Category Archives: Modernity

Critiques of Individualism as Will to Power

Critiques of individualism are as legion as critiques of modernity in theological circles. But anymore I’m not even sure what a critique of individualism is supposed to do. Ostensibly authors of books lodging theological critiques of individualism are hoping to somehow reshape society or at least generate some substantive sub-cultures that don’t fall prey to being “individualistic,” however that be defined.

But what would that even look like? What makes today’s world so particularly individualistic in a way that is different from the rest of history up till now? The only thing I can think of is that today people (in the West anyway) have more power to make choices about how to live life. So a few hundred years ago most people probably didn’t have the option to pick up and change the way or place where they were living life. They were embedded in something stable, or at least hard to disturb without significant trauma on many levels. Now that level of trauma has been significantly reduced. Human bonds are more fragile, less likely to be permanent.

Hence “rampant individualism”?

I kind of don’t think so. In the first place, I don’t think all that many people today are actually going to seriously argue that it is wrong and bad for people to be able to make decisions about how and where to live. The radical discomfit that people seem to have with individualism is that they don’t like the modes of life many people choose and so they start launching polemics about the horrors of individualism, often with a nostalgic reference to how things used to be more given, more stable, more solid. Romantic references to “place” and “land” tend to come up a lot here.

But, here’s the rub: those lodging this critique certainly don’t think that they should have to give up or be denied their ability to shape the course of their life. The most ardent critics of individualism are remarkably mobile and nomadic fellows from what I’ve see. They go where the university posts take them with little regard for “place” or “land” or “community.”

Now, I’m not that interested in just pointing out a potential inconsistency between some intellectuals’ published positions and their actions. My point is more basic and more important than that. It seems to me that the people who most ardently criticize individualism are people who are concerned about a loss of power to shape society (or the church) towards their understanding of the good. Put concisely, “individualism” is only scary to those who want to control the social lives of others. Honestly I don’t think it can possibly be a coincidence that the folks most virulently critical of individualism are white males who have significant university posts. Indeed I’m hard pressed to think of a single female scholar who has attacked individualism in ways akin to say Robert Bellah or Zygmunt Bauman.

It seems to me that critiques of individualism invariably come beset with a totalizing vision of “the good society” that, ostensibly should be actualized whether people like it or not (because obviously they don’t like it or they’d be doing it already). In short, I don’t know how critiques of individualism, as such, avoid the charge that they are simply instances of the will to power. They are always animated with angst, fear, and revulsion towards the current shape of social life and deeply desirous of reshaping society in accordance with their own vision. Its hard for me to image that not being ultimately fascist (Milbank is perhaps the most sophisticated example of a theological fascist writing today).

If there can be a non-ideological mode of critiquing individualism I have yet to find it. Mind you I’m not saying that I think all the modes of life that characterize modern life are all fine and dandy. I manifestly do not. But, the impulse to structurally change and shape the conditions of social life in order to bring about one’s own vision of the good society is totalitarian. All despots believe that they are doing what’s ultimately good for the populace while insisting that the choosing and interpretation of that good must be out of the hands of the people themselves. They cannot be trusted to choose it so it must be imposed on them by a stable life, rooted in a particular place where things just “are” the right way. You know, my way. They way where I have power. Because at least that’s not individualistic.

The Church’s Unrest

Jürgen Moltmann’s The Church in the Power of the Spirit continues to be one of the most impressive books I’ve yet encountered from him. In fact, I’ve found Moltmann’s work here quite helpful in light of the recent discussions about the viability of Hauerwas’s ecclesiology that have emerged from Nate Kerr’s book, Christ, History and Apocalyptic.

Hauerwas certainly has a strong tendency to see the task of the church in light of the challenges of modernity. In light of the modern situation — of individualism, Western ideology, etc. — the church must be intentional in the work of ecclesial culture-making in order to form different, truly virtuous persons who can inhabit the world differently, thereby bearing witness to the gospel. The social challenges of modernity require an ecclesial response of resistance and counter-construction.

Whether this critique ultimately sticks with full force to Hauerwas doesn’t matter too much for the purposes of my point here. Clearly it is undeniable that this sort of theological anxiety about modernity is widespread. It can be easily found all over conservative evangelicalism with its deep-seated terror that “we” are losing control of America. However it is no less present in the political sentiments of John Milbank and his own critiques of modernity and arguments for some sort of global Christian socialism.

Moltmann, however cuts past this. The unrest that the modern situation poses to the church is decidedly secondary — at best — to the unrest that lies at the heart of the church itself. The church is unsettled, unstable precisely because it bears witness to the triune God present through Christ in the Spirit. The crucified Christ is not a stable center, but a transcendent voice that cannot be domesticated by the church into their own possessed message. The presence of Christ in the Spirit pertains to nothing less than the total transformation of the world into the messianic kingdom of God. This is not a reality the church possesses within itself, but rather one that it obediently receives, never quite knowing what it will ultimately mean. “What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the human heart conceived, what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Cor 2:9). Thus, as Moltmann argues:

[I]t can by no means be merely the unrest of our time which causes the unrest of the church. Nor can it merely be the present revolutionary situation which makes it essential for the church and its teaching to find new bearings. . . [I]ts ‘unrest’ is implicit in itself, in the crucified Christ to whom it appeals and in the Spirit which is its driving power. The unrest of the times points it to this inner unrest of its own. The social and cultural upheavals of the present draw its attention to that great upheaval which it itself describes as ‘new creation’, as the ‘new people of god’, when it testifies to the world concerning the future of ‘the new heaven and the new earth’. What is required today is not adroit adaption to changed social conditions, but the inner renewal of the church by the Spirit of Christ, the power of the coming kingdom.

Note, in this schema the sentiment that animates the church is one of eschatological joy. Our own “unrest” lies in our hope for the coming renewal of all things in Christ, a renewal that we cannot grasp, control, possess, or ever fully anticipate. The church, oriented by this sort of doxological, eschatological hope is not overly worried about the supposed threats of “modernity” to “traditional Christianity” or other such melodramatic notions of where Western civilization is going wrong. In the place of furtive anxiety about losing control of the cultural formations of the West we are invited into a missional messianic life of trust and hope in the the coming kingdom of God.

All of this turns of course on a sort of reckless confidence that the triune God of the Bible is, in fact, living and active. That this kingdom actually is being brought about in Christ and the Spirit. This orientation requires an utterly foolish trust that God truly acts and is acting. That the kingdom of God is indeed coming as a gift that we could not secure for ourselves.

Why Modernity is Not a Christian Heresy

In the comments of the last post, someone brought up the question of whether or not a good way to describe modernity is as a “Christian heresy.” I don’t think this is a good way to describe modernity. The notion of modernity as heresy is just too easy. It places “Christianity” safely insulated from the horrors of modernity under critique, even as it give a nod to modernity’s roots in Christianity. By rendering modernity as a Christian heresy we acknowledge the (undeniable) historical link between Christianity and modernity while simultaneously saying that true, orthodox Christianity (i.e. those who think and act like us) really had nothing to do with it. Like saying, “Well yes, the Crusades sure were awful, but after all none of those participating in it were real Christians.”

The problem is not that modernity is a Christian heresy, it is rather that it is precisely the outworking of Christian orthodoxy. This is an important point. Modernity does not stem from an aberration within orthodox Christianity, but from the triumph of Christian orthodoxy itself (i.e. Christendom).

The problem with labeling a modernity a heresy is that it renders Christianity entirely innocent by defining Christianity in an ahistorical and ideological way. “True Christian orthodoxy” is just never to blame for anything and anything that is bad in the world has to be some deviation from this pristine (Platonic?) Christian ideal. If we take the history of Christianity seriously, however, we have to say that modernity does not arise from the denial or mutilation of Christianity, but rather from orthodox Christianity itself. This is why the more fruitful way to critique the ideologies of modernity is not to strive to go back to some premodern past when things were allegedly still orthodox wonderful. Rather it is to look back to the very particular reality of Jesus of Nazareth, whose life, death, and resurrection stands in perpetual judgment of all ideologies. And all orthodoxies.

Why Modernity is Not the Problem

I’m completely and utterly tired of massive Christian critiques of “modernity.” Its not that I don’t think there something useful to learn from many of these, its just that they tend to go way off the rails. We often hear statements like “modernity is a dead end and the only way forward is the recovery of classical, Christian orthodoxy.”

I don’t really think I even understand what this is really supposed to mean. What on earth do we mean by “way forward”? What does it mean to say that “orthodoxy” is going to move us beyond modernity to wherever we’re supposed to be? I assume that “we” are the world system as it once was at some point and we really, really want it to be that way again. This seems to me to be a boiled-down statement of John Milbank’s nostalgia for a sort of neo-fascist premodernity.

Now, I’m all for decrying “individualism” and all the other woes that stem from the Enlightenment. But come on. First of all, the idea that Christianity and modernity are two arch-rivals locked in a titanic battle for the future of the world is just nonsense. Modernity is completely unintelligible apart from its rootage in Christianity and Christendom. This isn’t to say that there shouldn’t or can’t be theological critiques of the modern world, only that attempting to get critical leverage on modernity by positing Christianity—as this “other” force that used to order the world for wonderfullness and could again if we just got rid of modernity—is just historically naive.

And secondly, modernity is just not all that bad. This is, in some ways a personal point for me. I was born with a congenital heart problem that was corrected by surgery, and a very new form of surgery at the time. It’s healthy as a horse now and I’ll probably live as long as anyone with a normal heart. If I were born in the premodern paradise of blessed Christendom I’d already be dead, if I even survived childbirth. So would my best friend Steve, the diabetic.

Of course, most of the yearners for the glorious premodern will insist that it was actually Christianity, not modernity that invented everything good and helpful in the world. This however just proves the point I made above. Christianity and modernity cannot be disentangled as though one could be used to give critical leverage against the other.

Sure, there are a hell of a lot of things wrong with modernity and the world we live in—and, umm with Christianity. No one denies that. But the way to address this theologically is not to start freaking out and trying to figure out how to recreate some sort of pan-Christian social fascism. What we need is to not look back to premodern Christendom or the social Constantinianism of nineteenth and twentieth century America. This is precisely the wrong approach. What we need to do is return again to the very particular history of Jesus of Nazareth who alone frees us from the rule of powers and ideologies. This, of course is a far more risky endevor as we don’t have the sort of security provided by the mere reassertion of a given social order from the past. Rather we are thrown back upon the interruptive and destabilizing reality of Jesus and his call to discipleship.

Technology vs. The Body

Wendell Berry seems to never quite get old. He’s right on the money with these observations from a few years back:

The danger most immediately to be feared in “technological progress” is the degradation and obsolescence of the body. Implicit in the technological revolution from the beginning has been a new version of an old dualism, one always destructive, and now more destructive than ever. For many centuries there have been people who looked upon the body, as upon the natural world, as an encumbrance of the soul, and so have hated the body, as they have hated the natural world, and longed to be free of it. They have seen the body as intolerably imperfect by spiritual standards. More recently, since the beginning of the technological revolution, more and more people have looked upon the body, along with the rest of the natural creation, as intolerably imperfect by mechanical standards. They see the body as an encumbrance of the mind—the mind, that is, as reduced to a set of mechanical ideas that can be implemented in machines—and so they hate it and long to be free of it. The body has limits that the machine does not have; therefore, remove the body from the machine so that the machine can continue as an unlimited idea.

It is odd that simply because of its “sexual freedom” our time should be considered extraordinarily physical. In fact, our “sexual revolution” is mostly an industrial phenomenon, in which the body is used as an idea of pleasure or a pleasure machine with the aim of “freeing” natural pleasure from natural consequence. Like any other industrial enterprise, industrial sexuality seeks to conquer nature by exploiting it and ignoring the consequences, by denying any connection between nature and spirit or body and soul, and by evading social responsibility. The spiritual, physical, and economic costs of this “freedom” are immense, and are characteristically belittled or ignored. The diseases of sexual irresponsibility are regarded as a technological problem and an affront to liberty. Industrial sex, characteristically, establishes its freeness and goodness by an industrial accounting, dutifully toting up numbers of “sexual partners,” orgasms, and so on, with the inevitable industrial implication that the body is somehow a limit on the idea of sex, which will be a great deal more abundant as soon as it can be done by robots.

This hatred of the body and of the body’s life in the natural world, always inherent in the technological revolution (and sometimes explicitly and vengefully so), is of concern to an artist because art, like sexual love, is of the body. Like sexual love, art is of the mind and spirit also, but it is made with the body and it appeals to the senses. To reduce or shortcut the intimacy of the body’s involvement in the making of a work of art (that is, of any artifice, anything made by art) inevitably risks reducing the work of art and the art itself. In addition to the reasons I gave previously, which I still believe are good reasons, I am not going to use a computer because I don’t want to diminish or distort my bodily involvement in my work. I don’t want to deny myself the pleasure of bodily involvement in my work, for that pleasure seems to me to be the sign of an indispensable integrity.

Welcome to the Age of Sisyphus

It is the pathos of modern philosophy and theology to try to figure out the nature of modernity and late modernity on the basis of which mythological Greek figures things correspond to. Nietzsche’s notion of Dionysus against Apollo (and “the Crucified”) has become a standard way of talking about the matter. Also common is to talk about the movement way from Promethean modernity into Dionysian postmodernity.

In his erudite diagnosis of modern culture, Hoekendjik argues, in contrast that the image of our age is not Dionysus, but Sisyphus. “Previous generations found their symbol in Prometheus, the undaunted revolutionary who has dreamed up a new future for mankind and who now is going to bring it about, striving boldly after the divine crown. . . . Our generation is in the process of exchanging this symbol for another one: Sisyphus, the ‘hero of absurdity,’ who mockingly plods along, although he knows that the whole business does not contain a single promise.”Contrary to understanding the late modern age as a period of unbridled exultation in pleasure and excess, “this sisyphean existence is marked by incessant boredom.” (p. 49)

This goes along with David Bentley Hart’s incisive comment that “the precise symbol of this anesthesia [of modernity], perhaps, would be not wine (which speaks of creation’s goodness and tends to disorient the acquisitive rapacity of a keen mind) but aspirin (which speaks of the world’s oppressive glare and thins the blood).” The notion that the late modern life is one of over-jubilation and excessive gratification is skewed. The pathos of modernity is a life of yawning impotence. Viagra, anyone?

Again, as Hoekendjik says, “This yawning boredom lies behind so much busyness and noisy ideology. It is often as if in an opera we hear the whole chorus sing fortissimo, ‘We are marching! We are marching!’ but nobody advances. We will not understand the bragging song if we do not notice that in the meantime everybody in boredom is marching in place; we don’t understand the ideology quite right if it escapes us that it is often used merely as a hand to cover the yawning mouth. We overestimated the rebellion if we forget that it is the resistance of a conformist, who really discovered a long time ago that it is all so meaningless. It is the scream of a trapped animal.” (p. 50)

The person of the modern age is a listless wanderer who trudges around, moving from one stupid pleasure to the next, never enjoying much of anything in the process. This sort of sentiment is captured perfectly by Stewie Griffin in “Family Guy.” In the process of trying to win a bet about being able to pass as the coolest kid in a high school, he takes on the persona of “Zac Sawyer” who just transferred in from “rich, expensive, car driving, sex having high school.” Upon being told that “that’s sooo cool” he replies “No, it’s lame. Everything’s lame.” At once he is received as the coolest kid in school. And there you have late modernity in a sentence.

Rebelling Conformists

I continue to be struck by how prescient J.C. Hoekendjik’s work is in regard to the nature of Christian mission and modern culture. One could even argue that he diagnoses the much joked about condition of the modern Christian hipster culture–which is, of course a sort of social-cultural ricochet of late capitalism in the West.  When speaking of the rise of the late modern subject, he argues that “we can sketch his profile with a bit of guessing when we try to portray him as a rebelling conformist.” I can’t think of a better definition for the cultural ethos of our time.

He goes and specifies this in some important ways. The paradoxical idea of rebellion and conformity embodied in one person is absolutely central to understanding the (Western) late modern subject. What is key here is that “rebellion” signifies something quite different from “revolution.” Our age does just fine producing rebels who continue to consume and constitute a very manageable citizenry–the one thing they are not is revolutionaries. The rebel, in contrast to the revolutionary, absolutely depends on the survival and stability of the status quo, in that it provides the rationale and context for his rebellion. In short, a rebel has to always have stuff to bitch about.

In contrast, “rebellion is the opposite of revolution. Revolution presupposes a historical plasticity: the belief that things can be different and the hope that we can bring that other day near.” It is precisely this notion of faith and hope that has been lost–and is thus being interestingly tapped by the American fans of Obama right now. But note, even the rhetoric of hope and change that is currently being embraced in America does nothing to mitigate the ultimately anti-revolutionary nature of the culture of late modernity. “Wherever one looks, one notices an impotence to revolt. . . . Even when idols are recognized, they are not cast aside once and for all, but are left standing so that again and again they can be slapped in the face.”(p. 48) This is, perhaps, the most stinging indictment of just about everything that passes for social criticism, Christian or otherwise.

Perhaps theology bloggers most of all should feel the sting on that one.

The Dismemberment of the Church

When did the church begin to fall into its current state of fragmentation, incoherence, dismemberment? Here is Barry Harvey’s answer:

“It began when the Christian community exchanged its distinctive way of life as a company of fellow pilgrims garnered from every tribe and language, every people and nation, to serve the nations as a sign and instrument of God’s eternal commonwealth, for a power-sharing arrangement with the rulers and authorities of the earthly city. As a result, the body of Christ was gradually caught up in an unfolding series of disciplinary regimes that effectively domesticated, marginalized, and exploited the church’s life and language. Special care must be taken on this point. It is easy to issue a blanket condemnation of ‘Constantinianism,’ and though that might allow some to give voice to their dissatisfaction with the present situation, it would not address what is basically at stake in this matter. As Oliver O’Donovan reminds us, the corpus Christianum of the medieval and early modern worlds was ‘the womb in which our late-modernity came to birth. Even our refusal of Christendom has been learned from Christendom. Its insights and errors have fashioned, sometimes by repetition and sometimes by by reaction, the insights and errors which comprise the platitudes of our own era.’ At the same time the concern with the momentous changes that took place beginning in the fourth century must be accounted for.”

– Barry Harvey, Can These Bones Live?: A Catholic Baptist Engagement with Ecclesiology, Hermeneutics, and Social Theory (Grand Rapids: Brazos, 2008), 21-22.

Is Christianity a Civilizational Project?

There is an interesting tendency among many theologians today to adopt, at least in broad strokes, one of two declension narratives about the church. The quest for “when things went wrong” is quite a nefarious endeavour, and one that it seems few of us can resist. It is also, despite its dangers and problems, an important theological task. Narrating our history truthfully is vital to faithful embodiment and practice in regard to the mission of the church in our age. As such, understanding the dynamics of how we narrate the church’s past, particularly in regard to where the church has gone wrong, is vitally important.

There are two basic narratives that are generally proffered today by various theologians. The first is what could roughly be called the Free Church position. In this narrative, the primary shift in the church’s history occurred through the complex series of events which led up to and followed Constantine’s establishment of Christianity as the state religion of Rome. The collusion of the church with imperial power slowly altered and reshaped the church’s self-understanding as the apocalyptic ecclesia of God on pilgrimage through the present age. The church instead came to understand itself as the guarantor of the right ordering of civilization, the spiritual guide and priest of a whole cultural, political, and economic order which was, in some sense, Christian. The Free Church narrative decries this shift in the church’s self-understanding. What is important is not that the church continue to find ways of shoring up the project of Western civilization, but rather to return to its own particular narrative and practices as a way of sustaining a communal life within the fragments of Christendom and modernity. Thinkers in this vein would include John Howard Yoder, Stanley Hauerwas, and others.

Another declension narrative that has become common today contends that the fundamental mistake of the church was not so much its capitulation to Constantine. Rather the conversion of Constantine and Christianity’s transformation into the cement of Western civilization was a part of the mission of the church. The church’s point of historical failure occurs not at the inception of Christendom, but at its breakdown and the advent of modernity. During the medieval period of Christendom, society was unified within a Christian vision for fostering a common life in the corpus christianum. Within this whole structure of a distinctively Christian civilization, all of life was in some sense oriented towards a meaningful Christian telos. It is at the breakdown of Christendom during the Enlightenment (precipitated by the Reformation) that things begin to go terribly wrong. Once the church ceased the cohesive force ordering society, everything descended into fragmentation. Thus the rise of global capitalism, and the problems of alienation and fragmentation that characterize modern life can be traced back to the eclipse of the church as the force of social coherence driving and maintaining society. This sort of narrative is espoused by thinkers like John Milbank and Oliver O’Donovan.

The first thing that is interesting about these two narratives is that they both call the church to very similar sorts of postures in the current state of global capitalism and modern fragmentation. Whether we think the church went wrong at the inception of Christendom or at its dissolution, all are agreed that in the state of modern alienation and nihilism what is needed is for the church to return to its particular narrative and practices, seeking to sustain a common life oriented towards its telos as the people of God. The difference of course comes in terms of what each side expects this to accomplish.

There seems to be one question that underlies the way in which we find our way through the sorts of narratives of decline which, to some degree or other most of us hold to. That question concerns the nature of Christianity as such: Is Christianity a civilizational project? That, I think, is the crucial question for how we narrate the church’s past and understand the nature of its failure in relation to the reality of modernity. If we think that Christianity is a civilizational project then clearly we will lean towards the more nostalgic, pro-Christendom sort of narrative which calls upon the church to rightly order the earthly city towards its proximate good. If however we are inclined to insist that Christianity is not a civilizational project we will be drawn towards the narrative that disavows Constantinianism and calls the church to reject any opportunity to order society through the use of earthly power. There are many elements of both these narratives that are not mutually exclusive in the least. But, the ultimate point that will determine our basic orientation has to do with the central question of whether or not Christianity is a civilizational project.

Nihilism, Tragedy, and Apocalypse

In his superb book, Waiting for Godot in Sarajevo, David Toole argues that there are three possible responses to the horrors that have taken place in modernity: Nihilism, Tragedy, and Apocalypse. He frames his discussion using the rather incredible story of the staging of Samuel Beckett’s play, “Waiting for Godot” which was staged in Sarajevo during the early 90s. Here’s how he frames the thrust of his book:

“On a stage in a poorly lit theater, with intermittent sounds of a war going on outside, Estragon and Vladamir, and with them the audience – cold, hungry, and exhausted — await Godot, which is to say in part that they await a decision on the character of the universe. Is nihilism the last word? Does it all come to naught in the end? I suffering, and with it the whole of existence, meaningless? ‘They give birth astride a grave, the light gleams for an instant, then its night once more.’ Is that the definitive description of the way of the world — the sum of our life? Or can we hope for more? Might we describe things differently, not in the hope of alleviating suffering (we cannot do that) but in the hope of rendering it meaningful? Might we say not that suffering is meaningless but that it is tragic, which is to say that when we arise to the occasion and meet suffering with dignity, we somehow transfigure the world? Do declarations of tragedy better describe the world than declarations of meaninglessness? And what of that other possibility, namely, that the world is neither meaningless nor tragic but apocalyptic, such that suffering not only finds meaning in dignity but comes to rest in the life of God?” (p. 20)

Toole’s book takes the reader on a tour through the thinkers of nihilism and tragedy, leading from Nietzsche to Foucault to John Milbank, and finally ending with a metaphysics and politics of apocalypse, taking its cue from John Howard Yoder. Another quote:

“To say that Jesus’ interruption of history is the most fundamental of events and that it supplies us with a code that allows us to discern the meaning of history is to say, in effect, that Jesus is the ultimate victim (who yet is not victimized) — and that in his life, death, and resurrection we find disclosed what it means for God to be involved in history. To say all of this is to say that the character of history is apocalyptic.” (p. 206)

This is a seminal book on theology, modernity, and what it might mean to do theology in an apocalyptic style. Unfortunately it really has never gotten the attention that it deserves.

Modernism and Postmodernism or Early and Late Capitalism?

Amongst theologians and churchmen today talk of “postmodernism” is legion.  Everywhere people are trying to figure out what it is and how to deal with it from a Christian perspective.  This is particularly seen amongst evangelical Christians who certainly spill more ink on the cultural and philosophical issues of modernism and postmodernism than Christians from other traditions (perhaps due to Protestantism’s inherently more pliable nature as a tradition vis á vis the wider culture). 

However, one of the largest problems with how such issues are approached theologically has to do with the way in which theologians often assume that “modernism” and “postmodernism” stand for philosophical ideologies and their attending effects on culture.  In other words, when people talk about “the culture of modernity” or the “postmodern culture” most of them are talking predominately about ideas and their impact on culture.  What is assumed in discussions that take up the grammar of modernism versus postmodernism is that the perceived shifts in cultural and philosophy are predominately intellectual shifts that trickle down as it were into the culture.  Perhaps we can call this way of narrating contemporary culture and thought as philosophical Reaganomics (or Thatcherism, if your a Brit).

The point of all this is that the notion that contemporary cultural shifts (such as those that the emerging church movement seeks to engage) are brought on by the trickling down of “postmodern” ideas in contrast to the old ideas of “modernism” is naive and, well, simply wrong.  The idea that the constellation of philosophers and philosophical trends commonly called postmodern are somehow actually “beyond” the modern is simply silly.  Derrida, Foulcaut, Lyotard and company are nothing if not the progeny of modernity.  Only if “modernism” is clumsily equated with a radically Cartesian philosophy could we ever imagine that “postmodernism” takes us beyond it.

It seems to me that a more fruitful way to think about the cultural and philosophical shifts that have been taking place since the later 20th century is to view them under the rubric of (as suggested above), economics.  What are commonly identified as modernism and postmodernism are better understood as early and late capitalism.  In early capitalism, emerging as it does with the breakdown of Christendom and the rise of the Enlightenment self we have the beginnings of the creation of the capitalist subject: the isolated individual who produces and consumes.  The notion of the self that is informed by the political philosophies of Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau is precisely the nascent self of capitalism.  This is the birth self-contained individual whose goal is to secure happiness, flourishing, and safety through production and acquisition of capital, making social arrangements by means of a social contract.

What is commonly called the postmodern, then is better understood simply as the flowering of the capitalist self.  The transition from stable, self-defined individuals to the ever-illusive, hypermobile self of postmodernity is simply one of maturation, not rupture.  The self-contained individual of the Enlightenment must inevitably come home to roost as the infinitely constructable self of contemporary western culture.  And this is nothing new.  In evaluating modernity, one should never forget that romanticism, just as much as rationalism is a thoroughly modern philosophical mood, both of which are birthed in the waters of capitalism.

The hipster who lives in a loft appartment (paid for by his parents) doing art and doing his best to be “authentic” and a “non-conformist” is but the current incarnation of the decadent romantic self.  Such cultural realities are not indications of a postmodern culture that is displacing the old, modern culture.  Rather they are just further examples of the way in which capitalism produces and sublimates its own antibodies.  The hipster artist who drinks organic espresso and local microbrews and carries a copy of Of Grammatology in his backpack is precisely the product of capitalist discipline.  The erratic identities and social fragmentation of contemporary youth culture in the west has nothing to do with a shift from modernism to postmodernism.  They are simply the products of global capitalist hegemony bearing themselves out. 

For the Christian theologian then, the order of the day is for us to stop yammering about “postmodernism” and start talking seriously about the demonic nature of the social relations engendered by the global capitalist order and how the church must manifest a different form of sociality from that of the world around us.  However, until we are able to talk openly about the fundamentally economic nature of how culture is constructed we will simply be spinning tales that serve no purpose other than to satiate our furtiveness about “kids today”.  Of course it is easier just to rabble-rouse about how these young punks are destroying our traditional values than to look seriously at how such cultural realities are constructed in the undulations of global capitalism.  Because if we do that then we may actually have to change the shape of our lives.  And that’s just far too self-implicating, isn’t it?

Christendom and Modernity

One of the trends I notice in contemporary political theology is how theologies tend to do one of two things regarding the cultural formations of Christendom and modernity.  On the one hand, some lump Christendom and modernity together as a sort of mother and child phenomenon that is either largely negative (Stanley Hauerwas, John Howard Yoder) or for the most part a good thing (Oliver O’Donovan).  Others, however view them as radically divergent political and social phenomena with modernity being first and foremost a rebellion against Christendom which was predominately a good thing, at least in theory (John Milbank, Peter Leithart).

However, clearly I think the relationship between Christendom and modernity is more complex that our desire to rush to pragmatic theopolitical analysis will usually allow.  Charles Taylor’s new book, A Secular Age, is a testimony to the radical complexity involved in making thorough judgments about the nature of modernity and its historical emergence.  Theology has yet, in my opinion to come seriously to terms with the cultural formation of modernity, though there have been substantial moves in this direction (Milbank’s Theology and Social Theory and Colin Gunton’s The One, the Three, and the Many are two of the best theological engagements with modernity and Christendom that I have yet encountered).  Taking seriously the historical complexity of the cultural formation of modernity remains a crucial task for Christian theology, especially in the context of late-modern capitalism.  All rushes to judgment, either positve or negative of the church’s location in modernity are always already defeats.

Reclaiming Christ’s Time

Throughout the history of the Christian church, one of the crucial ways in which the church has fostered is particular ethos and distinctive identity has been through the rhythms and celebrations of a particular calendar.  The Christian liturgical year embodies a way of ordering time which is distinctively shaped by the Christian narrative.  The seasons of the Christian year offer a way of ordering time which reflect a distinctively Christocentric and Trinitarian shaping of ecclesial life.  Through a narrative-Christological ordering the celebrations and festivities of its people, the church constructed a powerful mode of ecclesial formation that orients its members toward an explicitly theological and ecclesial understanding of their identity and the practice of everyday life.  An analysis of the social and political lives of nations and other socio-political bodies bears out that the way in which a society structures time (and particularly festivities and holidays) distinctively shapes its members into a certain kind of polity, both politically and economically. 

However, the distinctively Christian way of shaping time offered by the Christian liturgical year has been largely lost in the contemporary evangelical church, the life of which has rather become dominated and determined by the calendar of the nation-state and market (which tell us, above all, when we must shop).  The fragmentary nature of evangelical identity testifies to the need for a recovering of the church’s liturgical year as a powerful tool of ecclesial formation and Christian education.  Through a recovery of the liturgical year, Christian churches have an opportunity to reclaim a holistic and missionally oriented ecclesial self-consciousness which is vital to the faithful witness of the church in the culture of late-modern capitalism. 

The Pernicious Domination of Choice

In various discussions of ecumenism and ecclesiology one of the elements that often comes up is the issue of the church’s givenness, or non-givenness.  One of the standard lines is that the Roman church is a structure that is greater than the sum of its parts, it is a “given”, whereas Protestant churches are self-made fabrications of a group of individuals who “create” a church by their own choosing.  And prima facie, such a description seems plausible, given the state of a great many evangelical churches in the West.  However, such a diagnosis of Protestantism as a volitonal fabrication versus Roman Catholicism as a stable rock of givenness is more than naive.

The more pressing and real issue behind these often rhetorically charged discussions is the dominance of choice in the social structuring of the modern world.  Modernity and late-capitalism have constructed a world of transience, illusive immediacy, and hypermobility in which it is fundamentally the choices and preferences of individuals (provided that they possess enough capital) which determine the activities, affiliations, and practices of personal life.  While various ecclesial traditions quibble about who is “voluntaristic” and who is “given”, the truth of the matter is that late-capitalism has constructed us all as persons who approach life on the basis of the sovereignty of choice.  Whether we are Roman Catholic of Protestant, we are all constructed as self-contained individuals whose concrete religous practices, geographic locations, and social affiliations are determined by the capitalist economy, rather than the ekklesia. 

This is why Roman Catholic theologian Tracey Rowland is absolutely right to argue that the pressing issue for Christians concerned with the integrity of eccleisal life, practice, and witness is “not so much whether one is a self-described Protestant or Catholic, but that of where one stands in relation to the cultural formation described as ‘modernity.’”  The problem is that the integrity of our ecclesial traditions have become so fragmentary under capitalist discipline that they either have little ability to cultivate any sort of ecclesial ethos at all (many Protestants), or they maintain the ethos of tradition while losing the socially formative power of that tradition to the domination of the market, which structures and regulates the lives of its Christians (many Roman Catholics).

What Christians, whether they are Roman Catholic or Protestant are called to, is intentional devotion to and appropriation of their rootedness in the historical tradition of the church, begining with the story of Israel, climaxing in the history of Jesus, and carried on historical church in the power of the Spirit.  The reality of choice, as constructed in late-capitalism as the all-powerful arbiter of shaping life, must be met head-on by Christians.  The simple fact of the matter is that choice goes all the way down, whether we like it or not.  We all have the option of leaving whenever we want.  The market has given us this power.  The vocation of Christians who wish to stand against the economic forces of fragmentation which seek to tear asunder the body of Christ is, more often than not to refuse to make the choices which capitalist order places in our laps.  What is necessary is for Christians to take on an inherently self-limiting posture regarding their vocational and economic “options” in the world.  One way in which this is being done, and has been done throughout the church’s history is the monastic practice of vow-making, particularly embodied in the Benedictine vow of stability.  Such modes of covenanted life, which limit, curtail, and stand against the proliferation of choice in the capitalist order are absolutely central in the cultivation of the kind of alternative eccleisal consciousness the church is called to be.  In short, what is necessary if Christians are to embody an alternative to the economic hegemony of modernity and capitalism is that we be willing to be fools

Charles Taylor’s A Secular Age: The Fundamental Flaw

In A Secular Age, Charles Taylor offers an incredibly significant and erudite analysis of the nature and history of secularization in the modern west.  However, his book has one fundamental flaw.  That ridicuously annoying dust jacket!

To all publishers everywhere: Do not, repeat DO NOT make dust jackets which only cover half of the book.  You may think it looks cool.  It doesn’t.  It also makes books a pain in the ass to read.  Some of us like our books having dust jackets that actually keep dust off of the book.  Please respect that wish.

Maybe later I’ll actually write about Taylor’s book itself.  But, for now I think I’ve covered the most important lesson we should take from this whole debacle.  Books need full dust jackets.  End of story.

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