Curtis A. Bronzan

In this post, I argue for the deconstruction of the church by addressing the father of deconstruction, Jacques Derrida. I do so primarily through engaging Derrida and Theology, a recent book by Steven Shakespeare. In the coming days, I will do the same by looking at the work of Gianni Vattimo and René Girard.

At the outset of Derrida and Theology, Steven Shakespeare relates the work of Jacques Derrida to Woody Allen’s 1997 movie Deconstructing Harry. He writes

Allen’s film plays on the caricature of the dissolute writer. [The main character] objects to religious fanaticism, indeed to all religion as arbitrary and exclusive, undermining our universal obligations to all people regardless of creed and race. However, his own life is fragmented, shallow and bitter. He cannot help confusing real life and fiction, with disastrous consequences for the former. He seems incapable of sustaining any lasting relationship. In the end, it is only his fiction that offers him any redemption, any way of gathering the shards of his life together. (DT, 1)

This comparison, though limited, holds keen insights for another comparison at the heart of this essay: the work of Derrida with Jesus’ first-century temple action. Just as Block, the main character in Allen’s film, objects to fanatical expressions of faith, so Jesus’ deconstructive temple action pronounces judgment upon exclusivist religious practices in his day.

Indeed, as we will see, Jesus’ pronouncement immediately following his action, seeks to reorient the first-century Temple toward its original purpose for the ‘other’: to be “a house of prayer for all nations.” (Mark 11.17) While we may not be willing to go as far as to assert that His personal life is not divided, the Gospels do present Jesus as the fulfillment of Israel’s history, whose communal life could be characterized as “fragmented, shallow and bitter.” Further, Jesus cannot help integrating the Hebrew Scriptures with his own life, indeed with “disastrous consequences,” and yet it is this text that guides His mission toward redemptive meaning. A final similarity is found in Jesus’ relationship with the religious authorities, His twelve disciples, and even His own family, each of who have been entirely incapable of sustaining any pronounced commitment to His Kingdom movement. This post, then, will seek to explore the culmination of Jesus’ counter-Temple movement with regard not to Harry Block, but Jacques Derrida, the father of deconstruction.

There are those, of course, who would question engaging Christian theology or ecclesiology with one who openly declares he could “rightly pass for an atheist.” At the same time, we ought to recognize that this perspective “ignores the difficult and contested history of theology itself, which, even confining ourselves to the Christian tradition, is one of dialogues, appropriations of other languages, debates and disputes.” (DT, 3) Indeed, in faith “we are invited into the space of an open-ended conversation.” (DT, 7)

At the outset, we note the limits of comparing Jesus’ action with Derrida’s concept:

Deconstruction is not so much a technique that an individual can master and employ. It is more an inherent dynamic of language and meaning. It is something that happens, and that reading and writing and acting engages with, without us ever fully grasping it. Reading deconstructively means something like being attentive to an event, an unexpected arrival, that interrupts, contradicts and dislocates what appeared to be settled and fixed. (DT, 25)

Indeed, deconstruction – which builds upon Heidegger’s destruktion – is not something to be employed in order to bring about a desired result. At the outset, then, it seems there is an inherent problem in our comparison, namely that we are arguing for Jesus’ action as the employment of this technique. On the contrary, our thesis here is much simpler: that Jesus’ temple action functions as the culmination of His mission, which, as a result of our reading here, can be characterized as opening a space for the Event. This must taken place, then, “in the middle of secondariness, interpretation and flux.” (DT, 27) In this sense, then, we are seeking to view Jesus’ mission as a reading of first-century Jewish faith, which ‘interrupts, contradicts and dislocates’ the seemingly ‘settled and fixed’ system of power. Notice, for instance, Matthew 11.16-17:

To what can I compare this generation? They are like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling out to others:
We played the flute for you,
and you did not dance;
we sang a dirge
and you did not mourn.

Indeed, here we see Jesus deconstructively “reading” the faith of those within His own first-century context. As Steven Shakespeare notes, “Human religion produces only idols. Only the free self-revelation of a wholly other God can create in us the capacity to receive God’s word.” (DT, 210)

As aforementioned, the mission of Jesus took place secondarily, within the history of interpretation. While a Christian understanding regarding the role of the temple is often projected onto the gospels, we must seek to pull back these layers to reveal a Jewish understanding. As Derrida asserts in Glas, “The risk, then, is the Jewish reading.” (DT, 124) Jesus’ particular reading regarding the role of the temple could have been influenced by Solomon’s prayer of dedication in 1st Kings 8.41-43, which includes an emphasis similar to what some proponents of “missional” thinking would assert today:

As for the foreigner who does not belong to your people Israel but has come from a distant land because of your name – for men will hear of your great name and your mighty hand and your outstretched arm – when he comes and prays toward this temple, then hear from heaven, your dwelling place, and do whatever the foreigner asks of you, so that all the peoples of the earth may know your name and fear you, as do your own people Israel, and may know that this house I have built bears your Name.

Structurally, then, the temple was meant to be “associated with the reality of the object”, (DT, 35) in this case, YHWH – for ‘all the peoples of the earth.’ And yet, as Derrida would assert, “[s]ense can be lost along the way. Meaning can wander from its source.” (DT, 32) Jesus’ temple action, viewed from this perspective, seeks to reorient Israel’s central institution back to its original purpose. Thus, it functions as both the continuation and fulfillment of His counter-temple movement that has previously included subversive teaching, table fellowship, healing, forgiveness, and symbolic actions (such as baptism and the Passover meal) all of which were tied unambiguously to the Temple cult.

Jesus’ temple action, then, reveals that the institution is a function of what Derrida would call différance, a term crafted by Derrida himself. This neologism plays on the French word différer, which can mean both “to defer” and “to differ.” Thus, Jesus is seeking to remind the Jews that the temple was originally built in order that all people would know YHWH, who is both different from the institution and to whom the institution is meant to defer. As Derrida himself asserts in Writing and Difference, “[l]ife negates itself in literature only so that it may survive better. So that it may be better. It does not negate itself any more than it affirms itself: it differs from itself, defers itself and writes itself as difference.” (DT, 98)

Commenting on this, Shakespeare notes, “In this sense, life and God are close to one another.” In the same way, Jesus’ temple action negates the institution in order to save it. Note also: “The trace is always crossing itself out, always deferred, never at one, never home. The trace is therefore not only a condition of meaning of unmeaning too.” (DT, 41)

With many allusions to what seems like a negative Christian theology, Derrida seeks to distance himself by utilizing the term khôra, found in Plato, and more recently Heidegger, which is defined not as “a receptacle, not a giver or gift… [though] in its passivity… allows the world to take place.” (DT, 154) If we can briefly set aside the idea of a receptacle as a physical area, we must ask, is not such an ‘interval’ or ‘space’ congruent with Jesus’ declaration regarding the purpose of the temple? Indeed, by overturning tables and benches, as well as keeping anyone from using the temple court as a shortcut through town, Jesus seeks to provide a passive openness to the other. It can become, then, “not a barren desert (a very patriarchal image of lonely aridity) but a fecund matrix, a womb of possibilities and new life.” (DT, 202)

Notice a similar theme in Derrida’s assertion in Writing and Difference, that

God separated himself from himself in order to let us speak, in order to astonish and interrogate us. He did so not by speaking but by keeping still, by letting silence interrupt his voice and his signs, by letting the Tables be broken… God no longer speaks to us, he has interrupted himself: we must take words upon ourselves.” (DT, 67; 68)

If our thesis, so far, is correct, we can find a corollary between Jesus’ temple action and the demise of Western metaphysics. Shakespeare notes that Derrida’s project uncovered how

the very openness and incompleteness that we find in the most purified structures of truth shows that such distinctions are unstable at best. At worst, they lead us back into dogmatism. We might even suggest that they result in a form of idolatry: taking as timeless and absolute what is secondary and contingent. (DT, 49)

In the same way, the structure of the first-century Temple cult reveals an incomplete system of truth, namely because of its exclusion of the other. Its dogmatism can be as clearly perceived as its idolatry. We need no further evidence than to note that, historically speaking, Jesus temple action leads directly to his execution. Note especially Mark 11.18, which immediately follows Jesus’ action and proclamation: “The chief priests and the teachers of the law heard this and began looking for a way to kill him, for they feared him, because the whole crowd was amazed at his teaching.”

We have been seeking to elucidate how the first-century temple functioned similarly to how Socrates viewed writing; as a pharmakon, “a Greek word that means both cure and poison.” (DT, 57) As such, we are now at a place to recognize the primary reason Derrida’s project is so central to Jesus’ symbolic action. This is due to its functioning as a heterology, a project focused on radical otherness, as Rodolphe Gasché has asserted. Indeed,

Derrida does not claim that deconstruction must be purely secular, this-worldly, renouncing all ideas of transcendence. We should not forget that it is in the name of the other, in response to the other, that deconstruction seeks to expose the limits of any system. (DT, 75)

In the same way, as aforementioned, Jesus’ entire countercultural, counter-Temple mission and temple action is centered on the ‘other.’ Note, again, Jesus’ proclamation:

Is it not written:
‘My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations’? But you have made it ‘a den of robbers.’ (Mark 11.17)

For the temple cult to remain faithful to its “missional” calling, it was to be a place where all people could come to pray. And yet, it had betrayed its purpose. Just as Derrida asserted that “[w]riting exposes us to the other, not just the other person but to the wholly other that subverts our mastery and divides our human essence”, (DT, 83) so the function of the temple was meant to be a place that exposed God’s holy people to other people and to Himself, the tout autre.

It has been written that “[f]or Derrida, philosophy is always obsessed with its ‘other’” (DT, 57), and yet, this is much more than ethereal philosophical speculation. Indeed, “Derrida’s thought invites the coming of the other, the address of the other, and this is an irreducibly religious motif.” (DT, 197) Jesus’ symbolic action, then, seeks to reopen the structural understanding of the first-temple so that it can be available to the other: “In other words, signs can only be available to others if they are not tied to a present meaning immediately contained within my own mind.” (DT, 79)

The temple had, of course, become irreplaceably tied to a function of what Emile Durkheim would call mechanical solidarity, namely that there are insiders and outsiders, with obvious distinctions between them. Missiologically speaking, the temple had become a bounded set, when it was meant to be centered. By engaging with Foucault’s History of Madness, we see the injustice of the temple was, in some sense, necessary:

This inhuman madness is necessary for thought to get going. If it is not acknowledged, even by those wishing to stand up for the victims of history’s exclusions, then we risk erecting a totalitarian structure, with all the potential for violence that entails (and we should not this early ethical concern of Derrida’s). (DT, 84)

Here one thinks of Žižek’s dictum that those who rob banks are often those who set up others – and it could be argued that throughout history Christian ecclesial institutions have done just that. Steven Shakespeare notes that at the American Academy of Religion conference, John Caputo once asked Jacques Derrida “To whom did Derrida pray and what answer did he expect?” (DT, 11) In his reply, Derrida noted that “his skepticism is part of the prayer, part of an openness to the approach of the other that no secular or religious system [could] stifle.” (DT, 13)

In conclusion, we again ask, can we not find in this response a similarity to the prayer that Jesus believes should be characteristic in the khôra of the temple? Is this not why he seeks to deconstruct the entire temple cult? Shakepeare concludes with a statement about Derrida, that could be easily applied to Jesus’ symbolic temple action: “It is as if he is saying, or showing us, that one way in which to disrupt systems of thought that have totalitarian pretensions is to pray.” (DT, 15)

As we have seen, Derrida’s thought lends itself quite well to aspects of Christian theology and ecclesiology. His emphasis on deconstruction helps us imagine – in a postmodern setting – what ministry in Jesus’ name among systems of power could look like. His emphasis on différance reminds us that, to employ Nietzsche’s assertion, our institutions are not facts, but are merely interpretations. And his khôra helps us recognize what such institutions could be. It has been noted, “[p]erhaps we can find in Derrida, if not a new theology, at least a thinker who provokes us to consider the possibility of doing theology otherwise.” (DT, 47) Could we not, in the same way, find in Derrida, if not a new ecclesiology, at least a thinker who provokes us to consider the possibility of doing ecclesiology otherwise?

Got Kester Brewin’s new book Other: Loving Self, God and Neighbour in a World of Fractures in the post today. Looks like the box had something of a difficult time en route from the UK, but the books inside are in good condition.

I can’t wait to get into it, but need to finish up some writing first (on Rene Girard, Jacques Derrida, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Gianni Vattimo). I’ll try to post some of that here.

We are now prepared to address a significant theological issue in the life of the postmodern church. As we have previously seen, postmodern culture is largely characterized by an “incredulity toward metanarratives.” (Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition, xxiv) Another postmodern thinker – perhaps the postmodern thinker – Jacques Derrida, put it another way: “There is nothing outside the text” (in French Il n’y a pas de hors-texte). (Derrida, Of Grammatology, 158)

While many Christians have understood Derrida to be a linguistic idealist – meaning there are only words, not actual things – this is not his point at all. Of course, if that were the case, if he truly were a linguistic idealist, that would signal a significant problem for a postmodern Christian faith, as Smith notes:

First, if there is nothing outside the text, then a transcendent Creator who is distinct from and prior to the world could not exist [which] would have to entail atheism. If Derrida is a linguistic idealist, then deconstruction and Christian faith are mutually exclusive. Second, if there is nothing outside the text, then it would seem that what the Bible (admittedly a text) talks about – what it refers to – is not real. (Smith, Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism?, 35)

These two issues may point to what Hiebert had in mind when he questioned the deconstructive character of postmodernity, though, this is not what Derrida has in mind.

Indeed, this would signal a significant – and problematic – shift for a postmodern Christian understand of Scripture.

What Derrida is seeking to assert, as opposed to linguistic idealism, is the inherent problem within the Cartesian cogito ergo sum, following on the heels of Nietzsche. Derrida’s deconstruction instead builds upon Husserl and Heidegger, and ultimately seeks to “invite us to notice that we are always already in the middle of secondariness, interpretation and flux.” (Shakespeare, Derrida and Theology, 27)

In other words,

“when Derrida claims that there is nothing outside the text, he means there is no reality that is not always already interpreted through the mediating lens of language. Texutality, for Derrida, is linked to interpretation. To claim that there is nothing outside the text is to say… that everything must be interpreted in order to be experienced.” (Smith, Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism?, 39)

While this can seem disconcerting at first, it need not signal the end of a postmodern Christian reliance upon the Scriptures, as some have asserted. Instead, we should first recognize the truth in Derrida’s claim, that truly, we are “like fish swimming in cultural water,” into which we have been born. Furthermore, far from limiting Christian faith in the inspiration of the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures, this recognition allows us to more fully embrace the Narrative into which we have been grafted. (Romans 11.17)

James K.A. Smith offers an insightful extrapolation, telling the story of Jesus’ crucifixion from the different perspectives of two Roman guards who were present that day. One states, “[a]fter lunch, things did get a little strange,” but concludes “[a]nother cross, another Nazarene, another criminal – one less to worry about.” (Smith, Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism?, 45) The other, of course, exclaims, “[t]ruly this was the Son of God!” (Smith, Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism?, 47) He goes on to question whether Derrida’s claim could resonate with the Reformers cry sola Scriptura! – indeed, there is nothing outside the text! He concludes,

[w]hile the church is governed by the Scriptures, the Scriptures are only properly opened and active within the believing community. To say that there is nothing outside the Text also entails that there is no proper understanding of the Text – and hence the world – apart from the Spirit-governed community of the church. The same Spirit is both author of the text and illuminator of the reading community.” (Smith, Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism?, 56-57)

Indeed, as with Lyotard, we can recognize the possibility that, instead of being impossible in a postmodern context, Christian discipleship can be truly rejuvenated through our interaction with it. Furthermore, the demise of the cogito ergo sum can reminds us of our genuine need not to be an island (with our iPods, iPhones, and iPads!), but that we need community – specifically the Community through which we can grow to know Jesus more fully. It is into this community that we were called, when Jesus died for us “while we were yet sinners,” (Romans 5.8) the ultimate Il n’y a pas de hors-texte!

As with any societal shift, the definitive beginning of postmodern culture is difficult to define, though of course, that has not stopped some from trying. The late Stanley J. Grenz, asserted “[p]ostmodernism was born in St. Louis, Missouri, on July 15, 1972, at 3:32pm,” (Grenz, A Primer on Postmodernism, 11) when the Pruitt-Igoe housing project was razed with dynamite.

Note also Stanley Hauerwas and William H. Willimon, who state

[s]ometime between 1960 and 1980, an old, inadequately conceived world ended, and a fresh, dynamic new world began… Although it may sound trivial, one of us is tempted to date the shift sometime on a Sunday evening in 1963. Then, in Greenville, South Carolina, in defiance of the state’s time-honored blue laws, the Fox Theatre opened on Sunday. (Resident Aliens, 15)

James K.A. Smith notes others: “student riots in 1968, the abandonment of the gold standard, the fall of the Berlin Wall.” (Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism?, 19)

As “a landmark of modern architecture,” the housing project was “the epitome of modernity itself in its goal of employing technology to create a utopian society for the benefit of all.” (Grenz, A Primer on Postmodernism, 11) This metaphor rightly envisions postmodernity as the pessimistic successor to modernity, a period largely characterized by unparalleled optimism in the progress of humanity. Near the height of modernity, such optimism was present even in evangelical mission, as seen in the statement heralded by John R. Mott, who sought “the evangelization of the world in this generation.” (Hopkins, John R. Mott, in Mission Legacies, 82) Hopkins is careful to note, however, that Mott “did not invent [this] motto… but he made it his own.”

What is somewhat easier to address than the date of this shift is its significance for our contemporary culture. While the modern world was characterized by the optimistic belief that universal reason could “demystify and illuminate the world over and against religion, myth and superstition,” (Barker, Cultural Studies: Theory and Practice, 188) postmodern thought has criticized the very structure of knowledge itself. Jean-Franois Lyotard provided the benchmark definition when he branded postmodernity as characterized by “incredulity toward metanarratives,” (Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition, xxiv)

This statement, alongside many other postmodernists’ work builds upon the work of Friedrich Nietzsche, who similarly wrote, “there are no facts, only interpretations.” (Notebooks, Summer 1886 – Fall 1887) which, in French, is grand reçits, or big stories, thus revealing the extent to which postmodernity turns the tables on its predecessor, modernity. Later Lyotard builds upon his definition when he questions, “[w]here, after the metanarratives, can legitimacy reside?”, (Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition, xxv) signaling the importance of grappling with this cultural shift missiologically.

Taken at his word, Lyotard seems to be advocating a shift that set us afloat in the ocean like Kevin Costner’s character “Mariner” in the 1995 film, Waterworld. (noted by Barry Taylor, Entertainment Theology, 89) He notes that

its story line exemplifies some key elements of the postmodern situation, particularly as they relate to spiritual expression… The old world remains intact but lies submerged under the new, much as the structures of modernity lie rusting under the new postmodern world.

In one sense, this is very much the case for those who have grown up in a media saturated world, including both MTV and the internet. We must recognize, however, that this seemingly ivory tower-based, philosophical turn has impacted – and continues to impact – the daily lives of Westerners, including how they understand the role of the truth. This greatly influences postmoderns’ ability to accept the veracity and inspiration of the Scriptures, a topic to which will return in a later post.

While many indeed feel afloat in the ocean, it need not be viewed in an entirely negative sense as if we are yearning for dry ground upon which we can place our authority, but rather we can recognize that, as Charles H. Kraft observes, God has created all people “like fish swimming in cultural water.” (Kraft, Anthropology for Christian Witness, 8) While our current philosophical and cultural setting may seem liquid, this may not be an impediment to faith, but rather a possibility to rely upon the strength of the One who is greater.

We must recall that while other seemingly “postmodern” thinkers have been reticent to use the term, Lyotard enthusiastically endorses “postmodernism”:

Lyotard [has] embraced the perspectival conception of knowledge and the term ‘postmodern’… which involves a loss of faith in the foundational schemes that have justified the rational, scientific, technological and political projects of the modern world. (Barker, Cultural Studies: Theory and Practice, 195)

Note especially the phrase “loss of faith,” in the quote above, which reveals a significant dynamic for our understanding of the modern postmodern split. While it is common to question the role of postmodern philosophy and culture in light of a Christian worldview, some similar charges – if not many of the same – could also be leveled against modernist perceptions, which also required “faith.”

We should note, then, the specific faith Lyotard seeks to question is an entirely reason-based scientific knowledge, which “when called on (by itself) to legitimate itself, cannot help but appeal to narrative.” (Smith, Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism?, 67) Smith goes on to argue, “[w]henever science attempts to legitimate itself, it is no longer scientific but narrative, appealing to an orienting myth that is not susceptible to scientific legitimation.”

Thus, Lyotard’s critique of universal reason and the metanarratives that explicate it’s “findings” are specifically those which are indebted to an Enlightenment philosophy, and thus have sought to undermine Christian faith by requiring “proof.” Thus, James K.A. Smith concludes,

Christian thinkers should find in Lyotard’s critique of metanarratives and autonomous reason an ally that opens up the space for a radically Christian witness in the postmodern world – both in thought and practice… In this way the playing field is leveled, and new opportunities to voice a Christian philosophy are created. (Smith, Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism?, 73)

At the same time, some necessary cautions must be offered to Lyotard’s postmodernism. Paul H. Hiebert asserts that an instrumentalist epistemology led to postmodernity’s deconstructionism, which he defines as “giving up the search for one grand unifying theory of knowledge, and celebrating pluralism and diversity despite their incongruity and lack of coherence.” (Hiebert, Anthropological Reflections on Missiological Issues, 62) It should be noted, however briefly, that most contemporary philosophers would reject Hiebert’s definition as overly negative, which was not the intention of Jacques Derrida in adapting the word from Husserl and Heidegger for literary usage.

Indeed, John Caputo notes that far from being a destruction, Derrida’s constant refrain viens! is like “the precursor John whose Baptist voice cries out in the desert of the same for the other who is to come. Viens precedes the event structurally; it always precedes and calls for the event because in messianic time, the event is always yet to come.” (Caputo, The Prayers and Tears of Jacques Derrida, 89)

Thus, while we may recognize in Lyotard and other postmodernists allies who also question the gods of modernity, we cannot go so far as to adopt their worldview as our own. We must instead, seek to hold fast to the revealed and incarnate truth of the One who is “the way, the truth, and the life.” (John 14.6)

There’s a blog here somewhere, engaging Derrida and Caputo – maybe even Žižek (who argues that love is the end) – but for now I’m just revelling in the lyrics – and melody – of this great song. Reminds me of some Pedro the Lion tracks.

Everything alive must die
every building built to the sky will fall
Don’t try to tell me my
everlasting love is a lie

Everlasting everything
oh nothing could mean anything at all

Every wave that hits the shore
every book that I adore
Gone like a circus, gone like a troubadour
everlasting love for ever more

Oh I know this might sound sad
but everything goes both good and the bad
It all adds up and you should be glad
everlasting love is all you have

I ran across an article this morning by James K.A. Smith in response to John Caputo’s What Would Jesus Deconstruct?: The Good News of Postmodernism for the Church. What would be better? Not much, except maybe Caputo responding to Smith’s response!

The Calvin college professor and prolific author starts out by asserting that he is “already clearly on record as a friend and fan,” but seeks “to push the conversation further, taking the spirit of Jack’s book seriously enough to disagree with it.”

After affirming that the church is deconstructible, Smith goes so far as to affirm that the Kingdom itself is deconstructible as well, since Jesus characterizes the Kingdom “to come,”  revealing it’s “contingency, particularity and finitude.” As such, he asserts that “Catholic orthodoxy actually makes a more radical affirmation of deconstructibility than Caputo’s Derridean Jesus.” Here’s his conclusion:

And here’s the crucial difference: the Trinitarian God of Catholic faith is not scared off by contingency, particularity or deconstructibility. Unlike the Wholly Other of the Derridean Gospel, the Incarnate God exhibits no allergy to the deconstructible. Indeed, this is the very distinctive logic of incarnation: God does not call for the deconstruction and dismantling of the deconstructible on the basis of or with a view to some undeconstructible and impossible kingdom; rather, God condescends to inhabit the deconstructible. If we want to ask ourselves what Jesus would do, we might consider what Jesus did. The Incarnation is the mad story of the undeconstructible God who did not consider undeconstructibility as something to be grasped, nor did he despise deconstructibility, but rather taking the “human, all too human form” of a servant, he humbled himself to the point of inhabiting the very deconstructible structures of human law and culture—even to the point of suffering death at the hands of these institutions. But he did so not with a view to eviscerating the deconstructible, but rather to rightly ordering it such that the contingent, particularity of this deconstructible creation might reach its proper telos (a loose paraphrase of Philippians 2:5-11). It’s not “deconstructibility” that’s the problem; it is the particular, wrongly-ordered configurations of the deconstructible that are at issue.

The scandal of Catholic ecclesiology is that this logic of incarnation then extends to an institution, the church Catholic, which is now configured as the body of which Christ is the head. The same Spirit that inhabited and empowered the incarnate Jesus (e.g., Luke 4:1, 14, 18) is given to the ecclesial community (Acts 1:8). This continues the logic of incarnation: the undeconstructible God continues to condescend and inhabit the very deconstructible institution that is the Church. Far from being infallible or perfect, nonetheless the institution is an extension of this logic and bears within it all the resources it needs to make sense of its own failures. Indeed, two of its most significant seasons (Advent and Lent) are seasons of penitence; it gathers as a community weekly to confess its failures (when was the last time the Democrats got together to do that?!). But in contrast to the logic of purity that seems to motivate the Derridean critique of deconstructibility as itself a problem, the logic of incarnation testifies to a God who inhabits, affirms, and takes up all the messiness of a deconstructible institution. The Catholic affirmation of the institutional church is rooted in this logic of incarnation which is a continuing testimony of what Jesus did.

Some thoughts to ponder. It makes me wonder why Smith questioned David E. Fitch’s use of Žižek’s “lack” for the reformation of the church at the SBL conference last year. Maybe I don’t understand his criticism fully.

Tonight, for the first time, I had the opportunity to impose ashes upon the foreheads of some friends who gathered for the church’s Ash Wednesday service.

Simply put, I wasn’t quite prepared how it would affect me to say over and over “You are dust, and to dust you will return. But in Jesus Christ, you have eternal life.”

You are dust, and to dust you will return. But in Jesus Christ, you have eternal life.

It’s a beautiful paradox. Like Peter Rollins’ How (Not) to Speak of God. Or John Caputo’s The Prayers and Tears of Jacques Derrida.

Or the Gospel.

Grades were due for the fall quarter at Fuller today, which means that after a couple busy weeks of grading 50+ final papers, I’m now able to return to some of my own research interests. I won’t begin actually writing my ThM thesis until this summer (after a required integration course in the spring), though this quarter I have the opportunity for another directed study with Barry Taylor, a professor who has significantly shaped my thinking in past courses as well as a previous directed study.

The first section of my ThM thesis will specifically examine Jesus’ action in the temple through detailed exegetical work. From there, however, I’m not exactly sure how best to proceed in arguing for a (post)modern de(con)struction of (our) temples that remain faithful to Jesus’ prophetic action.

As such, this quarter I’ll be examining the theological impact of a few different thinkers, some of whom I’m somewhat familiar with (Derrida, Vattimo, and Girard) and others of whom I’m not (Nietzsche, Rorty, and Foucault). Creating the reading list was rather difficult, especially considering T&T Clark’s recent “_____ and Theology” series as well as Baker’s Church and Postmodern Culture series. Ultimately, however, I’m excited about how it ended up – and am looking forward to conversations with Barry regarding the subject matter.

This commercial always reminds me of the writing of Peter Rollins, especially his book How (Not) to Speak of God (which, of course, builds upon John Caputo’s brilliant examination The Prayers and Tears of Jacques Derrida: Religion Without Religion, in which a chapter is entitled Affirmation at the Limits: How Not to Speak).

All that said, how brilliant that it’s for an Irish whiskey!

I am often asked, especially around the church, when I will be “ready for ordination.” Those asking this question are usually referring to the taking of 144 Master of Divinity units, four extra PC(USA) courses in preparation for five ordination exams, as well as church and hospital internships (totaling 400 hours each).

Then comes my rambling attempt to explain, in essence, “I’m there.” I have been approved, that is, to accept an ordained position, after which I will be officially ordained. But, don’t get any crazy ideas, I will never be “Pastor Curtis” or “Reverend Bronzan.” Just “Curtis” is fine, thank you.

You don’t call a plumber “Plumber Joe” or a secretary “Secretary Linda.” Referring to a pastor as “Pastor [Name],” I’ve become convinced, implicitly sets up an unbiblical hierarchy. Furthermore, I’ve become convinced that such titles often contradict Jesus’ ideas regarding religious leadership, note especially verses 8 through 12:

But you are not to be called ‘Rabbi,’ for you have only one Master and you are all brothers. And do not call anyone on earth ‘father,’ for you have one Father, and he is in heaven. Nor are you to be called ‘teacher,’ for you have one Teacher, the Messiah. The greatest among you will be your servant. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.

“So,” comes the response, why are you still going to school? And at that, I struggle even more to respond coherently.

At times, I have said something to the effect of how the Master of Divinity degree (though earned from the best seminary in the history of the world) sought to make me into a Constantinian who had very little ability or developed skill to tell anyone outside the church anything important about Jesus. In short, it can become all about keeping butts in the pews, instead of faithfully exegeting our post-Christian culture, thus reaching outside the church to proclaim and enact good news.

Thus, I began a post-graduate degree focused upon contemporary, postmodern culture. My proposed thesis is tentatively entitled “De(con)structing the Temple(s): An(other) Attempt at Religion (without Religion).” Thus far in my research, I have found a rather interesting dynamic; when you ask big questions, like the role of institutions in the life of faith, lots of people (who would normally be ousted from discussions among the “faithful”) have something to say, including even the likes of Neitzsche (who taught us how to philosophize with a hammer).

It all got started with John Caputo’s brilliant little pamphlet of dynamite, What Would Jesus Deconstruct?: The Good News of Postmodernism for the Church:

The church is Plan B. (In deconstruction, everything is Plan B.)… The existence of the church is provisional – like a long-term substitute teacher – praying for the kingdom, whose coming Jesus announce and which everyone was expecting would come sometime soon. But this coming was deferred, and the church occupies the space of “deferral,” of the distance of “difference,” between two comings. (I just said, in case you missed it, the church is a function of différance!) In the meantime, and it is always the meantime for the church, the church is supposed to do the best it can to bring that kingdom about in itself, here on earth, in a process of incessant self-renewal or aut0-deconstruction, while not setting itself up as a bunch of kings or princes. The church is by definition a call (kletos) for renewal.

That is why the church is “deconstructible,” but the kingdom of God, if there is such a thing, is not. The church is a provisional construction, and whatever is constructed is deconstructible, while the kingdom of God is that in virtue of which the church is deconstructible. so, if we ask, “What would Jesus deconstruct?” the answer is first and foremost the church! For the idea behind the church is to give way to the kingdom, to proclaim and enact and finally disappear into the kingdom that Jesus called for, all the while resisting the temptation of confusing itself with the kingdom. (WWJD?, 35)

My contention is that in our day and age, the church has, in fact, set itself up as a bunch of “kings and princes.” Thus, I am hoping to short-circuit Jesus’ original, prophetic “de(con)struction” with post-modern ecclesiology, by engaging Scripture, critical theory and continental philosophy.