Anti-Expertism

The 2007 Emergent Theological Philosophical Conversation

“What Would Jesus Deconstruct?
A Conversation about Justice”

a conversation with John D. Caputo,
and featuring Richard Kearney

$145 before March 1, 2007
$160 after March 1, 2007
Eastern University, Philadelphia, PA
Monday, April 16 (7 p.m.) – Wednesday, April 18 (12 noon)

READING LIST
Philosophy and Theology by John D. Caputo (this book is included in your registration cost, and everyone who registers by March 1 will receive a copy in the mail)

On Religion by John D. Caputo

After God: Richard Kearney And the Religious Turn in Continental Philosophy: read the chapters, “Epiphanies of the Everyday” and “Enabling God” by Richard Kearney

We’re also working to get a draft of Jack’s book-in-progress, What Would Jesus Deconstruct?

John B., via clusterflock, directed me to Driscoll’s “theological reasons” for preaching from the ESV. Now I am not the sort of fellow who takes potshots at individuals, but–as far as I can see–his reasons either wildly naive or down right deceptive.

For instance, he argues for an almost mathematical equality of words and their translations:

One of the more popular arguments for thought-for-thought translations and paraphrases is that people do not understand the theological nomenclature that Scripture uses to express doctrinal concepts. The reasoning follows that words like “justification” and “propitiation,” which the original text of Scripture used, should be replaced with more modern vernacular that people can understand. To illustrate this point two examples will be helpful

While I am not advocating for paraphrases (what does he consider a “paraphrase,” incidentally?), the word “justification” and “propitiation” are not (obviously) used by original text, Greek words are. Further, “propitiation” is a translation which has, in the past, been up for debate. I, for one, think it is the correct translation–but that is neither here nor there–if Driscoll is to give “theological reasons” then he shouldn’t gloss over possible difficulties.

Further, shouldn’t it be clear to anyone who has done language work that every act of translation is an act of interpretation? The last thing we need is a ‘word-for-word’ translation. Translation is not a science but an art. An art that looks at the word itself and the word in context–this is particularly salient to translation since a word does not have meaning outside of its context. Or Am I way off base here? Maybe I am pushing the equality between translation and interpretation too hard? Yet I cannot help but think that Driscoll is asking for the impossible when he writes:

Before we can interpret the meaning of Scripture, we must first accurately understand the message of Scripture. Or, to put it another way, only after knowing what Scripture says can we understand what it means. Practically, this requires that Bible translations be separate from and prior to Bible commentaries. A word-for-word translation best enables this to occur by seeking, as much as possible, to not insert interpretive commentary into the translated text of Scripture; rather, it lets the text breathe as a living word and speak for itself.

John B. aptly observed,

But I think in the first sentence he gives the game away: “message” and “meaning” are actually awfully close in meaning, and if one of the “messages” (what Driscoll says means “words”) of Scripture is, as he says later, the privileging of the word “mankind” over, say, “people,” well, then, one can derive any number of “meanings” from those “messages,” as we’ve discussed before in this very forum. In other words, I’m afraid I suspect Driscoll of already having a “meaning” in mind and that it’s that which directs his search for the “message.”

In other words, the “message” is the “meaning.” Therefore, it is impossible to decipher a “message” without knowing its “meaning.” When John writes, …I suspect Driscoll of already having a “meaning” in mind and that it’s that which directs his search for the “message,” he is quite right. But I ask you, who doesn’t? The art of translation is being aware of this and working out the authorial meaning dispite it. (I think they call it biblical hermeneutics.)

Driscoll is particularly frustrating since he is clearly not writing to the scholar but the layperson who has no means of judging his claims. Most, I think, would take him at his word and this word, if I am correct, is an oversimplification. And oversimplification, intentional or not, is misleading and may lead to a “one true translation” attitude which can sow dissention and discord in the church. And that, I will not abide.

For the record, I highly recommend the ESV and this will not turn into a rant against Driscoll blog.

UPDATE: This comment pretty much says it all.

I am punting today and simply directing you to a great article at Guardian Unlimited by Zadie Smith:

That is the end of the tale of Clive. Its purpose was to suggest that somewhere between a critic’s necessary superficiality and a writer’s natural dishonesty, the truth of how we judge literary success or failure is lost. It is very hard to get writers to speak frankly about their own work, particularly in a literary market where they are required to be not only writers, but also hucksters selling product. It is always easier to depersonalise the question. In preparation for this essay I emailed many writers (under the promise of anonymity) to ask how they judge their own work. One writer, of a naturally analytical and philosophical bent, replied by refining my simple question into a series of more interesting ones:

I’ve often thought it would be fascinating to ask living writers: “Never mind critics, what do you yourself think is wrong with your writing? How did you dream of your book before it was created? What were your best hopes? How have you let yourself down?” A map of disappointments – that would be a revelation.

Map of disappointments – Nabokov would call that a good title for a bad novel. It strikes me as a suitable guide to the land where writers live, a country I imagine as mostly beach, with hopeful writers standing on the shoreline while their perfect novels pile up, over on the opposite coast, out of reach. Thrusting out of the shoreline are hundreds of piers, or “disappointed bridges”, as Joyce called them. Most writers, most of the time, get wet. Why they get wet is of little interest to critics or readers, who can only judge the soggy novel in front of them. But for the people who write novels, what it takes to walk the pier and get to the other side is, to say the least, a matter of some importance. To writers, writing well is not simply a matter of skill, but a question of character. What does it take, after all, to write well? What personal qualities does it require? What personal resources does a bad writer lack? In most areas of human endeavour we are not shy of making these connections between personality and capacity. Why do we never talk about these things when we talk about books?

I will note, however, that Smith takes an ethical turn on writing which I would very much like to tackle in my book (actually, at this point, I think there are two books, but that is another matter).

The question of what makes a free man is quite contemporary and yet I wonder why the culture as a whole gives such little thought to the sort of education we ought to provide. Even the institutions themselves, overly-concerned with the business, neglet their proper end. There is little liberality and even less education and it sickens me. Peter Berkowitz, tackling the problem, pens aptly:

The dominant opinion proclaims that no shared set of ideas, no common body of knowledge, and no baseline set of values or virtues marking an educated human being exist. To be sure, the overwhelming majority of all American colleges adopt a general distribution requirement. Usually this means that students must take a course or two of their choosing in the natural sciences, social sciences, and the humanities, with perhaps a dollop of fine arts thrown in for good measure. And all students must choose a major. Although departments of mathematics, engineering, and the natural sciences maintain a sense of sequence and rigor, students in the social sciences and humanities typically are required to take a smattering of courses in their major, which usually involves a choice of introductory classes and a potpourri of more specialized classes, topped off perhaps with a thesis on a topic of the student’s choice. But this veneer of structure provides students only the most superficial guidance. Or rather, it sends students a loud and clear message: The experts themselves have no knowledge worth passing along concerning the core knowledge and defining qualities of an educated person.

Take two political science majors at almost any elite college or university: It is quite possible for them to graduate without ever having read the same book or studied the same materials. One student may meet his general distribution requirements by taking classes in geophysics and physiological psychology, the sociology of the urban poor and introduction to economics, and the American novel and Japanese history while concentrating on international relations inside political science and writing a thesis on the dilemmas of transnational governance. Another political science major may fulfill the university distribution requirements by studying biology and astronomy, the sociology of the American West and abnormal psychology, the feminist novel and history of American film while concentrating in comparative politics and writing a thesis on the challenge of integrating autonomous peoples in Canada and Australia. Both students will have learned much of interest but little in common. Yet the little in common they learn may be of lasting significance. For both will absorb the implicit teaching of the university curriculum, which is that there is nothing in particular that an educated person need know.

What Berkowitz is recognizing is a similar problem articulated by Boyd: the inability to see a unity because of the excessive paranoia of violence to ‘The Other’ has caused a rift in different avenues of knowledge. (The irony, of course, lies in the ubiquity of perspectives in the different departments.)

Personally, I think this transcends the epistemic problem of how we relate different bodies of knowledge and pushes forward to a broader metaphysical question: how are the universal and particular (un)related? It is a perennial question and, I think, it will always be a perennial question. Nevertheless, the answerable question must be found for us, now: this must neccesarily reach back into the ‘historical’ perspectives but still find contextualization (a loathesome word) in our contemporary world. What is our link between Liberal Education, Then and Now? The answer will require great finesse.

Over at clusterflock, I posted a commentary on how this picture has haunted me from youth. The discussion includes onanism, Fish’s reader-reception theory and etymologies. Go forth and enjoy the internet’s that for the sake of which!