[I left this comment on a very good post on Halden's blog -- see here -- but nobody seems to be talking about much over there and I'm curious to hear what others think of this idea, so I'm reposting it here (I also felt like it said some things I have been wanting to put into words for awhile).  Feel free to disagree... or not.]

It seems to me that you trying to look but taking back what you see at the same time. While trying to confront the severity of hope, it seems as though you still end up blunting the confrontation in a number of ways. Of course, that’s how things used to be for me as well, when I first started encountering the context of hopelessness and godforsakenness. Spend some more time there (if I may be so bold as to presume to speak this way) and this is what you will find:

Hope will stop crying out. Hope will stop dancing. Hope will not be appeased by any word or Word. The context of hopelessness and godforsakenness can cut out your tongue, cut off your feet, and make you deaf.

In the end, hope is simply the decision to remain alive. To not kill one’s self. That’s all.

No matter how a person chooses to stay alive (with the assistance of drugs or alcohol, by lashing out at others, by slashing his or her own body, etc.), all of these lives are the embodiment of hope, precisely in the way that they are lived, for as long as a person chooses not to die.

Some say that “where there’s life there’s hope” and take that to mean that things could be better, things could change, God could intervene, you never know what might happen… I take it to mean that choosing to remain alive, in one’s unchanging circumstances, and not choosing Death, is the most audacious act of hope there is.

However, I didn’t end up reading any Spinoza, I didn’t manage to finish Being and Time before the end of the year and, for the first time in the last six years, I didn’t read a volume of Barth’s Church Dogmatics… I’m having trouble feeling excited about reading theology these days (or philosophy… a lot of things actually seem rather pointless these days… maybe I’m depressed!).  In total, I read 65 books in 2011 and I’ve finally admitted to myself that I’m not gonna ever be able to read more than that — at least not for the next handful of years.

My top three works of fiction completed (for the first time) this year are: In Search of Lost Time by Proust, The Age of Reason by Sartre, and the graphic novel Essex County by Jeff Lemire.

My top three works of non-fiction completed (for the first time) this year are: Remember the Poor by Bruce W. Longenecker, Imperialist Canada by Todd Gordon, and A National Crime by John Milloy [Edit: Actually, Wasáse, by Taiaiake Alfred should probably be in this list, if not at the front of it.]

Here is the complete list for 2011:

Roman Literature

• Horace. The Complete Works of Horace.
• Plutarch. Selected Lives.
• Tacitus. The Annals.
• ________. Agricola.
• ________. Germany.
• Seneca. On Mercy.
• ________. Octavia.
• Suetonius. The Twelve Caesars.

Biblical Studies

• Caputo, John D. and Linda Martin Alcoff (eds). St. Paul Among the Philosophers.
• Longenecker, Bruce W. Remember the Poor: Paul, Poverty, and the Graeco-Roman World
• Sánchez, David A. From Patmos to the Barrio: Subverting Imperial Myths.
• Sherwood, Yvonne. The Prostitute and the Prophet: Hosea in Literary-Theoretical Perspective.
• Stark, Thom. The Human Faces of God: What Scripture Reveals When It Gets God Wrong (and Why Inerrancy Tries To Hide It).
• Talbott, Rick F. Jesus, Paul, and Power: Rhetoric, Ritual, and Metaphor in Ancient Mediterranean Christianity.
• Trible, Phyllis. Texts of Terror: Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives.

Indigenous Studies

• Alfred, Taiaiake. Wasáse: Indigenous Pathways of Action and Freedom.
• Brown, Dee. Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West.
• Fontaine, Theodore. Broken Circle — The Dark Legacy of Indian Residential Schools: A Memoir.
• Gordon, Todd. Imperialist Canada (although this book does extend well beyond Canada’s practices towards the indigenous people here).
• Milloy, John. A National Crime: The Canadian Government and the Residential School System — 1879 to 1986.
• Plain, David D. The Plains of Aamjiwnaang.
• ________. Ways of Our Grandfathers: Our Traditions and Culture.
• Riel, Louis. The Diaries of Louis Riel (ed. by Thomas Flanagan).
• Wright, Ronald. Stolen Continents: The “New World” Through Indian Eyes.

Philosophy

• Agamben, Giorgio. The State of Exception.
• Negri, Antonio. Time For Revolution.
• Nietzche, Friedrich. Thus Spake Zarathustra.
• Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Zettel.

Anarchism

• Berkman, Alexander. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist.
• Goldman, Emma. Living My Life (2 volumes).
• Guérin, Daniel. No Gods, No Masters: An Anthology of Anarchism (Book One).

Theology

• Eiesland, Nancy L. The Disabled God: Toward a Liberatory Theology of Disability.

Fiction, Literature, Poetry

• Afans’ev, Aleksandr (ed.). Russian Fairy Tales (translated by Robert Guterman, illustrated by Alexander Alexeieff).
• Bolaño, Roberto. 2666.
• Brown, Chester. Paying For It: a comic strip memoir about being a john.
• Bukowski, Charles. Septuagenarian Stew: Stories and Poems.
• Chesterton, G. K. The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare.
• Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man.
• Gass, William H. Omensetter’s Luck.
• Kupferschmidt, John. In the Garden of Men.
• Lemire, Jeff. Essex County (a trilogy).
• McCarthy, Cormac. Cities of the Plain.
• Mesopotamians, eh? The Epic of Gilgamesh (Penguin Classics edition).
• Motherfuckin’ Vikings. The Laxdaela Saga.
• Proust, Marcel. In Search of Lost Time (Vols IV-VI).
• Rilke, Rainer Maria. Duino Elegies.
• ________. Letters to a Young Poet.
• ________. Uncollected Poems.
• Saramago, José. Baltasar and Blimunda.
• Sartre, Jean-Paul. The Age of Reason.
• Schiff, Hilda (ed.). Holocaust Poetry.

Memoirs

• Burroughs, Augusten. Possible Side Effects.
• McMullen, Mike. I, Superhero!!
• Mother Teresa. Come Be My Light: The Private Writings of the “Saint of Calcutta” (ed. with commentary by Brian Kolodiejchuk).
• Paul, Greg. The Twenty-Piece Shuffle: Why the Poor and Rich Need Each Other.
• Stringfellow, William. My People is the Enemy.
• ________. A Second Birthday: A Personal Confrontation with Illness, Pain, and Death.
• Terkel, Studs. Hope Dies Last: Keeping Faith in Difficult Times.
• Weedman, Lauren. A Woman Trapped in a Woman’s Body.
• Wulffson, Don. Soldier X.

1. Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West by Dee Brown.

This book traces the impact of white settler expansions into the West, as the United States grew and developed, from approximately 1860 until Decemeber 29th, 1890, the date of the Wounded Knee massacre, where Blackfoot and his companions were slaughtered as they were surrendering their arms.  Not surprisingly, it is a tale of misrepresentations, lies, treaties set (by whites) that were never intended to be followed (by whites), massacres, displacements, betrayals, and on and on it goes.  Essentially, it is a document of certain period of the genocide targeting First Nations people (a genocide that continues to this day).  The perpetrators?  Primarily white Christians with a sense of manifest destiny.

Required reading, I reckon.

2. No Gods, No Masters: An Anthology of Anarchism (Book One) by Daniel Guérin.

I was already familiar with a fair bit of the content in this volume — particularly the material related to Proudhon, Bakunin, and Kropotkin (who dominate this volume) — but I thought it would be good to refresh a bit on some of it and also discover some new (to me) anarchist voices.  Kropotkin is really my first love when it comes to anarchism and I fail to see how any can read him without seeing this as an expression of the way of Jesus being practiced in a different context.  I also enjoyed the section on James Guillaume, whom I had not read before.  Really, however, I am most looking forward to reading Guérin’s second book which contains a number of anarchist voices whom I have not yet read — most excited to read Malatesta, Makhno and the Kronstadt sailors.

3. Russian Fairy Tales collected by Aleksandr Afans’ev, translated by Robert Guterman, illustrated by Alexander Alexeieff.

This was a fun volume to slowly chip away at over the last year (the tales are short — from one or two paragraphs up to about eight pages — so it’s easy to pick up and put down).  I always enjoy reading old stories, it’s fun (for me) to think about the contexts in which these stories were first told and to then think that I am reading them now.

I was thinking a bit about James C. Scott’s work on “hidden transcripts” and “public transcripts” when I was reading these folks tales.  Some of the stories were obviously told in order to reinscribe and affirm the dominant social order of the day — talking about the miraculous power of Christianity, or talking about how the women should never lead men and that what such women need are a good beating, which will transform them into faithful loving wives (there were a fair number of tales like this).  However, the tales that were told about So-and-So “the fool” or So-and-So “the sluggard” were interesting in that they encouraged and rewarded those who “dropped out” of the roles assigned to peasants, refused to work (and hence were seen as foolish or lazy) but who, in the end, became wealthy, respected or masters of themselves and others.  These stories are, in some ways, much more subversive.

Definitely an interesting collection for those who are into this sort of thing.

4. Omensetter’s Luck by William H. Gass.

I read this book thinking I was going to participate in the book reading group being lead by Brad Johnson over at AUFS.  However, due to a mixture of busy-ness and lack of inspiration I ended up dropping out of that (which was just as well because the contributions that were made were way out of my league).

I can’t say that I particularly enjoyed reading this book.  Just not the sort of writing style that I find aesthetically pleasing, as far as my personal tastes are concerned.  The whole “stream of consciousness” thing (from Joyce to Pynchon) doesn’t really excite me.  Plus, looking beyond the structure and the prose to some of the themes developed by Gass in the story, well, none of them seem mind-blowing to me.

This is not to say that there was no parts that I enjoyed — I actually liked the opening and I found some of the ramblings of Furber to be pretty exciting.  So, hey, if you’re into this kind of literature, I’m sure you’ll love it.  As for me, well, I enjoyed Gaddis a lot more.

Then I had this thought: maybe that’s basically what Job is saying in response to God’s rant.  He brings his complaint before God and God goes off about the creation of the world, sea monsters, and who knows what else.  Job might be thinking: “Wow, forget that I said anything.  I’m sorry that I brought it up.”  Or, in other words: “Behold, I am insignificant; what can I reply to you? I lay my hand on my mouth.”

An Advent Liturgy

Opening Songs: The Transfiguration (Sufjan Stevens) and Oh Come All Ye Faithful

Kids Leave and brief opening remarks about the structure and style of the service. Participatory disorientation, confrontation, and reorientation. Warning re: images, content, triggers. Also, because the stories shared are sacred, minute of silent prayer and reflection will follow each one.

Opening “Parable” from the Philokalia [slightly amended]:

Abbot Lot came to Abbot Joseph and said: “Father, to the limit of my ability, I keep my little rule, my little fast, my prayer, meditation and contemplative silence. I have set out my advent candles and have placed a new ornament upon the tree every day to anticipate the coming of our Lord. To the limit of my ability, I work to cleanse my heart of thoughts. I love God, love others, and tell the story. What more should I do?”

The elder rose up in reply, and stretched out his hands to heaven, and his fingers became like ten lamps of fire. He said: “Why not be utterly changed into fire?”

Slideshow with Song – Images from Haiti, Tar Sands, Famine, Iraq, Afghanistan, Occupy, Greece Riots, Arab Spring, Japan, etc. [Song: “Where Have You Been?” (Manchester Orchestra)].

First Litany

How long, now, have we been waiting for you to come back to us?

Almost eighty generations.  Almost two thousand years.

How long, now, have we been waiting for you to come back to us?

Countless wars.  Countless plagues and famines and floods.

How long, now, have we been waiting for you to come back to us?

We are bleeding.

How long?

We are suffering.

How long?

We are dying.

How long?

Our hearts are breaking.

How long?

Our minds are breaking.

How long?

Our bodies are breaking.

We are still waiting.

For salvation.

Waiting.

For healing.

Waiting.

For redemption.

Waiting.

For liberation.

Waiting.

For life.

Waiting.

For you.

Return to us.

Our voices have grown hoarse.

Return to us.

Our eyes have grown dry.

Return to us.

Our hands have grown weak.

Return to us.

Our hearts have grown hard.

We are lost without you.

O, come.

So lost.

O, come.

So lost.

Emmanuel.

Song: O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

Read: The Magnificat (Lk 1.46-55):

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour, for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants for ever.

First Story (The Prostitute):

Whenever the Christmas lights first start going up, I always think of Becky. We used to party together back between 1999 and 2001. Then, in the Fall of ’01, she got clean. I’ve never been able to get clean for too long. A week here. A week there. A stint in rehab. A stint in a cell. That’s about it. Truth is, I can’t stand being clean. I can’t sleep. I start remembering things. Things I’m always trying to forget. Things that take control of me when I’m sober. And then I’m just left with the hurt, and the memories and the terror. I’d rather be high.

Anyway, like I was saying, Christmas always makes me think of Becky. After she got clean, she started pulling away from street life. She found a good man. A man who didn’t use and who wasn’t involved in the scene. They got a good apartment together. Small but no bugs. In December, she came downtown and I saw her for my last time. She was happy. She had gained her weight back. She looked good. Apparently, she was set to start a new job the following week. Good for her.

The social workers always tell us that us drug users are bad for each other. That we bring each other down and stop each other from getting out. I don’t know about that. Sure, I miss my friends when they go, but I’m always happy for them. Nobody wants to see their friends and sisters turning tricks in some lot off of Jarvis St. at three in the morning. We’re low track girls. No “Pretty Woman” scenario for us. Just lonely married men in minivans stuffed with baby seats, desperate fellows who can’t lay anybody else, and sadists and women-haters, who choose us because they know that nobody cares about a whore that gets beaten or a whore that disappears. Like all those girls who got killed on that pig farm near Vancouver. Or on the Highway of Tears. Or like Trinity. She tried to run from a trick and he cut her toes off. Dude was never caught. I doubt the cops even looked and the report never made the news.

So, yeah, I missed Becky when she got clean but I was happy for her. That’s why it made no sense to me when she jumped in front of that subway train a few days before Christmas. I guess they had to call in the fire department to spray what was left of her into a pile that could be tagged and bagged. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why she might have jumped… maybe she relapsed and couldn’t take the thought of losing what she had gained… maybe she’s like me and can’t face being sober for too long… maybe she started living the dream and found that it was just as meaningless as anything else… who knows. All I know is that it was Christmas time, the last time I saw her she was laughing, and then she died.

After everything that happened that Fall, she became just another statistic. Another Christmas suicide. Another person holding up trains full of commuters and shoppers, complaining about the minutes they are losing as the firemen hose down the tracks. I’ve lost lots of friends at Christmas. We’re bombarded with images of happy families, “holiday cheer,” and beautifully wrapped presents, and what are we doing? Sitting on a corner drinking cooking Sherry. Trying to stay warm. Trying not to think about the kids who were taken away from us. Pulling out dog-eared old picture of kids people haven’t talked with in ten years. It’s enough to make anybody stick her head in an oven.

Me, I don’t have any kids. Well, I had one kid but my old man beat that out of me when I started showing. Not because he was pissed that I had been sleeping around—he already knew I was sleeping around because he was pimping me out to his friends for beer money.  He had been doing that since I was seven years old, so long before my friends got their periods I already knew the secret of being a woman and I already knew that it involved bleeding. I wonder if Mary bled when God knocked her up. I know she bled in that stable when she was giving birth to Jesus. Bled like I bled. Screamed and cried and shat herself. Just like I did. Don’t see that much on the Christmas cards.

Those old guys used to line up outside of my room at night, waiting their turn. Talking and laughing and drinking beer or the home-brew we used to make on the reserve. So, when my dad found out I was pregnant, he made sure to beat me bad enough to lose the baby so that the doctors or nurses wouldn’t find out what was going on. I saw the baby’s arms and legs but they took it away and buried it somewhere in the woodlot before I could find out if it was a boy or a girl. How about that, eh? I couldn’t even name my baby because I don’t know if I had a son or a daughter.

Becky was kind of like a daughter to me. She called me her street-mom, but she died, too. I got drunk the other day and sat on Santa’s lap and said I’d like to hear from her, or maybe from my other baby, but Santa never came through for me. All he did was fondle me. So it goes with gods and men and Santa Claus.

Jesus never came through for me either. It’s all real nice and it sure looks pretty in those nativity posters, that Jesus came all those years ago into that stable – even if the posters don’t show all the blood and shit and don’t let you hear the woman screaming or smell the smells of birth mixed with the smell of barns – but why hasn’t Jesus come to save us? Why didn’t Jesus come and save Becky? Why didn’t Jesus came and save me, when all those men were lined up outside my door? If not then, why doesn’t he help me me out on the days I try to go clean? Why won’t Jesus help me sleep?

Every Christmas, these Christians celebrate Jesus coming to earth – God with us, they call him – but every January the weather gets colder, there’s always somebody who freezes on the street or in an apartment with no heat, and every year I lose a couple more friends. January is always hard because everybody did all their giving and all their spending in December and once the new year starts everybody seems resolved to forget about us for the next eleven months. I don’t know, maybe God is in those warm and well-lit homes but he sure as hell ain’t with us.

So, tonight I’ll get high again because I don’t want to fall asleep and I don’t want to hear the thoughts that go through my head when I lay down in bed. Better to stay awake. When I can’t take it anymore, I’ll pound a two-six and pass out with the TV blaring. It’s hard enough to sleep in general, but unbearable to lay down on a silent night. Every noise, every creak, every voice that passes in the hall or rises from the street, brings me back to those men lined up outside my door. I need a lot of booze and a lot of noise to sleep. The silence terrifies me.

But I guess that makes me a statistic too, eh? Abused girl goes on to become an addict and sex worker, what a boring played-out story that is.

Minute of Prayer and Silent Reflection

Song: Silent Night

Read: The message from the angels to the shepherds (Lk 2.10-14):

Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favours!”

Second Story (The Tax Collector):

Every guy has his reason for going to a strip club. Poor guys go because they want to feel powerful. On the way to the VIP section, I see them sweat as their carefully hoarded dollar bills dwindle. Bald guys go because they can’t get a date. Insecure types go because they never learned how to talk to a girl. Lonely guys go because they have nothing else to do and nowhere else to go.

Why do I end up in a strip club every couple of months?

In a word: therapy. The girls there will listen. I know they don’t care about my life. That’s not the point. A girl is sitting next you totally naked. You don’t worry if she is judging you. You can say anything.

Who else can you talk to?

Your business partner? Can’t afford to show weakness.

A friend? His wife is friends with your wife so you have to be careful.

A therapist? I’ve been trained to walk off a heart attack. I never go to a doctor much less a therapist.

But the pressure builds and builds. You lose a big contract. Your junior partner gets arrested for drug possession. Your wife keeps pointing out how all her friends went on another vacation to Dubai. Your daughter crashes another Mercedes. Whatever. You have to unwind or you start punching holes in the drywall.

That’s where a strip club helps. Of course it’s all fake. The sugar-sweet smiles. The fake boobs. Watered down scotch.

But on another level it’s as honest as can be. You pay a fee. For this, a naked girl sits on your lap and listens.

It’s ludicrous. I’m forty, drive a Bentley, have traveled the world, and am fully clothed. The girl is half my age (at least), drove her mother’s Hyundai to work, hasn’t been out of the state since a trip to Disney World when she was ten and is stark naked.

But she listens for a bit and all is right with the world. That’s why I go.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my wife. She’s beautiful and stupid and makes other people jealous of me when I go out. Exactly what you want in a wife. But can I talk to her? No. I need to relieve the pressure that is building, and all she wants to do is talk about fashion, and food, and the latest art films coming out of Europe.

Because, here’s the truth: most of the time, all is not right in the world. Sure, I’ve got it all – the investment banking job, the trophy wife, the house, and car, and boat – but something’s missing.

It’s not even that I feel bad for the backs I’ve climbed over or stabbed to get to where I am – that’s life. It’s a game, and that’s how it’s played. We all know that, and if you don’t know it, then you don’t deserve to play in the first place. This is the real world. In a fantasy land, maybe we could live differently, but we’re not there and so we do what we have to do.

So, yeah, I know that I’m a good person. I work hard, I look after my family, I sit on the Board of a couple of charities, and I give a lot of money away. Goodness isn’t missing from my life.

So what’s missing? I’ll tell you:

A few years ago, I was walking from Union Station to my office in the Scotia Tower when I saw a young fellow holding a sing that said: “Are you free?” I got thinking about it all and I realized that what’s missing is my freedom. It’s as though I’m running down a mountain and what started as a snowball has turned into an avalanche and I need to just keep running otherwise I’ll be smashed. How can I be free with all this weight behind me, chasing me, hurtling towards me? Just keep running. Never stop running.

Are you starting to understand why I go to strip clubs? For a moment I can sit. For a moment I can talk honestly. For a moment I am free.

I was thinking about this the other day when my wife and I were at church – Christmas is a wonderful time of year to go to church, isn’t it? Carols, and candles, and hope. Remember what it was like to feel hopeful? When you were young and the world seemed infinite, along with your possibilities? Those were the days.

So, at church, one of the carols we sang had this line about Jesus: “Chains he shall break, and in his name all oppression shall cease.” I don’t know how that can be. Look at the world we’re living in. Jesus came. Jesus went. Who is free? Am I free? Is my wife? My daughter? Is the priest free? He’s not even allowed to marry, let alone touch a woman’s body!

Are you free? Are any of us?

The only Jesus I know is a naked twenty year old girl. If it weren’t for her, I don’t know where I would be. Maybe you think that makes me a terrible husband or father but I’ll tell you this: if it weren’t for that naked girl, my marriage would have ended years ago. Maybe that’s not as black and white as you want it to be, but that’s life in the real world. Not life in some beautiful story book about a god who came and went. A god who is supposed to be coming back, but here we are two thousand years later, and I’m not going to hold my breath waiting. Just gotta make the best of it and you better believe that I’m gonna make the best of it. If that means things are a little worse for you, sorry about you’re luck. Like I said, it’s all a game, and games always have winners and losers. I intend to win.

Minute of Prayer and Silent Reflection

Song: O Holy Night

Read: Simeon and the Sword (Lk 2.25-35):

Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was just and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying,

‘Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word;
for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.’

And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, ‘This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.’

Third Story (The Church-Going Christian):

Dear Jesus,

Thank you for providing us with another beautiful day. Thanks that the visit with family went so well—it sure is nice watching all the kids play together—and thanks for providing us with good weather and clear roads. Three generations together and, boy, have we turned into quite the mob. Since we’ve all had children it’s as though we’ve become as numerous as the sand on the seashore… thank you, Lord. It’s a beautiful thing. Christmas dinner on the table, presents under the tree, lights in the window, stomping the snow off our boots and having a hot glass of apple cider—everybody is just kinder this time of year.

But, you know Jesus, sometimes I have a hard time understanding how to identify with any of the people in your story. I’m not like the shepherds – I’m not poor and marginalized. I’m not like the kings from the East – I’m not wealthy and privileged. And I’m not like anybody who has been visited by angels or visions or dreams from God or anything like that. I’m just me, Lord. There’s nothing “extreme” about my life. And your life did seem pretty extreme. You were homeless, there were all those miracles, you were hanging out with a whole mix of people – from revolutionaries, to poor day labourers, to prostitutes and tax collectors – and that doesn’t sound anything like my life or my friends. How am I supposed to be a part of your story?

Still, we get by okay, I guess. I pay my taxes, I’m never late for work, and I tithe my ten percent, plus that other ten percent I give to international NGOs. I get up. Make breakfast for the kids. Go to work. Come home. Eat dinner with my family and do the dishes after. I read my son a bedtime story and listen to my daughter talk about boys and pop music. If I’ve got any energy left, I’ll read a chapter of a book before I go to bed and then I’ll fall asleep and do it all again the next day.

But here’s the catch, Jesus: I’m not sleeping too good these days. My wife and I don’t seem to be connecting all that much, kinda just going through the motions, and sometimes I feel like we’re passing like ships in the night. Reaching out and trying to love each other in ways that don’t mean the same to me as they mean to her. I don’t know… maybe it’s just having kids. People say it’ll get easier when the kids get older. Maybe we need to just keep on keeping on.

But sometimes I’m so lonely at night when I’m awake that I think about turning on the computer and looking at things I shouldn’t look at. Or I think about that woman at work who has been awful nice to me, who is always laughing at my jokes, and who touches my arm a lot when we talk. I’ve started bringing her little presents sometimes – harmless presents, you know? – but sometimes I wonder about her. I wonder if I would be happy with her. I wonder what it’s like to kiss her. She seems to understand me and my wife seems to be more and more of a stranger.

I know those are terrible thoughts, Lord, and I’ve been praying for you to take them away, I’ve been praying for your help to reconnect with my wife, but I still can’t sleep and I still keep ending up here. I don’t know what else to do. Sometimes I think I should talk about it with a few of the other fellows at church – maybe even go for coffee with the pastor – but I can’t seem to bring it up. Everybody else seems so happy and put together. And, while I’m sure they wouldn’t judge me for anything, I don’t think they would really understand anything either.

I don’t know, Lord, I lay here and I lay here and I lay here and I start thinking thoughts I can’t put away again. Like, really, Jesus, what are we all doing here? Living our little lives, working our little jobs, loving our little families, paying a mortgage on our little house? Is this the “abundant life” you promised us? Putting away money so that we can take the kids to Disney world next summer? Shouldn’t there be something more going on? Shouldn’t there be something more to all of this? Work forty hours a day, five days a week, for fifty years (if we’re lucky, what with the way the economy is going), and then retire, watch the kids do the same thing and die surrounded by loved ones (again, if we’re lucky). Is that abundant life? I mean, it’s nice and all, at least on more days than its not, by it doesn’t seem like “new creation” or “abundance” or “Spirit-infused” or whatever else you want to call it. Sometimes, it just feels so mundane. So boring. Sometimes it even feels pointless.

Besides, isn’t everybody else living the same way, whether they know you or not? Isn’t that a little strange to you? It is to me. Forgive me, Jesus, but when the lives of your followers look just like the lives of others, then it kinda makes me wonder if you’re hanging around at all. What difference does it make? Why am I not out there getting drunk with the guys from my work? Why am I not going out for dinner with that lady I mentioned to you? Why don’t I just turn on the computer at night to look at websites while my wife is sleeping? Why do I follow all these rules and take all this time being careful for the sake of others, when it doesn’t make my life look or feel different than the lives of anybody else? Is this all a joke? Forgive me, Lord, but sometimes I feel like I got scammed.

Because I lay here on the couch and I talk to you, but you never talk back. You never say anything. No “still small voice,” no dreams, no angel choruses, no signs. Nothing. What kind of relationship is this? If my daughter was dating a guy who treated her this way I would tell her she was being abused and I would tell her to leave him! How does this make any sense? I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want to walk away but it’s almost like you’re trying to push me away. Can’t you say or do something? Anything?

Because the days and nights are starting to bleed into each other, on and on they go, and I just feel further and further away from you. Not that I want to be away from you, it just feels like we’re in two separate currents and I’ve been trying to hold onto you, but the currents are pushing us in different directions, and I don’t know if I can hold on forever. One more day, maybe. I can hold on today.

Help me, Jesus. I don’t want to hurt anybody or let anybody down. Lord, have mercy. I just want to be a good person and love others. Christ, have mercy. It ain’t easy.

Amen.

Minute of Prayer and Silent Reflection

Song: O God Where Are You Now? (Sufjan Stevens)

First Discussion Session:

1. What does all of this have to do with Advent?
2. Does it seem odd or out of place to hear stories like these at this time of year? Should it?
3. Should we hear stories like these or see images like these in church?

Second Litany

 What comfort can you give us in our longing?

Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again.

 What comfort can you give us in our places of godforsakenness?

Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again.

 What comfort can you give us as we wait?

Christ has died.

 What comfort can you give us – the beaten, the weary, the raped?

Christ has risen.

 What comfort can you give us – the widowed, the lonely, the visitors at our children’s graves?

Christ will come again.

 What comfort can you give us – those who are dead yet still alive?

Christ has died.

 We are alone.

Christ… has died.

 Like Simeon and Anna we grow old waiting for the Messiah.

Christ… has died.

 Will Christ come again?

Christ…

 And if he tarries, what will he find?

Christ…

 A wasteland. A valley full of bones. A world once full of innocence and life, now defiled and dead.

Christ…

…

…

 What comfort can you give us in our longing?

Slideshow with Song: “We Wish you a Merry Christmas/Jingle Bells/Joy to the World Medley” with similar images to the opening now interspersed with images of people from the church.

Quotation displayed during discussion:

By the way, a prison cell like this is a good analogy for Advent; one waits, hopes, does this or that — ultimately negligible things — the door is locked and can only be opened from the outside. [Bonhoeffer; Letters and Papers from Prison.]

Second Discussion Section:

1. What do you think or feel when you see images from this community juxtaposed with other images from around the world?

2. Do you identify with the other people shown? Why or why not?

3. Have you ever felt godforsaken?

4. What do you make of that quotation from Bonhoeffer?

5. If we have been abandoned by God, or if others have, how can we come together to survive that experience?

Closing Remarks: The Context of godforsakenness, caring for others therein (if this hasn’t already been discussed above).

Minute of Silent Prayer and Reflection

Eucharist and Closing Song: [I Will Survive (Cake version)]; people can go up for the Eucharist while the song is playing but they will serve themselves and there will be no one to hold the bread and wine or serve for them.

1. Jesus, Paul, and Power: Rhetoric, Ritual, and Metaphor in Ancient Mediterranean Christianity by Rick F. Talbott (2010).

Many thanks to the kind folks at Wipf and Stock for this review copy.

Within this book, Rick Talbott “explores how Jesus and Paul responded to and used power to address various issues of conflict in their own communities” (p2).  Over against prior scholars, that have tended to defend one of two poles — on one side arguing that Jesus and Paul exercised a dominating form of “power-over” others and, on the other side, that Jesus and Paul empowered others by sharing “power-with,” Talbott proposes a more nuanced third alternative.  In order to engage in such a study, Talbott employs an interdisciplinary, cross-cultural methodology that relies especially upon social-scientific, feminist, rhetorical, and postcolonial criticisms.  All of this is explained in the first chapter.  The next two chapters are devoted to Jesus, the fourth and fifth chapters focus on Paul, and the final section is a conclusion that highlights some of the similarities and differences regarding the ways in which Jesus and Paul responded to and used power.

Within the section about Jesus, Talbott pushes back against, and enriches, multiple streams of scholarship.  First of all, Talbott pushes back against the now dated form of Conservative or traditional Jesus scholarship that sees Jesus as divorced from any economic or political interests or actions.  Jesus, as has now been firmly established in New Testament scholarship, was a member of an oppressed minority who embraced the interests of other oppressed people and gave his life in a struggle against the death-dealing powers and institutions of his day — notably the imperial colonizing force of Rome and the base of Jewish power that was rooted at the Jerusalem temple, which was working hand-in-glove with Rome to profit themselves and oppress the people.

Secondly, however, over against historical critical scholars who tend to stress the positive and life-giving side of the movement that gathered around Jesus (notably, Richard Horsley), Talbott emphasizes the difficulties Jesus would have caused, not only for those who chose to participate in the fictive kinship he helped to establish but also for any who were related to those Jesus-followers (from relatives to other members of the local community.  This is largely the focus of Chapter Two (entitled, “Nazareth’s Rebellious Son”).  Precisely because Jesus was instrumental in the organization of an alternative group that was “antikyriarchal”– that is to say, a movement that resisted the various networks of power, control, and domination that were inscribed in Jesus’ context through everything from gender relationships, to one’s economic status, to one’s state of physical and religious health and purity, to cultural conceptions of honour, shame, and kinship, and to the all pervasive pyramids of patronage and benefaction — those who gathered around Jesus were bound to suffer.  By challenging the inscribed social order, Jesus and his companions would have suffered shame, economic losses, and potentially death (given that economic losses would be devastating to folks who were living at or near the subsistence level, which is where Jesus and most of his companions would have been situated).  This is what occurs in Nazareth in the story told in Lk 4.16-29, which Talbott links to the Torah’s prescription for dealing with rebellious children, as described in Deut 21.18-21. Therefore, against the sometimes overly optimistic visions presented of the new family and new economy that was formed in the Jesus movement, Talbott stresses that Jesus did not simply “rescue peasants from economic hardship” but actually brought further economic hardships onto those who were already poor (p39).  What is interesting about Talbott’s presentation here is that he highlights the ways in which this may have also devastated the families of those who left to follow Jesus.  Not only would those families lose honour in a community wherein honour was everything but a family living at or near the subsistence level may have been unable to survive if it lost a son who was capable of working and assisting in the provision of food.  Hence, Talbott asks a fascinating question: “why did Jesus appear to be so callously insouciant towards the plight of Zebedee and other families, including his own, left to endure such losses in honor and economic status?” (p54).

Thirdly, in the next chapter, dealing with the eunuch pericope in Mt 19.3-12, Talbott argues against some feminist counterimperial scholars who have postulated that Jesus (subtly and perhaps unintentionally) reinscribed kyriarchal and patriarchal power dynamics into the fictive kinship he helped to create.  Talbott notes a number of antikyriarchal teachings and practices both as described in Jesus’ ministry and as emphasized in the Matthean narrative — from downplaying the significance of Jesus’ birth father, to emphasizing that only God is the father in the new community, to connecting Jesus to Sophia, to supporting the establishment of antikyriarchal meals, to teaching against standard gender hierarchies in marriage (cf. pp74-79, 87-88).  Talbott sees this as supporting a consistent antikyriarchal/antipatriarchal ethic in the Jesus community.  Hence, he see the eunuch teaching in Mt 19 — the assertion that men must become like eunuchs in the kingdom of God — to mean that men must give up the authority and status that society has granted them in relation to women if they are to participate in the new family of God.

Turning to Paul, Talbott first spends one chapter summarizing various scholarly perspectives on Paul and power, before turning to examining Paul’s approach “in [Paul's] own words” by doing a brief case study of some of the issues that come to the fore in 1 Cor.  In his survey of scholarly approaches to Paul, Talbott pays especial attention to those who have employed Foucauldian lenses to reading and analyzing Paul’s letters (cf. esp. p102-118).  These critics have the advantage of being more nuanced and careful readers than earlier scholars who tended to read Paul in more black or white terms (i.e. Paul as a kyriarchal misogynist or Paul as a proto-feminist).  However, Talbott feels that these critics have still not adequately captured the “bifurcated” and “vacillating” approach Paul takes to power, nor do they pay sufficient attention to the circumstances that prompt Paul’s vacillations.  Therefore, Talbott proposes a reading of Paul wherein kyriarchy and “kyridoularchy” coexist in a contentious dynamic wherein neither one eviscerates the other (p118).  “Kyridoularchy” is a term Talbott creates in order to describe a way of utilizing power in order to serve and elevate those within the fictive kinship of the body of Christ who have less status or honour (cf. pp99-100).  Thus, while Paul was striving to create a community of equals, wherein everybody was ascribed equal honour and value, he would still employ kyriarchal power and rhetoric in order to fight against any who did not share that goal and who challenged him and sought to reinscribe other hierarchies into the body of Christ (cf. pp126-27).

In the subsequent chapter, Talbott looks at some representative conflicts in 1 Cor in order to demonstrate how this plays out in Paul’s own words.  Specifically he looks at matters related to marriage and sexuality (1 Cor 7), matters related to Paul’s own representation of his authority (1 Cor 9) and Paul’s words on how table fellowship was being practiced in Corinth (1 Cor 11).  One of the central points Talbott makes here is that, because Paul employs kyriarchal methods and rhetoric in order to support kyridoularchy, the signs of kyriarchy that we see in Paul’s letter cannot be used to justify any kyriachal practices today (cf. p161).

By way of conclusion Talbott summarizes the similarities and differences between the ways Jesus and Paul responded to and handled power within their communities and the conflicts they negotiated there.  The fundamental difference, Talbott argues, is that Paul still sought to redeploy (kyriarchal) power as kyridoularchy, and so is somewhat bifurcated and vacillating in his approach, whereas Jesus was much more thoroughgoing in his rejection of any kyriarchal structures or practices (cf. pp167-68).

All in all, this was a really excellent book.  I appreciated Talbott’s nuanced approach and feel that he did a better job of making sense of Paul and power than a lot of prior efforts.  My only (substantial) objection to Talbott’s presentation is his understanding of the relationship of material loss of poverty to membership within the community that gathered with Jesus and Paul.  On multiple occasions, Talbott feels that it is necessary to stress the observation that neither Jesus nor Paul “seems to have required those who served as patrons to relinquish their means and become poor as a standard requirement” (p164).  Or, again: “Jesus did not require all disciples to become wandering, itinerant disciples who left their families to follow him in an ascetic life of poverty” (p49); and “patrons like Zacchaeus would suffer some depletion of their holdings but would not have necessarily become poor, let alone destitute” (p59).  While this may be true, and while Talbott mitigates some of what he is saying by pointing out the ways in which even patrons like Zacchaeus may have been drawn into a threatening trajectory of downward mobility by giving to the Jesus movement (cf.p63), I still feel that Talbott doesn’t adequately grasp what is occurring in this regard.

In order to explain this, it is worth comparing the Jesus Movement to the Occupy Movement.  Who are the members of the Occupy movement?  Well, at one level, any member of the “99%” is represented by the movement.  However, within that 99% of our general population, different people participate to varying degrees.  Some people will only attend the major rallies.  Some people will go to a General Assembly five days a week.  Some people will actually set up a tent at an occupied site and dedicate most of their time and their energy to the movement.  They key point to realize here has two sides: first, that all of the groups of people mentioned are, in fact, members of the Occupy movement but, second, the goal of the movement is for people to become ever more involved in the struggle and in participation at ground level.

A similar thing is happening with the Jesus movement.  Who are the members of the Jesus movement?  Well, at one level, Jesus is claiming that all of Israel is represented in the movement (the “99%”).  On another level, there were those who would participate when the movement passed through their locality.  On still another level, there were those who chose to leave their villages and families behind to live and travel with the Jesus movement.  All, of course, are members of the Jesus movement, but, just as with the Occupy movement, the goal was for people to become ever more involved in the struggle and in participation at ground level.

With this in mind, we can see how Talbott’s observation is accurate — yes, not all the people involved in the movement participated, gave or risked to the same extent — but misses the intention of the movement (which was for all to participate fully so that all could have full and abundant life).

Finally, in relation to this matter of Jesus and poverty, Talbott states that Jesus did not “concentrate on the marginalized or the destitute in general to make up the bulk of his movement” (p49).  This is an odd assertion to make, within the context of Talbott’s book because, apart from a few people, like Zacchaeus or some wealthy women mentioned by Luke, everybody else mentioned in the Jesus movement appears to be precisely from that socioeconomic location.  It seems to me that Jesus does concentrate on precisely that group of people, as examplified in his “mission statement” in Lk 4, and so when Talbott makes this sort of assertion, without seriously backing it up and then going on to assert things that appear to disprove it, I’m left a little puzzled.

However, don’t let these few criticisms take away from any of the strengths of this book.  I enjoyed reading it very much and recommend it to others.

2. From Patmos to the Barrio: Subverting Imperial Myths by David A. Sánchez.

In this award-winning book, David A. Sánchez explores the ways in which those who ave been subjugated by the myths of the dominant, take those myths and reshape them in a manner that subtly subverts them in order to meet the interests of the subjugated while simultaneously producing the illusion of acquiescence.  He does this by look at the story of the woman and the dragon deployed in Rev 12, which then becomes the foundation for myths that rise about the Virgin of Guadalupe in 17th century Mexico, which in turn is the foundation for the prominence of images of the same Virgin in Chican@ art that appeared in East L.A. in the 1960s and ’70s (where Sánchez was born and raised).  Thus, the book is divided into three main sections. First, Sánchez examines the ways in which John’s narrative subverts imperial Roman ideology by redeploying the story of Apollo slaying Python (which had been incorporated into a pro-Augustan myth), by telling a similar story in a manner that undercuts Roman imperialism in order to push the messianism of the early Jesus movement.

Second, this passage from John’s Apocalypse then becomes the foundation for the stories of the Virgin of Guadalupe that arose in Mexico in the 17th century, especially amongst the Creoles (who were considered second-class, and potentially dangerous, citizens by Spaniards born in Spain).  Although the Virgin was originally deployed as an advocate of Spanish nationalism, imperialism, and conquest, the Creoles (and some indigenous Mexicans) redeploy that myth in a manner that undercuts the Spanish ideology and promotes an ideology that favours the oppressed.

Finally, Sánchez argues that something similar occurs in the deployment of images of the Virgin which were deployed by members of the Chican@ movement that appeared in East L.A. in the 1960s and ’70s.  Over against American nationalism, imperialism, and conquest — especially buttressed by a mythology of manifest destiny (well exemplified in the painting, “American Progress,” by John Gast, which Sánchez deploys in his text — and which is interesting to compare with other stories of American Progress as told in, for example, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee or Stolen Continents), Sánchez argues that the Chican@ movement utilized images of the Virgin of Guadalupe to support an Mexican ideology of independence, nationalism, and chosenness.

Sánchez then concludes by offering some remarks upon postcolonial theories — especially as developed by Homi Bhabha and James C. Scott — and stresses the importance of creating antimythologies in a counterimperial project of resistance and liberation.

I enjoyed reading this book.  It is always good to see scholars who critically engage both the biblical texts and our own histories and moments within history.  Would that more scholars were engaging in this sort of endeavour, especially with some of the postcolonial and counterimperial lenses and tactics that Sánchez deploys.  I do, however, have a few critical questions I would like to raise.

First of all, I want to question Sánchez approach to the creation of antimythologies and the kind of subversive work that he encourages, especially by means of (what Bhabha terms) hybridity and mimicry.  It seems to me that is is overly optimistic about what this sort of project and and what it can accomplish.  Some representative quotes should help bring this out.  In describing Jewish and Christian adaptations of the Apollo/Python dragon-slayer myth, Sánchez writes that “[t]he genius of these two adaptations is that they both employ important aspects of imperial propoganda in a completelysubversive way” (p46; emph. added).  This isn’t the only time that Sánchez describes this approach as “genius” and he thinks that it is not only genius in and of itself but also in relation to other tactics employed in resistance.  Thus, he writes that “resistance is most commonly accomplished with subtle acts of subversion, rather than outright rebellion or revolt” and to the important thing to do is to “undermine not the structures of oppression but the ideologies that stood behind those structures” (p74; emph. added).  This is why Sánchez stresses that one should engage in a counterimperialism rather than an anti-imperialism (cf. p120).  He writes: “To create an antimythology is as futile as armed resistance, so instead, they choose to create a countermythology… This form of resistance is realistic and brilliant. It has proved so effective historically, that it is a phenomenon that has transcended time and cultures” (p122).  Therefore, in his concluding remarks about Bhabha’s notions of hybridity and mimicry, Sánchez presents an overwhelming positive perspective: one that sees hybridity and mimicry and unambiguously good and brilliant forms of subversion, for, quoting Aschroft et al., in their reader on postcolonialism, mimicry can “locate a crack in the certainty of colonial discourse” and is “always potentially destabilizing to colonial discourse” (p118).  While for Ashcroft et al. the world “potentially” operates as an important modifier of the destabilization that mimicry might produce, for Sánchez it is almost as though the word “potentially” is removed and mimicry becomes “always potentially destabilizing to colonial discourse.”

The problem here is twofold: first, Sánchez is overly optimistic about subversion by means of the production of countermythologies in and of itself, and Sánchez is too pessimistic about other means of resistance or subversion that involve more direct action.

Beginning with Sánchez’s overly optimistic view of countermythologies and subversion by means of hybridity and mimicry it must be emphasized that, by utilizing the discourse, images, and tools of the dominant, oppressed people often carry forward violent, discriminatory, and exclusionary views and practices into their countermythologies.  Redeploying, albeit in a subverted or warped manner, the myths of the dominant still ends up producing domination.  Often this redeployment simply changes up who are to be dominant and who are to be dominated — it does not challenged the fundamental context of domination itself.  So, yes, there may be exploitable “cracks” in the discourse of colonial domination, but that may not point to a crack in overall context of domination.  This is part of the reason why, for example, so many liberatory revolutionary movements end up reinscribing violence, terror and oppression after they overthrow the previously dominant powers (so, for example, the legacies of the French revolution, wherein the bourgeois sell-out the proletariat — and fight against the Haitians who revolted based upon the belief in “liberté, égalité, fraternité”, which the French clearly believed only belonged to those who were white and not below the bourgeois class — the American revolution — which led to American imperialism both now and (for example) against the indigenous people from the moment of its inception — or the Russain revolution — wherein a push for freedom from the dictatorial power of the Tsar quickly leads to Lenin’s incarceration of the Anarchists or the famous Stalinist purges — and so on).

Now there are at least two things intrinsic to Sánchez’s project that should have brought this challenge to his attention, so I find it somewhat perplexing that he is as optimistic as he is.  First of all, studies of the New Testament, and especially of John’s Apocalypse, have increasingly raised the questions of how folks like the author of the Apocalypse (or of the letters penned in the name of Paul) may be trying to work in a subversive manner but may still, despite their best intentions, be replicating oppressive structures and expressions of power, even as they try to work against the death-dealing imperialism of their day.  Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza has done a lot of work to bring this project into focus in her rhetorical analysis of the New Testament and with her emphasis upon the notion of kyriarchy, which seeks to extend feminist analyses of patriarchy into the broader webs of power, control, and domination that operate within a given milieu (Schüssler Fiorenza has also written explicitly on John’s Apocalypse so I find it odd that Sánchez did not engage her).  Thus, for example, while claiming to be participants within a movement wherein life triumphs over death and those in bondage are liberated, John’s Apocalypse still seems to require God to violently overthrew, destroy, and massacre, the enemies of the movement.  So, sure, mimicry and hybridity may be at work here, but it is pure, genius, unadulterated subversion?  No.

The second thing that should bring this to the attention of Sánchez is his study of the ways in which the Creoles deployed the Virgin of Guadalupe in the 17th century.  The Creoles, so Sánchez tells us, created a countermythology that not only combated the dominant ideology of the Spaniards but also sought to undercut any indigenous claims to the apparition tradition (cf. pp75-76).  Now, the Creoles (Spaniards born in Mexico) were marginalized and lacked some of the power and authority granted to those who were born in Spain but were not nearly as decimated or oppressed as the indigenous people themselves were.  So, what you see is the redeployment of the Virgin tradition not in order to bring liberation to the oppressed (like the indigenous people) but in order to favour the interests of a relatively marginalized subset of the elite — and the tradition is redeployed in a way that explicitly tries to negate the myth from being appropriated by oppressed people (cf. pp75-76). Sánchez never explains how this observation fits into his optimistic reading of this form of subversion (thus, while Sánchez identifies himself as a postcolonial critic over against some liberation theologians who may not be sufficiently critical of oppressive power structures that are perpetuated within the biblical texts [cf. p125], it seems that he is not sufficiently critical of his own sources).

Thus, in and of itself, subversion through the production of countermythologies does not seem to be the glorious agent of salvation that Sánchez takes it to be.  Is it “completely subversive”?  No.  Is its historical track record as brilliant and glorious as Sánchez suggests?  No (as our revolutionary examples make clear).

Similarly, I am unsure as to why Sánchez is so critical of other tactics that may be employed to pursue life-giving change.  Why should one attack the ideologies of oppression but not the structures of oppression?  Why is armed resistance futile?  Seems to me that Sánchez is picking and choosing what he wants to see in the historical record.  Armed resistance has often been successful — in fact, as Todd Gordon suggests in Imperialist Canada, the First Nations people in Canada have pretty much only and exclusively been successful in defending their land claims when they have engaged in armed resistance.  Furthermore, Sánchez also ignores the ways in which a diversity of tactics, employed by various groups at the same moment, actually tend to produce greater success for a common goal.  Thus, for example, the civil rights movement in the United States achieved what limited success it was able to achieve in part because the Black Panthers were simultaneously trying to arm the ghettos.

Additionally, shouldn’t assaults upon ideologies ultimately lead to assaults upon structures?  Shouldn’t we cross that line at some point?  Or does Sánchez think that structures will simply crumble and disappear (structures that exist in order to buttress the already massive wealth and power of some people–people who will kill to maintain that wealth and power, regardless of what others believe) once some people start espousing a different ideology?  That strikes me as naive.  Doesn’t ideological criticism seek to inspire new actions and doesn’t an ideology of resistance seek to inspire actions of resistance?

Furthermore, isn’t is suspiciously self-serving for a person rooted in the Academy — i.e. a person situated in a place of (relatively) high status and wealth — to suggest that the way things are overthrown is by producing texts (which the academic is paid to produce) and not be acting to massively overhaul the system?  Doesn’t this ideology permit an academic to say any sort of radical text, while simultaneously benefiting from the death-dealing status quo?  Thus, the academic does not need to change his or her socioeconomic location, but can continue to benefit from the way things are while believing that s/he is on the cutting-edge of producing life-giving change.  Like I said, this strikes me as suspicious and so assertions like those Sánchez makes about fighting ideologies versus fighting structures need to be supported by a sustained argument.  Here, perhaps Sánchez’s inability to recognize the compromised nature of most countermythologies makes it difficult for him to recognize the compromised nature of his own context (or vice versa… or both).

This, then, leads me to my final critical question for Sánchez.  Sánchez writes that he chooses to employ postcolonial criticism because it is practical, praxis-oriented, and liberative (p8).  What is unclear to me is how exactly this book meets those criteria.  Perhaps Sánchez would respond by saying it meets those criteria in that it encourages people to subversively engage the mythologies of the dominant on behalf of the dominated… but all of that practical, liberative praxis remains on the domain of the word or letter — the sign and symbol.  What I do not see, is much cross over into concrete action (I am reminded of the following exchange in Camus’ Les Justes, a play about a group of Russian conspirators planning to blow up a member of the Tsar’s family.  The first character states that one of the conspirators “dit que la poésie est révolutionnaire” to which another conspirator responds: “La bombe seule est révolutoinnaire”).

Anyway, lest my criticisms lead the reader to conclude I did not enjoy this book, let me be clear: I very much enjoyed this book, in part, because it prompted these thoughts in me.  I would be curious to see what Sánchez might say in response (and we were exchanging emails about a possible exchange), so perhaps this conversation will continue.

3. The Prostitute and the Prophet: Hosea in Literary-Theoretical Perspective by Yvonne Sherwood.

This book was a lot of fun to read.  Sherwood has a strong grasp on both the Old Testament text and contemporary approaches to deconstruction and literary theory.  Thus, she reads folks like Jamison, Eco, Rorty, Fish, Barthes, Saussure, Peirce, Kristeva and (most especially) Derrida, alongside of those who have commented on Hosea — from ancient Jewish sources, to contemporary biblical scholars, to modern playwrights.  There are a lot of riches to be found here and one of the strengths of Sherwood’s approach is the way in which she is able to explain complex notions or systems of thought in a manner that is both substantial and accessible to the uninitiated (I think).

Sherwood’s goal in this book is to explore why Hosea is seen as a problematic text.  In particular, she wants to know why readers react to this text in the ways that they have and why (some) readers highlight some elements of the — often confusing or contradictory — passages in Hos 1-3 and why they neglect other passages.  Of course, reading as a feminist critic, Sherwood is particularly interested in what these readings communicate about the ways in which gender and patriarchal hierarchies are inscribed within the story of the prophet and the “woman of harlotry” — a text produced and analyzed by men.  As an ideological critic, Sherwood is also interested in the ways in which readers of the text often wish to protect (one understanding of) God against another (possible) understanding of God communicated by Hos 1-3.

All in all, good reading.  I remember reading some of Sherwood’s essays a few years back in a book she co-edited called Derrida and Religion.  At that time I wasn’t too impressed with the whole endeavour, but it may have been because I didn’t understand nearly as much on that matter as I do now.  Maybe it just went over my head.

4. Essex County (a trilogy) by Jeff Lemire.

I have sometimes felt that I spoiled the graphic novel genre from the beginning by reading the very best book first.  Granted, it was the right book for the right time, but every since I read Craig Thompson’s Blankets, most graphic novels, including the most highly rated ones (likes Maus, or Epileptic, or Black Hole) have seemed at least a little disappointing (by the way, Thompson’s newest, and largest, offering, Habibi, has now been published!).  Then I stumbled onto Jeff Lemire’s Essex County Trilogy and finally, at long last, I discovered a book that at least rivals Blankets.  Lemire’s artistic style is quite different than Thompson’s — much less ornate, much more stripped down and bare — but he is able to do what Thompson does — convey very powerful emotions in very few words.  Lemire is particularly good at drawing out feelings of loneliness and longing and the desire to love others and be loved one’s self (a desire that often goes unmet because of circumstances beyond our control or flaws in our own characters that we don’t know how to overcome).

Part of what made this graphic novel interesting to me is that it is set in Essex County in southwestern Ontario, not too far from where I now live and where I once lived as a child.  The places, themes, and kinds of characters are familiar to me, on a personal level, so I’m sure that helped me to connect with the story.

That said, this is highly recommended reading.  Definitely one of the best books I’ve read this year and I will read it again before the year is out.

5. Septuagenarian Stew: Stories and Poems by Charles Bukowski.

My wife recently surprised me with this book — she found it in a bargain bin somewhere and pulled it out for me I (given that I flirt with some of Bukowski’s character traits and given that my wife would like me to go in a somewhat different direction, that was pretty generous of her).  I’ve kind of gone back and forth on what I think of him over the years, but I think I’ve gradually made my piece with enjoying his writing and I enjoyed this volume more than some of the others I’ve read.  Additionally, I actually quite enjoyed some of the poems contained here, and that was another pleasant surprise, given that I usually struggle to enjoy any poetry (apart from Rilke… see below).  Part of what I enjoyed here was the way in which Bukowski is able to capture the beauty of the things which other people see as destructive or immoral or disgusting.  When he writes about being an alcoholic, for example, one gets a glimpse of why people are alcoholics.  He doesn’t romanticize it — the poverty, and squalor, and hangovers, and sickness, all of that comes through — but he doesn’t demonize it either.  Hell, booze becomes like any close friend in your life — sometimes a cause of great grief, sometimes a cause of great joy, but mostly a faithful companion whom you wouldn’t trade for the world.

It seems to me that Bukowski understands brokenness, he understands that people are often overwhelmed by things greater than themselves, things outside of their control — like an abusive father, or an unfaithful spouse — and so we all bears up in our own ways, finds a way to survive and make it through til the next day, sometimes just getting by, sometimes breaking down, sometimes being able to forget everything and laugh for awhile, and sometimes choosing to end it all because it has become unbearable.  Bukowski seems to get all this, and seems to also get this: all the things that people do, as they try to struggle on or as they give up the fight completely, are okay.

Recommended reading.

6. Uncollected Poems by Rainer Maria Rilke.

After rereading the Duino Elegies and being struck by the amount of different material that jumped out at me (compared to the material that jumped out at me in my first readings), I thought I would reread this collection of poems.  I’m glad that I did.  It would be hard to tire of Rilke’s writings.  Here’s just one example:

Do you remember: falling stars, how
they leapt slantwise through the sky
like horses over suddenly held-out hurdles
of our wishes–had we so many?–
for stars, innumerable, leapt everywhere;
almost every look upward was wedded
to the swift hazard of their play,
and the heart felt itself a single thing
beneath that vast disintegration of their brilliance–
and was whole, as though it would survive them!

Craig Carter’s recent post on socialism, pacifism and sex illustrates all of this rather well.  While writing about socialism, Carter asserts that “socialism is in many ways a high and noble ideal” but then goes on to write that:

Socialism is utopian in the sense that it is incompatible with the fact of original sin. The reason that socialism always leads to tyranny, poverty and atheism in this world is because of the tragic flaw in human nature – not because of the idea of socialism itself. As an idea, it is wonderful. But when implemented in a society of fallen sinners, it becomes horribly destructive.

There are a few responses one can make to this.  On the one hand, some Christian anarchists have responded to this line of thought by arguing that it is Conservative Christians who are hopelessly utopian and who fail to fully consider human fallenness and sin.  So, for example, some Christian anarchists would say that it is mad utopianism that leads some to think that you can give guns, pepper spray, handcuffs, zip batons and badges to some people — and then tell those same people that they are only accountable to their own internal chain of command — and expect those people to act in a manner that is just and compassionate.  Thus, these Christian anarchists would argue that they are opposed to armed police forces precisely because they take human sin and fallenness more seriously than others (of course, any who have had any sustained experience with the police quickly learn that the evidence favours the anarchist position; however, those who have learned this have usually been minorities and folks without any voice in the broader social discourse, which is why one of the benefits of the Occupy movement have been a partial revelation of the true nature and purpose of the police to the general public as members of the middle-class have now been on the receiving end of the force of the law).

On another hand, however, and this is more to the point regarding my opening sentences, Conservative Christians like Carter are extremely selective with the evidence — essentially they see what they want to see, regardless of what else is available to be seen — and so they term some things (like socialism) utopian but then advocate for other things that the evidence would suggest are equally utopian.  The evidence for this is in Carter’s earlier paragraph on sex.  He writes:

sex is easy. Natural reason tells us that sexual activity is oriented to and leads to procreation and that marriage naturally is the best context for procreation to occur… Sex belongs in marriage and every serious form of natural law or religious morality affirms this conclusion. But sex outside marriage is destructive of personal communion, social stability and children.

There are a few things worth observing here.  First, and somewhat tangentially, “natural reason” and “natural law,” within the context of this argument are not actually rooted in anything we observe in nature.  In nature, we see sexual activity that goes on in all sorts of ways outside of the realm of procreation — we see animals engaging in homosexual relationships and in masturbation (in the Toronto Zoo, not far from Carter, you can find examples of both in the penguin and monkey sections, respectively).  It’s also somewhat anomalous to talk about “marriage” within the context of the kind of relationships other animals enact.  Most species have multiple sexual partners, and a lot of animals seem to enjoy having sex just for the sake of having sex.  So, when Carter grounds his argument in “nature” he is really just grounding his argument in a few verses of the Bible that tell him what nature teaches us (regardless of what we actually observe in nature).

Second, and more to the point, it is easy to charge Carter with being utopian in his observations about sex and marriage.  What about people who are gay?  What about people who can’t have kids?  What about all the violence that has taken place within traditional family settings?  What about all the kids beaten and abandoned by their biological parents?  What about all the wives raped by their husbands?  What about all the affairs?  What about all the failed relationships?  This list of questions could be expanded almost endlessly, but the point is that Carter’s position on sex and marriage is at least as susceptible (of not more so) to the charge of utopianism as the picture he paints of socialism.  His view of sex and marriage could be called “a high and noble ideal” (if we’re being generous) but it surely is “incompatible with the fact of original sin” (to borrow Carter’s language).

The same argument, of course, could be made about the institution of the Church as it has manifested itself throughout history and up to the present day Roman Catholic Church, which Carter seems to particularly admire (despite the evidence that such things as systemic cover-ups of the sexual abuse of children extended all the way up to the level of the current Pope… just to pick one of a million possible examples).  Surely the institution of the Church could be described as a high and noble ideal but one that is far too utopian to play out well in practice…

Anyway, Carter’s approach is true of many of those who hold views like his.  The opposing position is said to be noble but too unrealistic, while the speaker’s position is held without any sort of compromise and without any recognition of the presence of the same criteria that were employed to attack the supposedly utopian position they just rejected.

Carter lays out no criteria as to why one view (his position on sex) should be treated as an ideal that is held realistically and without compromise, while another view (the socialist position) should be treated as an ideal that is too utopian and so should be compromised in the world of realpolitik.  All of this then suggests that Carter is simply making assertions about what he wants to believe and is not actually building any sort of sustained, consistent or compelling argument.  Of course, for any person with half a brain this is painfully obvious (which is why nobody usually bothers responding to Carter) but it bears mentioning for the sake of those kids who may mistake what Carter is saying for some sort of critical thinking.

Sure gives substance to Baudrillard’s claims about the triumph of the simulacrum (or Zizek’s remarks about the rise of the internet as the rise of a new form of gnostic disembodiment).

• Other examples abound: nation-states are also fictions, as are all political boundaries, but our choice to participate in those fictions has serious ramifications for our actions.  As I stated before, we are all creating the world in which we live, and when we create a (fictional) world that has (fictional) components like money and nation-states, how we act in that (fictional) world will be significantly modified.

• Language, itself, may be the most powerful example of this.  Non-sense, or fiction, that we take as “sensible” or “real” based upon the games that we play with it.

• That said,  to  say that something is a game is not to say that it is not serious.  Some games, of course, are more serious than others–usually, what is risked in a game of Scrabble amongst friends is significantly different than what is risked in a game of Russian Roulette and the same spectrum of significance applies, I think, to the different language games we play as we construct meaning and value and, literally, make sense of our lives.  Yes, all language is game playing, yes, all definitions are tautologies as worked out within the rules of a particular game, but that game can be deathly serious.  Again, what matters is the way in which the game impacts one’s actions.

• Of course, all of this assumes that game-playing and participating in fictional constructions of the world do, in fact, impact a person’s actions.  This assumption could be reversed — we could argue that one’s beliefs and values are determined by one’s actions and not vice versa.  In fact, I believe that this is the case far more often than we care to think — we do what we want to do and only then find ways to narrate those actions so that we are good people within the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves and within the stories others tell about us.  However, I don’t think this has to be a strict either/or.  Actions (more often? ) influence beliefs; but beliefs (less often?) can influence actions.

• The other assumption operating here is that, while appearing to try to objectively describe things as they are, there is still a system of valorisation operating within this post.  That is to say, I believe that things are significant to the extent that they impact what we do and make our actions more or less life-giving or death-dealing.  I am not just saying that fictions impact action, nor am I saying that game-playing can have repercussions for a person’s lived existence, I am saying those things are significant because of that.

• By saying that all truths are fictions, I mean that we all actively participate in the construction of anything we take to be true.  We choose what we will believe as true and what we will believe is false.  We choose what we will value and what we will disparage.  We choose what is good and what is evil.  We choose how we will construct our understanding of our own selves and of others (“nobody knows who I really am…” more on that in a moment).  We participate not only in the embodiment of our truths (which is what makes them significant), but also in their creation.  Each one of us, recreates the world anew every morning.  For there is no “world” apart from the one we choose to create when we awaken.

• However, because all of us do this, and because all of us do this in different ways, some will say one thing is true, others will say the opposite is true, and some will propose mediating positions or speak entirely different languages.

• Because this has been going on since we first created the world, we inherit many of the truth-full fictions of others.  Some are more susceptible to accepting these than others.  Some will take these truth-full fictions to be “absolute truths” and others will take them to be “objective descriptions” of the “real world”.  So it goes.  Many seem to find it scary to think that “reality” (one of the oldest truth-full fictions ever created and pass on) may be nothing more (nor less!) than a fiction, or an ideological construct… I’m not sure why… so people prefer to hold on to what they receive and find ways to assert that their truth-full fictions are the Truth.

• Perhaps an illustration of this would be useful.  Let us take myself — who I am — as our object of study.  You could ask many people who I am (who I really am) and you would receive a host of different answers.  Some would blatantly contradict each other.  In the story each person is telling him- or herself about the world, I would be interpreted as very different characters, and in the story I am telling myself about the world, I play another kind of character than many of those other descriptions of me and my role.  Of course, it is at this point that many people give priority to the story that they tell themselves about themselves, but why should we think that our story about our selves is any better or more accurate than the story others tell about us?  Maybe you know yourself better than others because you know a lot of what you think and do that others don’t know… but maybe you’re far too close to yourself, and far too personally involved with yourself, to have any more of an accurate read of yourself than any other person.  Or maybe, and this is what makes the most sense to me these days, I am all of the people I am taken to be by myself and others.  Of course, because those people are often the polar opposite of each other, I cannot simply be some compilation of all those people — there is no core, single true, single real, me.  I am a multitude.  I am Legion.

• Of course, this conclusion is no more and no less fictional and truth-full than any other conclusion.  It is simply the one that is the most compelling (to me).