Anti-Expertism

A few weeks ago I did a couple of posts over at Arbitrary Marks. This is a shortened version of a longer, more cofusing response to ck’s post. I apologize for its lopsidedness, I am looking for a blog post here, not an essay. Please ask questions if you are confused. I’ll try to answer them.

One caveat: I don’t pretend to be an expert on anything I am writing here, but I do promise I have thought long and hard about it.

Derrida, in Of Grammatology writes:

Thus, with this epoch, reading and writing, the production or interpretation of signs, the text in general as fabric of signs, allow themselves to be confined within secondariness. They are preceded by a truth, or a meaning already constituted by and within the element of the logos. Even when the thing, the “referent,” is not immediately related to the logos of a creator God where it began by being the spoken/thought sense, the signified has at any rate an immediate relationship with the logos in general (finite or infinite), and a mediated one with the signifier, that is to say with the exteriority of writing. When it seems to go otherwise, it is because a metaphoric mediation has insinuated itself into the relationship and has simulated immediacy; the writing of truth in the soul, opposed by Phaedrus (278a) to bad writing (writing in the “literal” [propre] and ordinary sense, “sensible” writing, “in space”), the book of Nature and God’s writing, especially in the Middle Ages; all that functions as metaphor in these discourses confirms the privilege of the logos and founds the “literal” meaning then given to writing: a sign signifying a signifier an eternal verity, eternally thought and spoken in the proximity of a present logos. The paradox to which attention must be paid is this: natural and universal writing, intelligible and nontemporal writing, is thus named by metaphor. A writing that is sensible, finite, and so on, is designated as writing in the literal sense; it is thus thought on the side of culture, technique, and artifice; a human procedure, the ruse of being accidentally incarnated or of a finite creature. Of course, this metaphor remains enigmatic and refers to a “literal” meaning of writing as the first metaphor. This “literal” meaning is yet unthought by the adherents of this discourses. It is not, therefore, a matter of inverting the literal meaning and the figurative meaning but of determining the “literal” meaning of writing as metaphoricity itself.

There is quite a bit there and the reader would do well to read it again before you continue on (even if you read it twice before reading this sentence). You would also do well to read from 278a in the Phaedrus and recognize that the story of Thoth is a story in the story.

I do not understand everything in that little paragraph–at least not all of the implications. I have suspicions my tangled assumptions stem from my confusions–and its implications for violence narratives–in my earlier posts. Essentially, Derrida is trying to sketch the genealogy of writing in Western thought, starting with philosophy’s Father, Plato. The “discourses” he refers to is the Great Discourse, the Great Conversation of Western Philosophy. And, if we grant his conclusion, “It is not, therefore, a matter of inverting the literal meaning and the figurative meaning but of determining the “literal” meaning of writing as metaphoricity itself.” Then we are forced to talked of Being/being (i.e., ontological/Metaphysical studies) from the Heiddegarian posture Being under erasure, or Being, since the immediacy of the referent/signifier is ruptured; there is no simple arrow to the referent, no “one to one” correspondence between a vocable and the signified: it is an approximation, a best guest, not “certain.” (The best analogy I have found for Being is negative theology, i.e., in speaking of God’s goodness we do violence to his goodness. Instead it is “Supra-Good,” a Good which cannot be described.) Writing–under the Western philosophic tradition, thus, effaces itself.

The practical implication is the (best) rhetoric (i.e., narrative) rules (dominates?). If there is only approximation, then there cannot be a final discussion of Truth or Being as Western Philosophy has described according to its own understanding of language (i.e., description). Some have claimed, consequently, that analytic philosophy becomes an impossibility–as far as its postivistic goals are concerned–since the “deep,” the abstract, is either too distant (Heiddeger’s ontology of Being) or non-existent (the denial of both the traditional ontology of Being and Being: nihilism).

This leaves with two possible definitions of “violence:”

1. From The denial of the ontology of Being and the affirmation of traditional ontology (be it Platonic or Aristotelean):
A knowable discontinuity between the reality and the expression, treatment, articulation, etc.

2. From the affirmation of the ontology of Being and the denial of its more traditional form or the denial of both:
Two competing narratives describing the same problem or situation which, in turn, negates its Other and can never finally be resolved (i.e., knowledge of discontinuity is impossible).

And so we get to the heart of the matter: the confusion about violence. The student of philosophy, I hope, should clearly see that all of this discussion about violence is itself a Nietzschean discussion. The question of Will to Power is the heart of the postmodern dillemma, it is the source of violence. My confusion, if my limited reading of Nietzsche is correct, is the same as Nietzsche’s. I have always reckoned that on the one hand he critiques philosophy–particularly metaphysical philosophy–under the rubric of our first definition, but then demands “Truth” falls under the second. I suspect (and only suspect) that scholarship would bear this out. Regardless, the postmodern critique is the application of the will to power on itself: those who buy into the Nietchzean perspective have themselves be “dominated by another’s will to power” and it is this tension, rooted in the second definition, which is most immediate and demands attention.

Simply put, whether or not you agree with Nietzsche, there are fundamentally differing perspectives of what truth is in the West and this finally stems from some sort of metaphysic. The two possibilities that the history of philosophy has granted us could be described as ontologies of peace or violence (These are terms I first discovered in David Bentley Harts book, The Beauty of The Infinite and are apparently employed by folks in the Radical Orthodoxy camp).

So, when I write, “until philosophy can comfortably situate itself in the difficulties of the pluralisms which these narratives of violence draw strength from, it will not progress and has no business talking safely about metaphysics,” I am speaking of the “difficulties of pluralisms” as violence between competing narratives (“Competing narratives” is, in a certain sense, a tautology since narratives which differ, by that very difference, negate each other) whereas the philosophy’s comfort must be understood through the faux-peace of the Heracletian Turn, a tension which falls under definition number one.

An ontology of violence would basically argue that Being constantly effaces itself (which is why language as an expression of beings does so). one often hears that “fiction is the new truth” and the violence ontology is its most basic expression, as Heraclitus said “Changing, it rests.” If this is so, then Being and Truth are in constant flux (do we see Nietzsche here, I should think so) and Pluralism’s “strength” its validity is the (perceived?) legitimacy of the claim. Faux-peace, then, is the inversion of violence for peace, progession for nonprogression, change for status quo. Despite classical claims (and according to the above perspective), the mind does not crave rest but requires consistent pressure and force to know. It is fractured knowledge which can never be resolved because:

a.) (Classical Skepticism) True knowledge cannot be determined because we can never know what continuity between expression and truth is

or

b.) (Consequences of Nietzsche) True knowledge cannot be determined because there cannot be continuity between between expression and truth because there is NO SUCH THING as Truth qua firm foundation (i.e., God, Being, etc.)

So, if we take my comments of phobosphic humanity to be true, I would argue it stems from the commodification of ideas: we name something true because it “appeals to us.” Appeal, in itself, is not bad but coupled with phobosophism it can become a problem. In the case of Christianity, I think many of the ideas are ridiculous and offensive but for some bloody reason–despite their lack of appeal–I believe the bible to be true. But to make this claim “rationally” yet give other perspectives there fair due, I would have to appeal to something higher, some sort of metaphysic (via Reason) to moderate the perspectives (or so it seems) lest we fall back into the clashing rhetorics (contra Reason) of differing narratives. In short, the consequences of Nietzsche moves us away from rational discourses and proofs and prima face justifications towards rhetoric and political spin which assumes a latent or hidden ontology of violence (the Will to Power’s assumption). Pluralism’s strength disarms Reason. While this is not bad, it is dangerous.

I suppose my posture is mostly rhetorical at this point. I don’t really have a clear solution, just a concern that we think and operate, particularly academics, on a level of utility that does not do justice to our ideas. We don’t live them, we just trade and bludgeon with them. We shouldn’t forget that in a capitalistic systems money is power and, therefore, economic metaphors are shaped by this perspective. When I speak of “commodification”, I am speaking of more the bare bones “utility.” I want to bring all “commodification’s” connotations in to stark view.

We had a blast. (see, also, Erin’s pictures)

Part one may be found here.
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There are, roughly, three ways of using language: charged language, conversational, and bullshit. Conversational and bullshit have obvious overlap, not all of which is bad.

Regardless, I submit to you, as my professional opinion as a liquor store clerk, that 98% of all philosophical and theological discourse falls under the bullshit category: it’s complete unprofound tripe (whether this piece resides in the third category falls to the readers discretion). This includes the Big Names in both disciplines (Kant especially) with the exception of few stray sentences here or there. I only pay attention to them because other people pay attention to them and name dropping can be a useful, time-saving idea marker.

This is because most of these men think that a carefully worded essay can solve a problem (theologians can be particularly bad about this). Alas, words have only ever caused problems, e.g. Socrates’ apparent affinity to hemlock or that strange Galilean Jew’s fascination with nails and wood. Both the response to and utterance of words are guide by a fundamental human problem: we are phobosophic ((Philosophy comes from the roots philo + sophia which literally means ‘love of wisdom’. Phobosophic comes from phobo + sophia meaning ‘fear of wisdom’)). Experience as well as biblical texts confirm this. This is why Caputo and Kearny, two philosophers, do not speak of sin: it annihilates the very grammar of Western philosophy (of which they are reluctantly but self-admittedly moored to, perhaps more than they realize) and its “systems.”

This does not mean that we should not write or respect language. Quite the contrary! Instead, we should see language as an arrow pointing towards things already experienced, seen, and/or understood. Language vivifies, it is robust, ‘Great literature is simply language charged with meaning to the utmost possible degree ((E. Pound in the ABC of Reading))’ This is why recently I have greater trust in professional writers and poets than I do in philosophers, theologians, and scholars. Great writers describe the human condition, they don’t try to solve it. Take, for example, Wendell Berry who is a poet/writer/farmer ((This is an excerpt from Standing By Words. It is, by my reckoning, one of the most important collections of essay in the 20th century for a theologian or philosopher to read. The book is largely about poetry and should be read as a reasonable and clear Derrida without the extremism or vacuity. There are probably a dozens of books like this.)):

So far as I can tell, it is unlikely that one could speak at all, in even the most casual conversation, without some informing sense of what would be best to say–that is, without some sort of standard. And I do not believe that it is possible to act on the basis of a “tentative” or “provisional” conclusion. We may know that we are forming a conclusion on the basis of provisional or insufficient knowledge–that is part of what we understand as the tragedy of our condition. But we must act, nevertheless, on the basis of final conclusions, because we know that actions, occurring in time, are irrevocable. That is another part of our tragedy. People who make a conventional agreement that all conclusions are provisional–a convention almost invariably implied by academic uses of the word “objectivity”–characteristically talk but do not act. Or they do not act deliberately, though time and materiality carry them into action of a sort, willy-nilly.

Brilliant, and at the very pulse of the postmodern whine.

The Emergent Church felt this pressure, I think, and has been slowly coming out of the woodwork to call for a more substantive theology. A theology of action, one in which its grammer and language impels and compels us to do something. This is what I like about these folks. Unfortunately, most of them are caught in the same trap and simply continue to “talk seriously about the issues.” When I was at the conference I kept meeting people who said, “I originally thought the Emergent movement was about contemporary worship, but now I realize its about so much more.”

This “so much more,” however, lacks teeth since nobody seems to ever say what this “so much more is,” instead you get head nods, smiles, and grunts of approval. This is the heart the movement’s disquiet and the Evangelicals’ rejection. The movement is so ecumenically minded that, in order to make all feel welcome (I won’t mention how subtly unwelcomed I felt at the conference), they flatten out the heart of the biblical message: that Jesus is the only way. You don’t have to like the idea, you also don’t have to believe it, but respect the blasted text. The reason I trust good writers and poets more than academics is because they have a greater appreciation for narrative/story (despite all the hipster, academic chatter to the contrary) which is the backbone of any language. It is the sort of thing which would give the “so much more” bite.

Let me be clear: the Emergent Church lacks teeth because they are uncomfortable with exclusivity and, consequently, fear creeds and final conclusions since they want to emphasize “”love of neighbor” or, more specifically, “enemy” (the least of these). This, in turn, makes many of them uncomfortable with the biblical narrative, sin, and the unique work of Christ which puts a strain on the word “Church” in their moniker. Until they resolve that, they will be unable to act in any substantive way.

I think that the answer to their tension is being wrestled by the Federal Vision/New Perspective folks. I do not endorse a particular view on the subject, nor do I have the knowledge to do so, but nevertheless, I do find the PCA’s official perspective recent study on it a bit myopic. They seem to completely miss the point, but that is another conversation.

So, I guess what I am saying is that in order for the Emergent Church to do anything they need to define what they are which means solving a problem with language. I suppose this may place this post under our illustrious “third category” since it seems to contradict itself.

There has been so many different strands of conversation at the conference I almost don’t know where to begin. I must say that both Kearney and Caputo are less wily in person: they shoot straighter than they read. Caputo defined rather clearly two concepts which I have been wrestling with and which this blog has discussed with great confusion: deconstruction and onto-theo-logic.

Deconstruction (roughly in Caputo’s words) recognizes the ambiguity inherent in hermeneutics which is to say, simply, that interpretation is not translation without remainder, or, more banally, what you say and what I think you say are not the same. Understood this way, it is nothing new just as Derrida suggested.

Onto-theo-logic is a scheme which judges God by ontology. It places reason above the Divine, God is judged by the court of reason, he must be proven. You know onto-theo-logic is rearing its head when a thinker names God a causa sui (cause of himself). This is a perspective that is drawn out of scholastic thought. It is not Thomas Aquinas’ perspective, mind you, he would call God an uncaused cause. The onto-theo-logic is best typified by Descartes or Leibniz. Those who fail to recognize God’s greatness, his infinity (to put it crudely), placing him in an easily parsed out scheme which would make St. Thomas blush since he wrote his highly systematized theology on his knees.

What I found interesting is the language that Kearney and Caputo used, language I had not heard before but intuitively grasped, theo-poetics. This is the reason I became interested in poetry, specifically Pound’s imagism, since it demands that language be concrete and vivid rather than abstract and vacuous. This same fascination draws me to Professor Strunk (“Vigorous writing is concise,” and “Omit needless words”). I am, frankly, not entirely sure what these two men mean by it and, more frankly, I am unconcerned since I will appropriate for my own uses.

The general backdrop for the whole discussion goes something like this: The grammar of Western thought flows from Plato and the Grecian tradition. This grammar involves a dualism which is destructive in philosophy and anti-theological (read: “anti-biblical”, although they would shy away from that term, I think). This dualism led to abstract thought as “more true” and “really real” to the determent of the concrete, the historical since it is “subjective.” The Nieztchean/Keirkegaardian (speaking of strange bedfellows) critique argues that the abstract (which nobody has ever met, seen, or experienced, incidentally) is a fiction. In the case of Keirkegaard, God is too big for the categories of the abstract, they burst in his presence, are hallow, empty, vacuous. For Nietzsche, the abstract God who is a pure fiction, is the “great totalizer” (not his words), Platonism for the masses (his words) and, consequently, the great violence of the history of the world. A violence because it sissifies men and sucks the joy out of life, particularly because Platonism (and, therefore, Christianity) disdains the body.

It is of no small significance that truth is supposed a women.

The postmodern turn, then, realized among a great many other things, that “God is dead” is equally as totalizing, the Nietzschean critique folds in on itself. Such is the world we live in, however simplified my explanation.

Now those in the Emergent Conversation take varied perspectives on this turn which is why it is perceived as so slippery. Many, embracing the postmodern critique, a la Nietzsche, what to chuck all the traditional categories and creeds since they are bastardized forms of Hellenism, other’s recognize some truth in the traditional creeds but a truth contingent since it only has vivid meaning at that historical time (similar to the Thomas/Scholastic problem above) and, thus, require reinvention: a betrayal of tradition in order to contextualize the truth for today. Their are others still who think we should reject the postmodern turn and return to some premodern state, my alma mater would be a good example of this, albeit outside of the Emergent conversation.

More importantly, they recognize a tension between totalizing claims and the exclusivism of Christianity: “No one comes to the Father except through me.” The tendency, in my experience, is that they prefer the unexclusive over and above limited atonement and only discuss Romans with great discomfort.

The most frustrating thing about the conference is that, literally, the only time I heard the word “sin” uttered was by my own mouth or those who where responding to something I said ((Actually, it was obliquely referenced in a question this morning, now that I think about it)), but I’ll take more about that and my take on all this in part two. But, before you leave, I want you to understand two things:

1. I am making very generalized statements about the folks at the conference and the historic sweep of intellectual culture in the West, both should be obvious.

and,

2. For all the critiques I have about the Emergent Conversation, these people are concerned about good things: the marginalized (the least of these), justice, ecumenicism, and love of neighbor/enemy.

Until next time.

Today begins The 2007 Emergent Theological Philosophical Conversation in Philadelphia. The two speakers are Jack Caputo and Richard Kearney who might be loosely categorized as deconstructionists (if such a thing as deconstructionism, let alone deconstruction, does indeed exist). As the sort of fellow who is equally frustrated with young progressives as I am with stodgy old men*, this conference will most likely place me around those of the former rather than the latter category and very possibly excite a state of aggravation.

Case and Point:

Our dream

Our dream is to join in the activity of God in the world wherever we are able, partnering with God as God’s dreams for our world come true. In the process, the world can be healed and changed, and so can we.

Emergent

In English, the word “emergent” is normally an adjective meaning coming into view, arising from, occurring unexpectedly, requiring immediate action (hence its relation to “emergency”), characterized by evolutionary emergence, or crossing a boundary (as between water and air). All of these meanings resonate with the spirit and vision of Emergent Village. In other languages, names for regional networks will be chosen with similarly evocative meanings.

Sounds a bit wishy-washy doesn’t it? Such is the problem with ecumenical movements. However, as always, its biggest weakness is also a strength, since it is attempting to model the sort of inclusiveness the Church ought to have. The consequence is strange bedfellows and I’ll take strange bedfellows if it means–ahem–good pillow talk.

Any-hoo, I hope this will kick start some of my thought on foundations. Lately, I feel like I have lost my theological mojo.

NB: You should check out BittersweetLife on the Emergent Church. Ariel has written a great deal about it.

*Unfortunately the perception between oneself and the actuality often differ.

A few choice phrases that struck me during my (at least!) yearly T.S. Eliot read:

The Wastland, III. The Fire Sermon
The nymphs are departed.

Ash-Wednesday
Why should I mourn
The Vanished power of the usual reign?
—-
And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

Gerontion
I have no ghosts, an old man in a draughty house under a windy knob.

Mr. Eliot’s Sunday Morning Service
Along the garden-wall the bees>br />
With hairy bellies pass between
The Staminate and pistillate,
Blest office of the epicene.

Burnt Norton
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph[...]

Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.

Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.

“But it is this very reality–the tragedy of being in its dispensation–that is the secret of philosophy’s power; for it can thrive as a deductive enterprise, able to move from the world to the world’s principles, only insofar as what is, is what must be; only because being must appear thus, constrained to these manifestations, and only because being must express itself in beings, is metaphysics possible. With these maxims presumed, it is a matter less of discernment than of sensibility or style whether the philosopher will build according to the immense crystalline architectures of the Platonic universe or seek to tear the edifice of idealism apart in a delirious abandonment to the pathos of inescapable immanence; whether he will pursue the adventure of the Concept or wallow in the carnage of ‘difference’; whether he will while away the hours in a ceaseless discrimination of substances from their accidents or remain in a condition of suspenseful and thoughtful attendance, awaiting the next glimpse being grants of itself through the veil of its ‘destinal’ epoch.” — David Bentley Hart, The Beauty of the Infinite

In other words, philosophy finally comes down to rhetoric.

There was once a young boy who had to choose between his parents. The boy with his sister was led to the judges chambers and asked, ‘If you had a choice, who would like to live your mother or your father?’

The boy thought to himself, ‘this is an impossible question. A child is supposed to live with both his parents,’ and, while he was mulling this over, his younger sister blurted out, ‘my mother.’

The boy was caught in a quandry. He, after his sister answered, felt a desire to live with his father (for a boy, after all, loves his father in way that he cannot ever love his mother). Yet he did not want to choose between his parents for he loved them both very much. Besides, he was still a naive child who figured this answer was final. This terrified him.

But it was too late: the question had been posed–whether or not he choose to answer the judge–and, in turn, had become a legitimate, academic question (these are the most terrible of ALL questions) in his mind. The boy, thinking it was better that he and his sister live together, made his decision, against his own judgement, and declared that he would prefer to live his mother. And so they did.

‘But teacher,’ said the most beloved disciple, ‘I am unsure whether the boy’s decision was the right choice.’

The teacher said, ‘Dear friend, the boy’s choice is irrelevant. Violence was done when he first began to look at his parents as options.’

Not long after college I had the opportunity to talk to Landon Jones who, last I heard, still resides in Princeton. To be honest, I do not remember much of the conversation. I am sure it was good advice but what I most remember is a brief statement he made, “most people, I find, are concerned with either/or when it is often a case of both/and.” Almost obsessively, I have been wondering why someone–anyone–would claim such a thing. Don’t hear what I am not saying: it is perfectly reasonable (and possibly correct) to conclude such a thing, but it does lead one to wonder what sort of suppositions cause the conclusion. Besides, what about the “neither/nor” option?

Upon reflection, I came up with this loose categorization:

• either/or — Grounded in the classical thesis/antithesis, those who find this appealing also tend to favor the Greeks and scholastics.
• both/and — Hegel synthesis of thesis/antithesis, there is a tendency to prefer historical development.
• neither/nor — Deconstruction, the desire to step outside of the traditional categories, think outside of the box, distaste with the historical but not for the same reasons as classical thought.

I am sure these ‘pathologies’ have their problems, but there is merit, no?

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!

Fellow #1: It seems to me that the end of epistemology is not a justification of how we know, but rather a description of how we know. Further, this is the end of all thought: Description, testing of the description with the thing known/experienced/apprehended, refining of the description, etc.

Fellow #2: Yes, but this seems to frame all things merely in the subjective. How could we then describe anything? The force of language is only as strong as those who command it. Further, one word means one thing to one man and to another man, something else. We can never be sure of communication.

Fellow #1: Firstly, your use of “merely” betrays your assumption that the subjective is not really a valid way of knowing, instead the objective trumps all. Secondly, although you demand the objective as the way of knowing, you deny it as a possibility. The reality is that we can only communicate because of commonality in language. This, again, is not an argument but rather a description of this very conversation. We go back and forth assuming —no, understanding that we grasp each others words. Why must we be constrained by the classical dichotomy of subjective/objective?

Fellow #2: Because that is our historical backdrop. You see, for me there is a leap of faith in language. We assume the other grasps our meaning, we cannot every know for sure because we cannot get into the other persons mind. Subjectivity reigns; consequently, we can neither be certain of communication with those outside of our cultural context, nor legitimately appropriate others myths/religious beliefs.

Fellow #1: That is just silly.

Fellow #2: Naming calling won’t sway me.

Fellow #1: Perhaps, but your recognition of it just proves my point.

Lately, I have been conceiving wisdom in a bit of a different light. Perhaps this way of framing it will be unhelpful to some but I believe it has merit. Fundamentally, my current reflection on wisdom, stems from my recent interaction with authors and cohorts who seem to misconstrue what philosophy is all about, namely love of wisdom, not onanistic joy of theoretical systems (I am accusing no one who reads this blog of making that mistake). 

Why describe it as onanistic joy?

Because only engaging (calculating?) the theoretical, that is to say the general or "universal" does not produce. It cannot be truly productive, i.e. productive in the world —there are certainly no fruits of love. It is nearly pornographic, looking at everything in general without recognizing the particular presented. One might (might, mind you) call it objectifying.

On the flip side, solely engaging the event, the happening, the singular experience in history does not simply do it  justice either. Firstly, to call each event singular, is to catch oneself in a generalization of a particular, that is to say commit a "contradiction" (in the most etymological sense: contra-diction). Secondly, to singularize the event would be to place it outside of the category of other events in such a way that it is utterly incomparable which is to say it is a non-event, and each event then, being singular, is also a nonevent (for to use a word is to speak in a generality). This, too, de-values (in its least economic sense) the event, rather than objectify it turns it into a ghost, an almost non-thing.

To call a woman beautiful is to set her apart, to say she is other, that is, except-tional —she is a singularity. Yet, in order for this to have meaning, for the women to accept it as compliment, she must see herself as comparable to other women, still comparable in a way that is dis-comparable. There must do violence to be comparable but not too much.

It is in this space, between the universal and the particular, that one practices sophia, wisdom: a place where one may respect a thing's or event's uniqueness and its commonality without doing violence (or, at least, not too much violence). To be wise one must stand between, to see both with balance, which is to say act according to good judgment. This is the sort of thing which cannot be completely taught but must be learned with experience: it is an art as much as it is a skill.

What is the difference between these two statements?

1. The House is on Fire.

2. I believe the statement "the House is on Fire" is true. 

As far as truth claims, there is no difference. But in terms of tone, it can make all the difference in the world. And tone comes from consciousness. Conscious comes from the Latin con + scio meaning "I know with." But what is it we “know with?” Words. The consequence of those overly-conscious can, then, drive one mad. If the overly-conscious always thinks, "I believe ‘x’ is true," there would be constant reassessment of all truths. This is the logical extension of the Cartesian principle "doubt all things until proven true." The constant application of this principle, in the way I have outlined, results in madness. The mind feels always assaulted by the need to justify itself rather than just think; thus, one is left to pacing about his house, repeating what he thinks; there cannot be progress.

However, if that is true then our only option in order to have faith is to doubt doubt itself. This is the ultimate critique of this skepticism. But why must we doubt doubt itself, if all reasoning is in question? Then there cannot be a reason to doubt doubt itself. Therefore, we must give a reason to doubt doubt itself? But this is absurd; yet, we must do it if we are to trust anything to be true. 

Perhaps we approach wrongly. Because one does not trust his wife for a reason and yet, one’s trust is not unreasonable for both have made a commitment to each other. This is because one’s wife has shown her faithfulness to her husband. This cannot be “logically proven” but still it is seen—that is, it is experienced in history. Hindsight is 20/20 and so, the husband trusts in his wife’s faithfulness which is to say he trusts in the wife herself. One believes the statement “my wife is faithful” is true. Yet one would not think “I believe the statement ‘My wife is faithful’ is true,” one would simply believe that his wife is faithful. Further, if one were to demand that his wife prove her faithfulness, then it would imply that we see her as unfaithful. Consequently, the demanding of proof means doubting. Conversely, to doubt means one has seen the proof; for one cannot doubt what one has not seen. Hence, to earnestly doubt is to implicitly profess faith.

Are we not like the husband and is not God like the wife? 
I have doubted that God has snatched a small, weak, slave nation, Israel, out of the oppressive hands of a greater nation, Egypt. Further, I have doubted that I have been a slave to something (sex? drugs? money?) and that I have been delivered. I have doubted that God Himself sent His Own Son to deliver us, like He did Israel, through His Own death. I have doubted God’s faithfulness. I have doubted God Himself. It is because of I have earnestly doubted God’s faithfulness that I implicitly professed faith for I have seen His faithfulness.. And, if I have seen it implicitly, then I cannot help but proclaim explicitly. Otherwise, I will not be earnest.   How did I come to implicitly profess faith? That is a great mystery. How can a man explain what he has seen; he can only admit that he saw it. Similarly, one can not explain why one has faith, only that one possesses it.