an organized religion with a political agenda, judgmental and negative, dominated by males and oppress[ing] to females, homophobic, arrogantly claim[ing] that all other religions are wrong, and full of fundamentalists who take the whole Bible literally. (Kimball, They Like Jesus But Not the Church, 9)

Interestingly, throughout its pages, Kimball never asks the central question necessary for ecclesiological insight: what is the church? If he did so, he might uncover an interesting dynamic, namely that the church is not – and was never intended to be – preeminently an institution, but instead was, is, and will forever be, a people.

After recognizing that dynamic, however, Kimball might then realize that those who hate the church are also those who are a part of it; who are seeking to renew it by their very presence in it.

In his book What Would Jesus Deconstruct?, philosopher John Caputo, brings these two streams together. After emphatically pronouncing that the church is “Plan B” (to the Kingdom of God, of course), he asserts:

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. (Caputo, What Would Jesus Deconstruct?, 35)

Alongside the demise of metaphysics, then, does not our current postmodern culture allow us – even demand of us? – that we question the role of institutions in and for our lives? Is this not what Jesus proclaimed, that tearing down the temple would result in it being raised in three days (John 2.13) and proclaimed “‘My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations’? But you have made it ‘a den of robbers.’” (Mark 11.17)

Instead of, like Kimball, fearing the distrust of emerging generations, we are in a perfect place in history to remember God’s initial plan for institutions of faith, as Solomon prayed so long ago:

[a]s 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. (1st Kings 8.41-43)

Here we see both the centripetal and centrifugal aspects of mission. Indeed, this brings us back to our original section on postmodernism and deconstruction. James K.A. Smith, again, clarifies:

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.” (Smith, What Jesus Did: The Incarnation as the More Radical Hermeneutics)

In other words, the mission of those who like Jesus – or, better yet, seek to follow Him – in postmodern cultures is not to tear down the existing institution, but to echo Derrida’s veins! to the coming of God’s Kingdom into a new time and place, by the power of His Spirit, transforming within their sphere of influence.

As we have seen, postmodern philosophy and culture do not necessarily preclude Christian faith. On the contrary, they can lead to a renewed appreciation for the incarnation of God’s Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ, who willingly took on human flesh to “swim in cultural water” like each of us. When recognized in light of God’s saving work throughout history, postmodernity can indeed lead to a robust faith that seeks to grow through Scripture and in community, that it might go out into the world to proclaim God’s narrative: the Lordship of Jesus Christ.

[Photo credit: Dave Walker]

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!

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)

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.

Stopping by the Fuller Bookstore is extremely helpful, but also exceedingly problematic – at least for my bank account.

Today, before even finding Gibbs’ In Name Only, I encountered James K.A. Smith’s Desiring the Kingdom: Worship, Worldview and Cultural Formation (which, along with Derrida and Theology, was on the same Amazon order as In Name Only, that wasn’t due to ship for another couple of weeks!). But I also ran across Graham Ward’s The Politics of Discipleship: Becoming Postmaterial Christians and Merold Westphal’s Whose Community, Which Interpretation?: Philosophical Hermeneutics for the Church, both of which aren’t due out until October 1st!

Needless to say, I picked both up, as well as Hegel and Theology.

As other “nations” are beholden to their own myths, we can recognize the importance of seeing in Christ’s incarnation and temple action an understanding and willingness to engage with these petit recits. Or as Vattimo puts it,

it is not that the incarnation of God in Jesus Christ undermines – and delegitimates – the myths of other religions; in many senses… it implicitly validates them. Since the Christian God was incarnate in Jesus, we may also understand God through the other forms of natural being appearing in many non-Christian religious mythologies. (After Christianity, 27)

Thus, instead of exclusively demanding adherence to each and every propositional statement of the Christian church, followers of Jesus ought to dig underneath the foundation for such propositions, recognizing and proclaiming God’s willingness to reveal himself in weakness to all people of all nations.

This emphasis on caritas for others signals a decisive break from Girard regarding the necessity of Jesus’ sacrifice, which can lead to legitimated violence:

[a]lthough Christ came into the world to reveal the connection between the sacred and violence, and to dismantle it, the violence of the sacred has remained active within Christianity until today.” (Christ in Postmodern Philosophy, 12; see also After Christianity, 119)

One final element of Vattimo’s thought that is applicable to our present study is revealed in his thoughts regarding hermeneutics. In some ways similar to Žižek’s conception of lack, he asserts

if there is no objective truth given to someone once and for all, a truth around which we must all (for good or bad, willingly or unwillingly) gather, then truth happens in dialogue. The truth Christ came to teach the church is not an already accomplished truth. ((After the Death of God, 44)

Much to the chagrin of some of the Radical Orthodoxy movement (especially James K.A. Smith), Vattimo here opens up the possibility for and responsibility of followers of Jesus to continue the project of interpretation by deconstructing the hierarchical structures of metaphysical modernity. This continued hermeneutical praxis highlights the need to “continue the saving act of revelation… thus reducing the violence of institutions, including ecclesiastical ones.” (After Christianity, 119)

This is done in the name of the One who revealed true caritas by pronouncing judgment upon (and the deconstruction of) the temple, in favor of the Temple.

Instead, he goes on to note “if you really love God, you will want what he wants – what pleases him will please you, and what displeases him will make you miserable.” (Violence, 137) Love, for Žižek, is an action whereby one “singles out, focuses on, a finite temporal object which ‘means more than anything else.” (The Fragile Absolute, 89)

To bring our examination full circle, is this not what is taking place within the Event of Jesus’ temple action? Is he not singling out and focusing on those who have been excluded? Does he not pronounce that the last will be first, and the first last? Is this not the central tenet of Jesus’ parables about sheep and coins and sons and parties?

This element of Jesus’ temple action is most profoundly emphasized in Matthew’s account, which depicts Jesus not merely teaching (as in Mark) but receiving the praise of children as well as healing the blind and lame. In an important sense, then, since Jesus is purposely upsetting the system, he is, what Žižek would term violent, creating “a perturbation of the ‘normal,’ peaceful state of things.” (Violence, 2)

The underlying paradox is that what makes love angelic, what elevates it over mere unstable and pathetic sentimentality, is its cruelty itself, its link with violence – it is this link which raises it ‘over and beyond the natural limitations of man’ and thus transforms it into an unconditional drive. (Violence, 204; see also Violence, 179, where Žižek addresses a “divine violence [that] explodes in a retaliatory destructive rage”)

This, of course, flies in the face of most contemporary versions of love, but may coincide quite closely with the Scriptural notion of divine love, which seeks justice for the widow, orphan and alien. It could be further argued that this notion of love coincides with the original purpose for the temple itself, though this is beyond the present scope of our study.

Jesus’ temple action – instead of a mere cleansing – is his final signifier of the coming Kingdom, around which his entire ministry circulates. Thus, there is a necessary break with the social institutions and religious constructions of his day. As Žižek notes,

It is precisely in order to emphasize this suspension of the social hierarchy that Christ (like Buddha before him) addresses in particular those who belong to the very bottom of the social hierarchy, the outcasts of the social order (beggars, prostitutes…) as the privileged and exemplary members of his new community. (The Fragile Absolute, 115, see also Žižek and Theology, 154)

In addressing social outsiders, Jesus is implicitly not addressing religious insiders (at least not with the same message), but instead calling them to judgment. Furthermore, in this Event within an event, we recognize Jesus’ invitation to and example of de(con)structing the elements of our institutions which do not serve the interests of the coming Kingdom. Thus, contra James K.A. Smith, who questions the validity of Žižek’s insights for Christian praxis since the Kingdom “has no lack,” we must instead recognize that, for us, the Kingdom does lack, precisely because it has not yet fully come, even – or especially – in our churches, much less in the world at large.

In that sense, then, we should follow Žižek’s insight that belief is what we do (see Slavoj Žižek, 67). As he states in The Fragile Absolute

As every true Christian knows, love is the work of love – the hard and arduous work of repeated ‘uncoupling’ in which, again and again, we have to disengage ourselves from the inertia that constrains us to identify with the particular order we were born into. (The Fragile Absolute, 119-120)

Though we may not go so far as to sacrifice sacrifice (see Žižek and Theology, 122) or accept that Jesus frees us from the need for God, (see Žižek and Theology, 97), we can wholeheartedly affirm that the lack – the fact that the Kingdom has not yet come in all it’s fullness – opens up an opportunity to truly believe. We can – with Caputo – recognize that loving our neighbor requires that we accept their smell (Violence, 166) and seek to de(con)struct our institutions that they would be made welcome within them. And all the while hope and pray that we don’t rob one bank only to set up another. (Violence, 209)

Have we?