laden and his forces. In the late 1970s they were considered "freedom fighters," since the enemy in Afghanistan was the U.S.S.R. Muslim revolutionaries next door in Iran at the same time were labeled "fanatics."

During the 1980s, the U.S. supported Iraq in the ten-year war of attrition against Iran. Many public-policy advocates, myself included, were highly vocal in opposition to the support of Saddam Hussein. His human rights record was among the worst in the world, and he used chemical weapons on both Kurds in his country and Iranians. President Bush labeled Saddam Hussein "an evil man" in his press conference on October 11, noting that he "gassed his own people." True. Where was the "official" outrage when these events were taking place?

The operative policy in these instances was simple: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. The fallacy of such short-term, expedient policies is now all too clear.

I recently posed this question to some top U.S. business leaders: "How many of you are familiar with U.S. policies in Algeria in the last decade?" Not one hand was raised. Although not many Americans were paying attention, Muslims around the world know that the U.S. supported the regime in power when it halted elections in the early ‘90s after the first of two rounds. It was clear that Islamic parties were going to win the elections with 80 percent of the popular vote. Some in Congress were confused as well, thinking that we supported democratization and self-determination. Why would we help stop free elections? A top official from the Department of State was summoned for congressional testimony. He explained that our policy is one person, one vote." "But," he added, "we are not for one person, one vote, one time." Should the Islamic parties win, he suggested, they would abolish democracy. So, the reasoning went, the U.S. cannot support a process whereby parties will use democracy in order to get power and then abolish democracy. So the policy actually turned out to be this: one person, no votes, any time.

Many Muslims around the world are unimpressed by presidential speeches extolling our virtues as freedom-loving, peaceful people who cherish democracy and our way of life. They see canceled elections and the subsequent arrest of Islamist leaders in Algeria. They see U.S. support for many repressive regimes they consider illegitimate. They see the pervasive influence of hedonistic Western culture on their traditional societies. Add in the frustration over the plight of the Palestinians and of civilians in Iraq and you’ve got a volatile mix.

Where do we go from here? A two-track approach is needed. The short-term task entails a careful, systematic, global effort to neutralize these misguided, violent extremists. The challenge involves pursuing military, political and economic policies that won’t drive many more frustrated and angry people into the ranks of the al-Qaeda network. Patience and a great deal of collective wisdom are needed.

The longer-term challenge for the U.S. is to find new ways to work with other nations in pursuit of peace and stability. This is not wishful thinking. I’m not talking about lighting a candle and singing "We Are the World." Rather, the U.S. must take a hard look at our own policies and resolve to take principled, consistent positions in support of fundamental human rights, self-determination, democratization and genuine economic opportunities.

Shrubs and Scrubs (Jer. 1 7:5-10; Ps. 1; 1 Cor. 15:12-20; Lk. 6:17-26)

I do not have a green thumb. I don’t speak to my plants. Instead I make them grab their throats, gasping for water, before I recognize their parched condition. Then I drench and almost drown them. This is no way to treat any living thing, plant or otherwise. Plants treated this unkindly are spindly and weak, anemic, with no strong root system. They hang on as long as they can, but they are not really living. They are a shadow of what they are meant to be.

Something similar happens to a child whose parents alternately meet his or her basic needs and then neglect them. Children in such a home are always walking on eggshells, antennae up in the air, trying to sniff out which parent will show up that evening -- the caring one or the neglectful one, the one who disparages and demeans them or the one who overindulges them by drowning them in kindness as compensation for past abuse. Children in such families are often willing to take on any role -- the perfectionist, the pleaser, the clown, the mascot, the scapegoat -- to deflect the family tensions and keep the uneasy peace from shattering.

They know better than to break the family’s rules -- don’t feel, don’t trust, don’t tell. Eventually, they become like those cursed people described by the prophet Jeremiah, people who can’t even "see when relief comes." Disappointed, jacked around time after time when they dare to hope that things will actually change, they often react to relief or help or a new start in one of two ways: "I don’t deserve it," or "It can’t be real."

What a difference in plants and people when someone tends their needs! Their growth is not stunted. They not only survive but thrive, even in seasons of high heat and seasons of drought. Their leaves (or eyes) shine, and their skin is healthy looking. They are resilient, for they have been nourished and nurtured with a consistent love, and even in the dry season their roots sink deep and drink from the underground spring that refreshes and renews them.

Jeremiah employs the metaphor of a withered shrub and a watered tree to talk about trust. The shrubs are those who trust in their own human strength and ingenuity or in other "mere mortals" to deliver them in adverse situations. The green trees are those who trust in God. Then Jeremiah makes one additional comment about hearts, one of his favorite topics. The heart, he says, "is devious above all else; it is perverse -- who can understand it?" The heart, in other words, plays tricks. It is fickle, rationalizes, makes excuses, tells lies. It fools others and even itself.

Jesus saw that perverseness of the human heart. He saw that the hearts of some had played tricks. These people had become convinced that it was by their own reason and strength, by their own hard work in keeping the law that they were successful and powerful, healthy, wealthy and wise. And he saw that the poor, the sinners and tax collectors, the sick and outcast had been excluded by others and thus didn’t dare to expect any better reception from God.

Jesus revealed a different kind of heart, one whose mission was "to bring good news to the poor . . . release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind." He was talking about recovery for "shrubs in the desert" who couldn’t see relief even when it stared them in the nose, who didn’t believe they deserved it, and thought that if it came their way, it must be a mistake.

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus comes down from the mountain where he has been praying and stands on a level place among his disciples and other listeners. These are not people who have come to see Jesus out of simple curiosity. They are "shrubs and scrubs" who have heard of his inaugural address and of his healing of lepers and paralytics and of his forgiving sins and calling sinners to follow him. They are beginning to believe that this Jesus might have good news for them.

And they are cured!

Jesus’ sermon on the plain is his enlistment speech for that great crowd of disciples who want to follow him. It is a wonderful combination of promise fulfilled and promise still to come, and of marching orders.

Jesus tells them: "Yours is the kingdom, the reign of God, that my mother Mary sang about in a lullaby before I was even born. Where the powerful and proud are brought down and scattered in the imagination of their hearts; where the poor and lowly are gathered up in grace; and where the hungry are filled with good things, while the rich are sent away empty."

Jesus speaks "on the level" to you and me too. He urges us to hear both the blessings and the woes in this text, the promises and the warnings. Our hearts sometimes trick us into believing that either we have earned everything we have by our own strength, or that God’s grace for us is too good to be true. But the reign of God in Christ Jesus is always about reclamation.

When reclaimed, we no longer have to be the perfectionist, the pleaser, the clown, the mascot, the scapegoat. We can feel again, we can trust again, we can speak again -- of this one who loves us steadfastly, who has the power to turn deserts and wastelands into lush groves of fruitful trees.

Off the Mountain (Ex. 34:29-35; Ps. 99; 2 Cor. 3:12-4:2; Lk. 9:28-43)

What did they expect when they set off with Jesus that afternoon? An intimate conversation among the four of them? A chance to talk Jesus out of that strange, scary stuff he had been saying about suffering and dying, about saving or losing their lives?

Of course, whatever they expected, they got much more than they bargained for on that mountain: a dazzling experience of the holy, an encounter with the transcendent, Christ transfigured before their very eyes. Biblical scholar Eduard Schweitzer has said that "for a brief moment the curtain... is drawn aside," and the disciples are "allowed to see in Jesus something of the glory of God and [God’s] kingdom, of that other life to which human eyes are otherwise blind."

But the disciples on the Mount of Transfiguration not only saw a vision; they also heard God’s voice coming out of the cloud, saying, "This is my child, my Chosen; listen to him." I hear that voice, too, when members of the church hear and heed those things Christ has said: Love one another. Forgive, as God has forgiven you. Follow me.

At that first transfiguration, Peter had an idea: "Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah." I can identify with Peter. Mountaintop experiences are gifts, whole and complete in themselves: a marriage where the love and delight stay kindled through the years, children, friends old or new, a job that we enjoy doing and that contributes to the welfare of others, good retirement years. All of these things are sheer gifts from God, gifts meant to be savored and enjoyed, to be awed or humbled by.

But if we build a booth to them, erect a frame around them and enshrine them, we can end up worshiping those moments or memories or persons to the extent that they become a hindrance, a stumbling block or even idolatry -- rather than unmerited gift from God and resource for service to others.

We have choices about how to respond to the mountaintop transfiguration events in our lives. We can ruin them with "if onlys" (if only I could stay here longer; if only things would never change; if only I could relive that experience). We can reminisce about our experiences, caressing and massaging them as an excuse to disengage from the world. Or we can allow them to prepare us for what God calls us to do next.

God’s response to Peter is clear: "Jesus is more than a prophet like Moses. He is my own Son. And he is more than Elijah, the one portrayed as a rescuer of sufferers and a restorer of Israel. Jesus is my chosen instrument, my chosen servant, for all the nations. No booth building here! In him, I myself have chosen to pitch a tent with people, dwell with them and restore them to myself."

In the transfiguration, God invites us to listen in again on Jesus’ conversation with Moses and Elijah. What they were talking about, Luke says, is Jesus’ departure, which he was about to accomplish in Jerusalem. In other words, Moses and Elijah and Jesus were discussing Jesus’ impending death. The Greek word translated as "departure" is actually exodus. They were discussing Jesus’ crucifixion, his exodus or exit from this world.

There is more. With Jesus’ exodus he was rescuing us, God’s people, out of slavery by releasing us from all those things that have an unholy hold on us -- work or money or death -- and by placing his own blood on the doorposts of our lives. The disciples were speaking of a God who protects God’s people from enemies and anxieties by leading them as a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. In Christ, this God "triumphs gloriously" over our enemies and over sin and death and whatever else separates us from God. These things are drowned in the waters of our baptism even as God brings us safely to the other side.

This talk about Jesus’ upcoming exodus suggests that disciples -- then and now -- should live as God’s people did on the night of the Passover. They were not weighed down with sleep or other concerns, but listened attentively to what God was doing in the world.

Listen to Jesus, God says. We will hear Jesus saying that he will be with us in the wilderness and in all the exits and exoduses of our lives. At the last, entry and not exit is our destiny. "Welcome home" will be the words we hear then. For now, we hear, "Come, my beloved, chosen ones -- follow me out on the road again."

What happened when the disciples went down to the plain? How did they communicate what they saw and heard to those who had not been up on that mountain? How did they share the experience with disciples who had stayed below? How do we communicate transfiguration or other mountaintop experiences that God gives us?

Luke tells us that the disciples "kept silent" about the transfiguration and "told no one any of the things they had seen." Maybe that’s our clue. Don’t run off at the mouth about it or tell people that they "should have been there." Maybe we best tell the story of the transfigured Christ when we serve the people who appear in our path, those who are desperate for release from the things that seize them and maul them and dash them to the ground.

No Keeping Score (Gen. 45:3-11,15; Ps. 37:1-12, 41-42; I Cor. 15:35-38,42-50; Lk. 6:27-38)

Keeping score and getting even -- that’s what enemies do. Time after time the Tutsis and then the Hutus have waited their turn to get even with each other in Rwanda. In the last outbreak of violence, loyalty to tribe even outweighed allegiance to religious vows for some clergy.

Sacred sites in Jerusalem separate rather than unite. Each side believes it a sign of weakness to permit any violence to occur without a retaliatory response. So the body count increases, and the promise of peace is more of a mirage with each passing day.

In such a world as this, what do we make of "the ethics of the kingdom"? You know the words: "Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. Forgive."

Maybe the first thing to say about these teachings is that they’re largely ignored. We catch glimpses, however, of how Jesus’ teachings could provide a new way for us to live together: in the U.S. Marshall Plan’s assistance to former enemies following World War II; in the recent work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa; in the World Bank’s partial forgiveness of the debts of poor nations at the urging of church coalitions.

The second thing to say about this section from Luke is that it is a dangerous text and has often been misused in the past, especially by the church. It became a word preached to slaves and others in abusive relationships in order to keep them in their place. Jesus did not intend his words to be applied against the oppressed. Instead, he tells the disciples:

"You know the system this world runs on? It is all based on keeping score. If anyone injures you, you retaliate and injure him.

"And what about the positive relationships in your lives? There, too, it’s all about keeping score. Someone gives you a gift, you give one in return. Someone invites you to his house for dinner, you reciprocate. But what credit is there in that for you?" Jesus asks.

Three times Jesus asks, "What credit is it to you if you love someone who loves you, if you do good to someone who does good to you, if you lend to someone who will later lend something to you?" The Greek word translated as "credit" is charis, which most often is translated as "grace." So we could paraphrase these verses to ask, "What grace is that of ours to love just those who love us, or do good to those who do good to us, or lend to those who can lend us something back in return?"

What Jesus calls on his disciples to do is "keep score no more." To trust the God who pulled a paradigm shift on the cross, settling a whole world’s "old scores" then and there, and then tearing up the ledger.

Most of our worship services include public confession and forgiveness. Yet in our individual lives, in our families and in our congregations, there are often unresolved rifts of long duration. Siblings who haven’t spoken to one another for years and who, like Joseph, don’t even know if a family member is still alive. Parishioners and pastors who hold on to their grievances and can’t seem to get beyond them.

Reconciliation is always tough to come by, but especially difficult when someone has taken away something that can never be given back. The life of a young person with a promising future snuffed out by a drunk driver or a random act of violence. Children whose innocence is forever taken away by rape, torture or abuse. A congregation in Colorado seemingly unable to minister both to the victims of the Columbine High School massacre and to the parents of one of the attackers.

How does reconciliation or forgiveness happen? It is not something that well-meaning bystanders can legislate. To be forgiven and to forgive are always gifts of grace that come from some place beyond ourselves.

What Joseph does is simple: he "keeps score no more. As Walter Brueggemann puts it in his Genesis commentary, Joseph breaks from the past and "invites his brothers to put that pitiful past behind them" as well.

"Do not be distressed or angry with yourselves because of how you treated me," Joseph says to his brothers. "For God sent me here before you to preserve life." Somehow Joseph could see God at work not only in the good things that happened in his life, but also in the evil done to him by others. Joseph’s decision to keep score no more creates the possibility of a new future for himself and his family Otherwise they would all still be controlled by and captive to the past.

It is important to remember, however, that no one else could say to Joseph, "God has brought you here." Until Joseph discovered that for himself he was unable to see good coming out of evil. Nor can we tell someone who has suffered a great evil at the hands of others that God is bringing good out of the tragedy. If it is going to happen at all, the victims must discover for themselves that God has somehow created something new out of their suffering, that out of their survival God’s grace can even provide food to save someone else from famine.

In Joseph we see a foreshadowing of Jesus our brother, who says, "Come closer to me. You needn’t be paralyzed by your fear or tortured by your guilt any longer. For I was sent by God to give you life, and to be the bread of life for you. To lend you all the grace I have, that you might be a sign in the world of my new measure for giving and living, ‘pressed down, shaken together, running over.’ And so that you can enter a new future, where once and for all, keeping score is no more."