Imagine as an Apocalyptic: revelation and immanence

“At first glance the kingdom of heaven looked a lot like a golf course. I’m not interested in golf, so this was a complete surprise to me. Another odd thing is that when people talk about heaven they usually refer to it as being “up,” but I had no feeling of upness. The place felt right around sea level to me. The temperature was cool, maybe 55, 60 degrees. The sky was partially cloudy, but the air was so fresh I felt we must be near an ocean, and the kingdom stretched on and on in such a rolling, barren way that the land itself seemed like a sea.”
-David James Duncan (via Kincaid), The Brothers K, 80.

“I can imagine as an apocalyptic: let it go down. I have no spiritual investment in the world as it is.”
-Jacob Taubes, The Political Theology of Paul, 56, 103.

In a recent blog post at AUFS, Dan Barber reflects on our habits of thinking apocalyptic transcendently, as something completely other-worldly, “as the arrival of something positive from beyond.”  In contrast, he wants to put forward an immanent understanding of apocalyptic, and also “apocalyptic immanence.”  What does this mean? And what is the impetus for bringing-apocalyptic-back-down.

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The fragile body of the risen Christ

In his latest post on “Redemption and the Body,” geraldens reflects on a funeral he attended.  He concludes his reflection by suggesting the following: “If redemption is tied to our bodily frailty, is it possible that the new resurrected body will also be one of vulnerability and weakness?” I want to take up this question.

Let me begin my saying that I think it is deeply problematic to our theological thinking when we equate vulnerability, weakness, fragility, (especially of the body) with sin and corruption. We think this way for a number of reasons, most simply because our language for the sinful state of creation is brokenness and corruption, and our language for ultimate reconciliation (and pre-Fall existence) is that of health, healing, reconciliation, wholeness. This kind of paradigm prevents us from thinking the goodness of vulnerability, weakness, and fragility, and their reconciliatory power (which of course is what the Gospels and Epistles show us). In this paradigm, we get a linear theology of redemption: wholeness, harmony, health -> brokenness, sin, suffering -> redemption as restoration to the original form of creation. You can also see this logic at work in the theology of the 3 friends in Job.

The question posed above reminds me of some of Peter Widdicombe’s work, exploring patristic writings on the question of whether the ascended body of Christ retains the marks of the wounds of the crucifixion. For Cyril, writes Widdicombe, “whether the glorified body retains the marks of the wounds is of great theological significance: it has direct implications for how we are to think about what it is that God has done for us in the sending of the Son and how we are to understand the process of redemption.” Cyril affirms that the risen body of Christ, and the ascended body, retain the wounds. Widdidcombe writes further: “The appearance of the marks of the wounds and the resurrected body of Christ are, for Cyril, evidence specifically of two things: the identity of the body – the body which appeared to the disciples is the same one that hung on the cross; and the physicality of the body – however it was to be conceived, what the disciples saw before them was a real body.” Now, Cyril also recognizes that a difficulty remains, namely that the marks of corruption are apparent on an incorruptible body. But again, this is an erroneous way of thinking: “He quotes the words of Paul in 1 Corinthians 15:43: that which “is sown in weakness is raised in power”, and that which “is sown in dishonour is raised in glory,” and he concludes that there will be “no remnant of adventitious corruption left in us [...]. For the human body was not made for death and corruption.” Clearly, then, whatever we are to make of the retention of the marks of the wounds, they are not to be seen as signs of corruption in the saviour’s body.”

All that is to say that, yes, not only is it possible that the resurrected body will also be one of vulnerability and of weakness, but that this is precisely the kind of transformation that the resurrection effects — the redeemed body is incorruptible and retains the marks of the wounds, and thus it is the very redeemed and risen body that is at once a vulnerable, weak, and fragile body.

All quotes are from Peter Widdicombe, “The Wounds and the Ascended Body: The Marks of Crucifixion in the Glorified Christ from Justin Martyr to John Clavin,” in Laval théologique et philosophique, vol. 59, nº 1, 2003, p.137-154.
The article is available here (pdf).

Student Panopticons (and the potential of the serious)

A professor of mine once said, “If you’re going to go with Foucault, you’ve got to go all the way.”

Last night a friend and I were reviewing our life as undergrad students, discussing certain influential classes, and the complex dynamics of student-professor relations. I give her, Natasha Plenert, credit for the initial idea of “student panopticons” here. And now I shall try to push this idea out.

She suggested that there are sometimes (and this is quite a rare phenomenon) students who are like panopticons in the university.  These students are marked by a number of characteristics but emphatically so by a certain kind of seriousness.  This seriousness is not somber, humourless, cold, or resolute.  Rather, it is open, receptive, impressionable, critical, honest, and impelled.  The student panopticon is a diligent worker, a thorough reader and researcher, and deeply perceptive and sensitive to the meaning and/or implications of claims people make, thoughts that are proposed.  In the classroom, these students question generalizations and crassly put statements by pushing for clarity, nuance, and examples.  These students can be thought of as panopticons because in effect they function like a self-policing system for professors.  They essentially accomplish this by taking their professors more seriously than the professors take themselves.

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Summer Reading 2012

Yesterday I graduated from Canadian Mennonite University with a Bachelor of Arts Honours degree in Biblical and Theological Studies, and a double minor in Philosophy and Peace and Conflict Transformation Studies. Last summer most of my reading was focussed on my thesis. This summer, I hope to delve into a mixture of things.  I will be reading books that have intrigued me in the footnotes of other books, literature recommended to me by my friends, books related to my work in Pauingassi First Nation over the next several months, as well as a few simply chosen by their snappy title.  What are your summer reading plans, dear blog readers? Or, what are some books that I absolutely must add to my list (considering my interests, of course)?

Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter

Gil Anidjar, The Jew, The Arab: A History of the  Enemy

Jonathan Lear, Radical Hope: Ethics in the Face of Cultural Devastation

Belden C. Lane, Desert Spirituality and Cultural Resistance: From Ancient Monks to Mountain Refugees

Tripp York, Third Way Allegiance: Christian Witness in the Shadow of Religious Empire

Drew Leder, The Absent Body

David James Duncan, The Brothers K

Michael Anthony Hart, Seeking Mino-Pimatisiwin: An Aboriginal Approach to Helping

Tripp York, The Devil Wears Nada: Satan Exposed!

Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life

Zizek on the crucifixion

” “When Christ says ‘My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?’ is he bluffing or not?” If he is in fact bluffing–and by bluffing I mean that he is simply saying this aloud but secretly knows that he is God–then the crucifixion is not serious.  It is just a spectacle staged for humans.  But if we take Christ’s statement seriously, then the implication is extremely radical.  We must not forget that in Christian theology, Jesus Christ is not thought of in the same way as messiahs in other religions.  Christ is not a representative of God; he is God.  This means that God is radically split.  A part of God doesn’t know what God is doing.  There is a kind of inconsistency in divinity itself, which is I think the crucial insight of Christianity. This is why I ask: how can we rejoin God?  In other religions God is a simple transcendence: We are here in our sinful, terrestrial life, but if we purify ourselves, it’s possible for us to get closer to and be rejoined with God.  In Christianity, when it’s said that the only way to God is through Christ, I think what’s implied is precisely this Christ at the moment of doubt on the cross.  This is why for Christianity you can, paradoxically, reach God only through this moment of doubt.  As Chesterton put it, God himself becomes, for a moment, an atheist.  The idea is as follows: We experience the utmost despair and alienation.  We are here, God is there.  We are totally abandoned by God.  How then in authentic Christianity do we reach God?  Not by somehow magically overcoming this gap but just by means of a shattering insight at the very point when we are abandoned by God.  There we occupy the position of Christ.  What was thought of only as alienation from God is the position of Christ himself: God abandoned by God.”
Slavoj Zizek, “A Meditation on Michelangelo’s Christ on the Cross” in Paul’s New Moment: Continental Philosophy and the Future of Christian Theology, eds. John Milbank, Slavoj Zizek, and Creston Davis (Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2010), 174-175.