How to Think Theologically (Part 4—Final): Theological Reflection in Community and Spiritual Formation

Chapter 8: Theological Reflection in Christian Community

Any theological reflection on Christian vocation (see previous post) must be rooted in the real-life context of our daily choices and interactions with others. For this reason, Stone and Duke claim that a deliberative theology must also be a critical theology in the sense that it takes critical thinking skills for such a deliberative theology to be effective (or even possible). Specifically, each real-life situation that deserves a theological response must be well described/defined and go through a period of questioning to establish the right course of action based upon the criteria of Christian values. Finally, a decision must be made using the information attained by questioning and analysis. “Critical thinking that stagnates at observation and analysis is self-indulgent. We must decide. Fear of being wrong is no excuse; it is a risk every theologian takes” (p.119). This entire process, according to the authors, must take place under the auspices of the Christian community. “Theological reflection is insufficient if it is done in isolation. Theological reflection occurs in the context of community. Because it is communal, it is also collaborative and dialogical” (p.120). While the question “What is the Christian to do?” may be an intensely personal question, it is by no means individualistic. Iron, as we all well know, sharpens iron (Prov. 27:17).           

How to Think Theologically (Part 3): The Human Condition and Christian Vocation

Chapter 6: The Human Condition

The second diagnostic exercise for theological reflection involves how humans view our place in relationship with God and the world. In other words, “What are people for?” as Wendell Berry asks. This diagnostic exercise hinges on the Christian theologian’s answer to three two-part questions: “1) What is the basic problem with the human condition? (What is sin?), 2) What is the resolution to that problem in the human condition? (What is salvation?), 3) How is the problem resolved? (What is the means of salvation?)” (p.84). Defining sin, sins, and sinfulness are of the utmost importance for the one who reflects theologically upon the human condition. This definition becomes the baseline by which the next two questions may be answered. How one understands sin/sins/sinfulness, the resolution to sin/sins/sinfulness, and how that resolution comes about will ultimately determine one’s theological anthropology.

            I will admit that I have given very little thought to sin. This is a common trait of theological liberalism—we focus on the soaring theological truths of God’s love for humanity and God’s redemptive work in the world, while ignoring or avoiding words like “sin”. But if we are to acknowledge God’s redemptive work in the world, it must follow that we discuss what God has redeemed the world from. A theology that glorifies the reconciling gospel of God without first addressing the problem of humanity is an incomplete theology.

Chapter 7: Vocation

            This chapter—the final of the three chapters dealing with diagnostic exercises for approaching theological reflection—begins with the classic ethical question: As Christians, what are we to do? To what actions, lifestyles, and perhaps even occupations is the Spirit leading us? Stone and Duke claim that to answer the question of Christian vocation, we must first answer the following three questions: 1) What deeds are Christians called to do? 2) What are the reasons for performing a service or action? 3) Why is one course of action the most fitting in a given situation? (p.100). The authors suggest that one method for theologically framing the question regarding reasons for performing a service or action is to consider the “because-of” and “in-order-to” of any given action. That is, what is the premise for the action, and what does the Christian hope to accomplish with the action? Stone and Duke insist that rather than having roots in a previously prescribed rule or law, the question “What is the Christian to do?” can only be answered by a deliberative theology that is mindful of the context of each action.

            Most books on Christian vocation deal with either A) an individual’s specific calling to ministry, or B) how to determine what God wants the individual to do for an occupation. I was somewhat surprised, then, to find that Stone and Duke spend much of this chapter on Christian vocation reframing the question in terms of how we bring flesh and bone to Christian theology in our own lives. This chapter is, in essence, a discussion of Christian ethics (“what ought we to do?”).

            Through much of my own personal journey, I came to view vocation much in the same way as the second sense mentioned above. A person who by nature struggles to make personal decisions, I have never had a clear sense of what I am to do with my life. I have always been something of a colloquial jack-of-all-trades, master of none. And I have never felt God pulling me strongly one way or the other in terms of a career path. In fact, I have often found myself overwhelmed by choices and interests. Theater, music, anthropology, literature, philosophy, history, theology, biblical studies—these are all disciplines that appeal to me greatly, but that I also do not have the well-honed skills to practice professionally. Over the years, however, I have come to narrow my sense of calling down to three possible career and/or ministry options:

1) Professor of biblical studies. As a teenager, I remember thinking to myself: “If one is to truly live the devoted life of a Christian, why aren’t more people in seminary? Why don’t all followers of Jesus commit themselves to learning as much as they possibly can about the faith they practice?” My deep and abiding passion for learning about biblical history and interpretation can be traced back to a particularly challenging time for my faith when I was in high school. After reading The Da Vinci Code, many of the presuppositions my young mind held to be true were suddenly challenged. Perhaps noticing my concern, my mom purchased for me a copy of Bart Ehrman’s Truth and Fiction in the Da Vinci Code, and I was introduced to the world of biblical historical criticism. I realized that much of what was taught in church could be traced to specific lines of reason in the historical institution of the church. Real people and real events took place that could be analyzed closely and prodded and tested. When I went to college, I devoured my Bible classes and was left itching for more. That itch has never gone away, and I am currently considering the possibility of proceeding with doctoral work in religious studies.

2) Anabaptist pastor/preacher. I have been recognized for my gifts as a speaker ever since I was a fifteen-year-old licensed layspeaker in the United Methodist Church. Preaching is something that I enjoy immensely, and even more so now that my wife and I have come to find a home in the Anabaptist/Mennonite tradition. I feel the longing to lead, to proclaim, and to teach. To organize worship as an act of divinely inspired human creativity—it is an art, and I feel drawn to practice it.

3) Intentional Christian community. For years I have deeply empathized with the resurgence in the intentional Christian community movement. Inspired by the writings of Shane Claiborne, Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove, Jean Vanier, Henri Nouwen, and others, I became persuaded that the most authentic way to live as a follower of Jesus is to live in close community with other followers, and to exist as the incarnational body of Christ to the marginalized of our society (which, incidentally, is the traditional Anabaptist vision of the function of the Church). I have tried on numerous occasions to live out this vocation, and have seen more failures than successes. When my wife and I were first married, we plotted and schemed and dreamed up what living in community might look like, and eventually arrived at the idea of Anavah House, an intentional community based on the premise that everyone has something to teach and something to learn from everyone else. Despite tedious and excited planning, a lot of networking, and the best of intentions, Anavah House never materialized.[1] But Alyssa and I both still feel that our place is in community, although we have not yet been presented with a clear opportunity to live that calling out.

These three personal vocations frequently feel at odds with one another, and at different times I feel more inclined to one than the other two. But for the most part, these are the three callings that I have felt most consistently drawn toward since I started college more than seven years ago. I have yet to encounter anyone in seminary or in the life of the Church who has helped me to reconcile these personal vocations.

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[1] For more information on the conception and eventual failure of Anavah House, see http://everyday-revolutionary.blogspot.com/2011/01/anavah-whole-story.html and its follow-up post, http://everyday-revolutionary.blogspot.com/2011/04/theory-of-community-update.html. A pretty thorough description of Anavah House still exists on the Fellowship of Intentional Communities website at http://directory.ic.org/23038/Anavah_House. 

How to Think Theologically (Part 2): The Role of Creative Thinking and the Gospel

Chapter 3: Resources for Theological Reflection

Our unique theological viewpoint should serve as a template that is overlaid upon our theological reflection and deliberation. These templates are patterns by which we view the world through Christian experience. Each person has his or her own one-of-a-kind theological template that comprises their embedded theology as well as certain themes and categories they feel personally inclined toward. It is the standard by which the rest of their theological experience is measured. Stone and Duke recall the concept of the Wesleyan Quadrilateral as primary resources for building a theological template—that is, the fourfold witness of experience, reason, tradition, and scripture. Each element must be tempered and balanced by the other three to construct a coherent theological template. Just how proportionately they are balanced, however, depends upon the individual.

            Though I have been aware of the so-called Wesleyan Quadrilateral since I was a young teenager, I am only just beginning to consider what balance of authority I give to each of these resource elements. This is extremely important, since how one balances these resources determines their ultimate theological perspective. Too much emphasis on experience leads to extreme subjectivism, while too much emphasis on reason can cause one to cynically deny mystery. Too much tradition leads to empty, passionless theology (and worship), while too much scripture can lead one into “bibliolatry”.  In my own experience, I used to hold a theology that was about leaned very heavily on reason, a little less heavily experience, even less on scripture, and least of all on tradition. But now I am moving toward a more balanced perspective. I have grown to appreciate tradition, to doubt the extent of reason's usefulness as the sole arbiter of truth, and to be skeptical of my own personal experience (or lack thereof). I hope this act of balancing continues and eventually becomes a long-term trend that helps me to stabilize my theology and, ultimately, my humanity.

Chapter 4: Theological Method

Just as every good scientist makes use of the scientific method, every good theologian needs to develop a set of criteria for analyzing and evaluating where a particular theological claim finds its grounding, how that claim is valued among other claims, and which theological premises are to be taken as normative. To this end, Stone and Duke suggest that it is important for the Christian theologian to develop his or her own theological method (while taking cues from the methods of others). To do this, one must examine their “starting point”: do they approach theology from the perspective of human faith (anthropology) or from God’s message to the world (divine revelation)? While there are advantages and disadvantages to both, where one begins determines their ultimate approach to theology.

Next, those seeking deliberative theological reflection must pursue in their method a creative balance between sequential (linear) and parallel synthetic (abstract, big-picture) thought. The authors suggest a that a rudimentary method for theological deliberation calls for explicitly describing the issue being discussed in terms of the Christian message, analyzing this understanding of the issue to better understand its strengths and weaknesses, proposing an adequate solution to the problem, and supporting and explaining the solution in theological terms. Finally, in this chapter Stone and Duke lay the groundwork for the next three chapters that represent three distinct approaches (diagnostic exercises) for doing theological reflection.

            I am personally a more parallel synthetic thinker. I love to paint biblical theology in broad, empathetic tones that helps others see the beauty of scripture. When I was a youth pastor, the lead pastor of the church I was serving told me that there are “big picture” people and “detail” people, and the trick to accomplishing great things is to figure out how to pair these two kinds of people together. The same is true of theological reflection. Linear thinkers must train themselves in the discipline of abstraction and seeing the ultimate goal of their logical thinking, and parallel synthetic thinkers must likewise train themselves in the discipline of approaching and accomplishing their theological vision step-by-step.

Chapter 5: The Gospel

            This first of three approaches to theological reflection involves determining what the gospel is and what it means for a particular situation. Stone and Duke provide three primary questions as a starting point for approaching theological reflection in this manner: 1) What is the gospel? 2) How does the gospel reach people? 3) How do people receive the gospel and its benefits? How one answers these questions determines how one will approach the issue at hand theologically. “Coming to an understanding of the gospel’s meaning,” claim the authors, “is a bottom-line issue for every Christian theologian” (p.75). The case study of a couple from a church congregation presenting a self-help “refinding yourself” lecture at church represents just how a situation might be differently perceived depending on one’s own interpretation of the gospel.

            Answering these questions for myself is not simple. As my training is primarily in biblical studies, I am keenly aware of the sheer variety of views even (especially) within the biblical text itself. I agree with John Dominic Crossan that “good news is good news” and cannot be quantified in a way that means “good news for some, bad news for others.” Therefore, I try to approach the gospel holistically: it is the announcement that Christ, in his teaching, death, and resurrection, has been shown by God to be God’s hope for the potential of humanity. The gospel is that God had revealed for us in the risen Christ a liberating and reconciling force for both the oppressed and oppressors.

How to Think Theologically (Part 1)

“To be Christian at all is to be a theologian. There are no exceptions,” say Howard Stone and James Duke in the introduction to their fantastic little primer on How to Think Theologically. From the very beginning, the authors distinguish themselves from other theological writers by placing all Christian thinkers—from Karl Barth and Wolfhart Pannenberg to my grandpa Roger—in the same boat. The purpose of this book, write Stone and Duke, is not to dryly dictate a complex and incoherent systematic theology, but to focus instead on the everyday act of doing theology in our personal settings, a process they will refer to as a “trenches hermeneutic” in the final chapter. Doing theology, they say, requires sincere theological reflection and a faith that seeks understanding. Over the next few days I will be posting my thoughts and reactions to each chapter of this excellent book. I highly recommend it for anyone who is suspicious of theology or thinks that they are not cut out for “doing theology.”

Chapter 1: Faith, Understanding, and Reflection

            The authors begin their daunting task of teaching their readers how to think theologically by recognizing a few basic premises: all of our theological thinking is somewhat defined by the parameters of our upbringing, social context, and biblical/theological preconceptions—what Stone and Duke refer to as “embedded theology”. However, while our embedded theologies may give our faith and beliefs a general shape, we should not be confined to them. Instead, we should continually challenge and question our preconceived theologies to instead produce a theology that is deliberative in nature—an “understanding of faith that emerges from a process of carefully reflecting upon embedded theological convictions” (p.16). A deliberative theology carefully weighs all sides of a given issue that demands theological reflection. It requires setting aside biases in favor of theological conscientiousness.

            The obvious real-world example of embedded theology is readily visible as religious fundamentalism. The fundamentalist who clings to an embedded theology of a literal six-day creation bristles at the notion of divinely inspired biological evolution, claiming, “If part of the Bible is wrong, then it’s all wrong!” But in my own experience I have come to find that embedded theology is everywhere, regardless of whether one is a hyper-conservative fundamentalist or a super-liberal relativist. My own gut reaction in the past has been to disregard those issues that prove to be classic challenges to theological liberalism—Did the resurrection really happen? Is there a literal Hell, and do “non-believers” really go there? Can and do miracles actually occur?—by claiming that Christian theology is really just all about love and forgiveness, and all those other nice things. But at a certain point in my seminary career I began to have those biases challenged. If we cling to such warm-and-fuzzy notions as the “real” Christian theology, what is to separate us as Christians from, say, a friendly atheist who holds the same values? I am now beginning to deliberate my theological views on such questions, but have yet to find a solid answer.

Chapter 2: Fashioning Theology

            In this chapter, Stone and Duke explain how a Christian might get to work constructing (fashioning) a deliberative theology. Every theologian, they argue, performs the three tasks of “interpreting the Christian faith, correlating those interpretations with other interpretations, and assessing the adequacy of the interpretations and their correlations” (p.27). In other words, for any given issue requiring theological reflection, the Christian who hopes to exercise a deliberative theology must ask themselves what they believe, how that belief is reconciled to other perspectives of belief (even—especially—within one’s own theological worldview), and whether or not that belief is sufficient to answer the theological issue at hand. We do this by considering the interpretation’s appropriateness or faithfulness to the Christian message, its intelligibility (i.e. it has to make sense to other Christians), its moral integrity or ethicality, and its reasonable validity.

Blogaloguing Janzen, Part Two

My friend Jay Howard and I are participating in a blog dialogue—i.e. a "blogalogue"—discussing David Janzen's new book, The Intentional Christian Community Handbook. Jay has already posted on Parts One, Two, Three, Four, and Five of the book. You can read my previous post on Part One here. If you're interested in joining the conversation with your own blog, send me an email with a link to your posts and I will assemble a list of everyone's responses.

Part Two of Janzen's book is subtitled, "Is Intentional Community Your Calling?" The driving idea behind the chapters in this section is the need for practical experience in living intentionally, and how a person called to community might go about meeting and experimenting with various established communities.

Reflections on "Chapter Four: Seeking the Community Where I Am Called"

Chapter Four presents the personal stories of several young people whose deep conviction and vocation led them to seek out community in different settings. Each story offers its own unique perspective as a sort of personal laboratory for "doing community," for what Gandhi called "experiments with truth." For Christians called to intentional community, faith is the catalyst of this experimentation. "The gift of faith," says Janzen, "is always a mysterious thing. It is like a hypothesis for life in which one experiment leads to another with more insight and cause for wonder as you go" (p.66).

Reflections on "Chapter Five: The Gospel Call to Discipleship in Community"

In this chapter, Janzen reflects on the historical and social motivations that led to the individualistic Christendom often promoted from American church pulpits today. On p.68, Janzen laments, "One way to observe how the Good News has been straitjacketed by the individualism of our culture is to pick up any collection of contemporary Christian music and count how many songs are about 'me' rather than about 'us' as the objects of God's love. 'Mine, mine, mine, Jesus is mine.'"

•   I enjoyed the fact that Janzen frequently points out throughout Chapter Five the New Testament inclination toward togetherness, especially in the social ethic teachings of Jesus. The Lord's Prayer does not say, "Give me my daily bread," but "Give us..." Furthermore, Janzen illustrates how communal and monastic living has, from its earliest Christian implementation, been a method for expressing distaste with Christendom: "During Anthony's [Anthony of Egypt, the founder of Christian monasticism] lifetime the emperor Constantine made Christianity the imperially favored and fashionable religion, and multitudes of citizens became nominal Christians. A minimal version of Christianity emerged, focused on personal salvation, assured by participation in the sacraments and belief in officially sanctioned doctrines. At the same time thousands of aspiring spiritual athletes flocked to the desert in imitation of Anthony to recapture a more disciplines way of following Jesus" (p.75).

•   In my opinion, the best part of this chapter was Janzen's treatment of a question I hear all the time: "Does every Christian have to live in community?" Rather than attempt to "answer" the question, Janzen instead suggests that it is an inadequate question from the start—it shares a lot in common with the juvenile attempt to bargain with one's parents: Do we have to? "Let's not despise the question," Janzen says, "but note, rather, that it represents a certain stage of life. The question begs a legalistic answer from an authority that one is already itching to resist and to leave behind. The question does not have a good answer at the level where it is asked. But let us step back and look at the question from a more adult or discipleship point of view. Let's move the question from fear of damnation to love of God…" (p.78). Janzen next offers the parabolic image of God the Source, the Son, and the Holy Spirit leading multitudes of people in a circle dance right in the center square of an ancient city. Those outside the city are welcome to join in, provided they are willing to die to their selves and pick up the self-sacrificial cross of Jesus. However, Janzen points out that legalistic questions like Do we all have to do it? are insufficient and miss the point of the dance to begin with: “We enter into the freedom of the circle-dancing God (perichoresis) by way of a discipleship community where our character is transformed into the likeness of God (theosis). This is the shape of our journey, our home, our hope for a world made new" (p.80).

Reflections on "Chapter Six: Searching for Your Community"

In Chapter Six, Janzen again turns the narrative over to the stories of several young people who began looking for community but were unsure of a good starting point. 

•   The purpose of the chapter is to attempt to answer the question, "How do young people go about testing [their] call to community, what are their experiences, and what counsel can we offer in their search?" (p.81). I found it interesting to consider that at this point, the intentional Christian community movement is so large and diverse that different people have the luxury of sharing different callings to different types of community. Vocations toward intentional community are now as diverse as the vocations to be found within the institutional church.

•   I appreciated Celina Varella's criticism of Shane Claiborne's Irresistible Revolution, a book that has inspired an entire generation of young people inclined toward communal living (including myself and some friends of mine currently living in community!). The book she says, "is very attractive and has inspiring stories. But it tends to leave out some of the difficult realities, so some young people come with grand hopes that living in community will be the quick solution to every social ill” (p.86). When I first read Claiborne's book back in 2006, I was indeed greatly inspired by his stories, and spent the next several years sorely frustrated by friends and communities that failed to live up to my expectations of what a community should be like, per Claiborne's descriptions. The Irresistible Revolution, unlike Janzen's book, did not speak to the gritty details and spiritual pain that comes with cultivating a mind and spirit tuned to living intentionally.

•   Janzen also provides a bit of commentary about our societal norm of delayed adulthood leading to a general unwillingness to commit to a specific community. He likens many people from my own generation to the spiritual wanderers (gyrovagues) mentioned in Chapter 1 of Benedict's Rule for Monasteries. These gyrovagues, which Benedict calls the most detestable kind of monks, are "always on the move, with no stability, indulg[ing] their own wills."

•   Finally, Janzen offers some good advice for people who want to explore their vocation within a community setting, including seeking out a mentor, visiting a wide range of different communities, “giving yourself fully” to each experience, and stepping out into unfamiliar territory to listen and share with unfamiliar people.

Reflections on "Chapter Seven: Novice Membership"

In this chapter, Janzen offers a series of questions that might be helpful in discerning one's place and purpose in community. These are basically "interview questions" that a community might ask a potential new member, and are therefore useful in examining one's own vocation before seeking out a community to join. Rather than reprinting the questions here, I would highly recommend reading Jay's succinct paraphrase of the chapter.

•   Janzen's critique of the self in this chapter is very insightful. He criticizes religious practices that find the self at their center (like many New Age meditations, etc.), and reveals just how counter-cultural communal living can appear in our current context: "Given the hypermobility of our society and the high virtue it places on 'keeping our options open,' making an open-ended commitment to join an intentional Christian community sets off alarm bells in friends, family, and one’s own individualized soul" (p.94).

•   Jay dislikes the phrase mutual submission, and prefers instead Janzen's language of "mutual love and care" (p.96). "It is just not in me to 'submit,'" says Jay, "even to authority figures (unless they have pepper spray) but I do have it in me to 'commit' to a person or group and do what I can to care for their needs." I appreciate Jay's thoughts here. The concept of mutual commitment is absolutely central to any intentional community. However, I am a fan of the term mutual submission. The word "submit" has a lot of ugly baggage these days, and has been used in the past to justify the subjugation of women, minorities, and pretty much anyone who is not a straight, white male. But the very definition of submission also carries with it an intrinsic connotation of self-sacrifice. Add the word mutual to that, and you have a deeply community-oriented phrase that seeks limitation of the individual and puts emphasis on concern for one's neighbor. The abdication of personal power in favor of the needs of one's sister or brother means not always "looking out for number one," and being willing to lay aside one's own concerns for the good of the whole community. When members of a community live in mutual submission, then, ultimately no one carries an authority above anyone else. It is the very premise behind Chapter 3 of Benedict's Rule for Monasteries.

•   Importantly, Janzen notes: "Neither the novice nor the community is a finished product" (p.96).

Blogaloguing Janzen, Part One

My friend Jay Howard and I are participating in a blog dialogue—i.e. a "blogalogue"—discussing David Janzen's new book, The Intentional Christian Community Handbook. Jay has already posted on parts One, Two, Three, and Four of the book. If you're interested in joining the conversation with your own blog, send me an email with a link to your posts and I will assemble a list of everyone's responses.

One of the first things you learn when you become interested in intentional community is that there are a lot of crazies out there—especially within the category of self-identifying Christian communities. A quick browse through the Fellowship of Intentional Communities online database turns up all kinds of different community enthusiasts, from King-James-Onlyists searching for pious perfection to Revelation Literalists holed up in the mountains awaiting the end of the world. Small wonder that when Alyssa and I try to talk about our passion for intentional living with our families, we are often met with confusion or misinterpretation—So...you're saying you want to join a cult? or Wait...you mean you want to start a church?

David Janzen's book is brilliant precisely because it illustrates the thoughtfulness with which one might enter into the intentional Christian community discussion. According to Janzen, intentional Christian community offers an radically alternative third way—neither fundamentalist fanaticism nor comfortable complacency—for living out the Reign of God on earth as it is in heaven. Below are my thoughts, presented chapter by chapter, on Part One of The Intentional Christian Community Handbook—a book that I hope you will pick up and read, regardless of your interest level in intentional community.

What did I find most meaningful from the Preface?
On p.4, Janzen says “Unless we let go of our ideal community, we will end up hating the sisters and brothers who, inevitably, do not live up to our expectations, and so, Bonhoeffer warns, we become the destroyer of that very real community God is already growing up around us," and then on p.8, "I discovered that others experienced me as a judgmental, principle-driven idealist who had a lot to learn about listening and extending grace in relationships." As I read the preface, I quickly recognized many of these traits as my own. I spent years grumbling about the lack of genuine community in my college town while failing to recognize the community in which I spent much of my undergrad career as a "real" community. The same was true of later communities I became a part of, as well. Because each of these settings failed to match up to my rigid idea of what an intentional Christian community should be, I in turn failed to see the community for what it was—a genuine expression of togetherness for that particular moment in time. And when others failed to live up to my expectation of purposeful community, I judged them harshly. Today, as a person not living in community for the first time in about 6 years, I deeply regret my criticism of the friends and families I have had the pleasure of living and working alongside.

What did I find most meaningful from Chapter One?
The first chapter featured several stories from people who have experienced community firsthand. I enjoyed reading Luke Healy's account of helping to establish a community in the attic of a Missionary Baptist church in Kansas City, Missouri. I met Luke (who has recently left the community) and the other members of Oak Park back in May, right before Alyssa and I left for Israel, and became deeply impressed by how much they had accomplished in their neighborhood in such a short period of time. If you're ever in the Kansas City area, I recommend looking them up and spending some time (maybe a board game or two!) with this wonderful little expression of the Kingdom of God in one of the toughest parts of town.

What did I find most meaningful from Chapter Two?
Chapter Two (written by Brandon Rhodes) is largely a critique of 21st century capitalist Western culture and the concept of Christendom (which Rhodes refers to as "Constantine's captivity of the church," and defines as "the historical monolith that assumes church/Christianity and Western culture are basically one entity, that church membership and [national] citizenship constitute the same circle" (p.34). Intentional Christian community, says Rhodes, offers an alternative lifestyle for those fed up with the images of Christ and Christians most recognizable in today's society. In a culture that worships individualism and consumerism as idols, values the Constitution more than the Sermon on the Plain, living in mutual submission is extremely countercultural. I also appreciate that Rhodes fully recognizes our current context as "post-Christian" (p.35)—while institutional churches struggle to boost membership and woo potential seekers with glitzy offers in hopes of maintaining cultural relevance, Rhodes says that we should instead embrace the fact that the Church no longer rules the social and political roost. Rather than mourn the fall of Christendom, we should happily embrace a truth known in the Anabaptist tradition for generations, "that, like the early church, [Christian communities] are to be pockets of an alternative politics, an alternative society within a crumbling empire" (p.36).

Included in Chapter Two is a nifty table featuring various categories of intentional Christian communities (see below—sorry about the spelling/grammar-check lines in the image). This helped me to visualize for the first time the incredible diversity among Christian community charisms and purposes. When Alyssa and I attempted to form Anavah House, I think one of the biggest problems we ran into was trying to cover too much ground—we wanted to be like the Simple Way, Rutba House, Reba Place, and Koinonia all rolled into one. But this neat chart shows the vast array of community types, and treats them all (for the most part) as playing an equally important role.

What did I find most meaningful from Chapter Three?
Part One of the book concludes with a chapter featuring common cultural pitfalls that lead to difficulties within communal settings. The author refers to these as cultural contours, and following each critique offers a consideration for how each contour might be overcome. My favorite contour Janzen mentions is the general suspicion of anything "structured," "traditional," or "organized," and the favoring of the "authentic," "genuine," and "organic." Janzen argues that this is both problematic and unnecessary:

"We’re sick of religion, man, and just want spirituality. We push the biblical vision of church as 'people, not programs,' and 'relationship, not religion' into a needless contention between schedule, faithfulness, and shared practices on the one hand and spontaneity, relationship, and freedom on the other" (pg. 49). 

Instead, we should recognize that both structure and spontaneity have their place in the common life. An organic garden can only be cultivated after years of careful preparation of the soil.

Additionally, I appreciated Janzen's experience with varying community commitment levels. For many years I wanted to be a part of a high-commitment community, and was frequently disappointed when others didn't appear to be as dedicated to the community as me. However, Janzen offers the opportunity to look at the problem differently. Rather than categorizing communities as high-commitment or low-commitment, perhaps we should allow people living in community to categorize themselves as high or low-commitment. To this end, Janzen offers three categories of commitment levels from his own experience: 1) Novice—exploratory, 2) Practicing—called here for now, and 3) Vowed—no longer actively looking elsewhere (p.52).

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Types of Communities chart from Chapter Two (pp.40-41)

The types of communities with which I most identify are New Monastic communities, New Radical churches, and farming communities, but I also have a special place in my heart for Catholic Workers.

Blogaloguing Janzen's Intentional Christian Community Handbook

My friend Jay Howard and I are participating in a blog dialogue—i.e. a "blogalogue"—discussing David Janzen's new book, The Christian Intentional Community Handbook. In the coming weeks, I'll be posting a few responses to Janzen and providing some general thoughts on community and sustainability. Jay's got a bit of a head start on me (see his previous posts here, here, here, and here), but I intend to engage his comments in turn along with Janzen. If you are interested in reading and blogging along with us, contact me, send me the links to your posts, and I'll try to assemble a list of everyone's responses.

Review of Chittister's Rule of Benedict

A couple weeks ago, I took a week-long intensive course on Benedictine spirituality at Conception Abbey, a Benedictine monastery near Maryville, MO. Below is a review of one of the books I read for the class.

Joshua Paul Smith. Review of Joan Chittister, The Rule of Benedict: A Spirituality for the 21^st Century (New York City: Crossroad Publishing, 2010).

“Spiritual, Not Religious”           

This week, National Public Radio aired a series of stories that shared a common theme: the disconcerting discovery that a growing number of American youth have ceased to identify with any particular organized religion. According to one recent study, as much as thirty percent of Americans under the age of thirty have severed ties with the religious traditions of their youth.[1] Meanwhile, on another—possibly not altogether unrelated—note, Drew Smith of EthicsDaily.com reported this week on the plummeting rate of “religious literacy” in the United States, lamenting the findings of a 2010 Pew Forum report that suggests a growing unfamiliarity with even the most basic tenets of Judaism, Islam, Christianity, and other world religions.[2] Though—as the adage goes—correlation does not necessarily prove causation, it appears that young people are leaving churches, synagogues, and mosques by the thousands, and yet are not altogether certain of exactly what they are fleeing. Fewer and fewer members of Generation Y are finding depth and meaning in the established religions of their childhood, opting instead for a vaguely self-centered amalgam of pious mysticism that touts “Spiritual, not religious,” as its motto. What could a fifteen-hundred-year-old document such as the Rule of Saint Benedict possibly have to offer a culture consumed with the task of “keeping up with the Joneses,” preparing for “planned obsolescence,” and steeped in the notion that “my faith,” if such a thing exists, is a deeply and uniquely personal perspective and is not to be shared? It is precisely this question that Joan Chittister is concerned with answering in her laudable book, The Rule of Benedict: A Spirituality for the 21^st Century.

Structure and Content           

This devotional-style examination of the early sixth century Rule of Saint Benedict is a chapter-by-chapter commentary on the ancient text, providing theological insights for a cynical generation that often appears to consider “theology” a four-letter word. Throughout the book, the author attempts to both introduce the reader to the Rule and to clarify for a postmodern audience those passages that our current cultural context might deem difficult, if not downright contemptible. The purpose of the book, therefore, is twofold: 1) Chittister seeks to revive popular interest in an ancient text within a culture that has “lost its religion”; and 2) the author serves as a postmodern apologist for Benedict’s grand vision, polishing the rough edges and constructing a theological and rhetorical bridge that spans the divide between the ascetic lifestyle of the sixth-century Benedictine monastic and our own 21^st-century individualistic and capitalistic milieu. Divided into short, 2-3 page segments, each chapter is easily digestible—the reader will not strain herself rummaging around through the annals of systematic theology here—and might possibly even be ideal for inclusion in one’s own spiritual discipline as a modified lectio divina. This makes the book exceptional for personal or, as I prefer, small group devotional use. The very organizational structure of the book is indicative of the Benedictine mindset: Take your time. There is no rush. Do not “bite off more than you can chew.” Do your work prayerfully, and do it well.

Critical Analysis

A Spirituality for the 21^st Century shares many traits in common with the Rule itself. Like Benedict’s insightful masterpiece, Chittister supplements her own theological meditations with the wisdom of the ages. However, in addition to citing Christian scripture (which remains absolutely central to the Rule), Chittister also draws inspiration from the vast and diverse array of other traditions, as well, including the Tao Te Ching, the targumim and midrashim, the apocryphal sayings of the early Christian desert monastic mothers and fathers (Apophthegmata), and others. The roots of religious monasticism run deep, with a long history outside the Christian Church. By employing these other ancient sources of wisdom, Chittister widens Benedict’s audience and draws distinct attention to the adaptability and universality of his rule. There is a little something of Benedict’s vision in every ancient culture—the striving toward personal and communal integrity, the recognition of practical insight in the mystical and the yearning for the divine. The Rule itself is, after all, not a piece of historical nonfiction nor an enlightened hagiography, but rather a fine example of wisdom literature and contextualized theology.

Chittister paints her commentary in broad theological and sociological strokes to make the most of the Rule’s practical application. This at times involves a bit of theological gymnastics, but the author repeatedly and assuredly sticks the landing. Difficult passages (such as Benedict’s ideas about physical discipline and excommunication), and what appear to be overly tedious passages, (like Benedict’s careful measuring of the hours with a rigid prayer schedule) are provided with enough spiritual grounding to make them not only understandable, but also relatable. In so doing, the author breaks down many assumptions brought to the table by a 21^st-century audience and leaves room for a considerate reading to be constructed in their place.

The spiritual life according to Benedict, Chittister insists, revolves around a distinct core of intentionality in all things. To a 21^st-century generation of superficial pop culture, this may seem surprising, if not downright counterintuitive. However, the great power of the book lies in its recognition that all people from all generations—monastic or otherwise—share in many of the same struggles that fundamentally define what it means to be human. Chittister’s assertion is that the Rule has a definite applicable message that transcends time and culture to speak to the yearnings of the heart itself. We have all experienced exasperation in a difficult job or frustration with fellow parishioners; we can all benefit from the self-disciplines of silence, humility, and continence. It is only by intentionally pursuing the virtues of the monastic life (whether inside or outside the cloister) that we begin to surrender to the will of God. The recognition of this essential commonality in the human experience reveals the genius of Chittister’s book.

In broadening the application of the rule to both accommodate a non-monastic, 21^st-century worldview, Chittister occasionally loses sight of Benedict’s primary catalyst for living the obedient Christian life: community. After all, it is the cenobites—the communal monastics—that Benedict (perhaps a bit biased) proclaims “the best kind,” reserving judgment for those who seek personal piety outside the confines of community. However, it must be acknowledged that cenobitic monasticism is no longer a cultural regularity, and in seeking to adapt the deeply universal message of Benedict’s Rule, this assumption must be sacrificed. Nevertheless, Chittister for the most part recognizes the vital role human interaction plays in the development of a Benedictine spirituality.

Additionally, not all will appreciate the author’s theological approach to the Rule for personal application. Indeed, some may find that Chittister intermittently overreaches in her contextualization and that some of her illuminations sporadically end up a bit too closely resembling the stratagems of Christian self-help gurus like Rick Warren, Joyce Meyer, and Joel Osteen. However, these faint whispers of twelve-step program theology are few and far between, and never so overpowering that the reader loses sight of the author’s primary message.

A Personal Appraisal

When I was very young, our small-town church hired a new pastor. This pastor was an extremely well-read seminary student, and inspired me to pursue theological studies throughout high school and college, eventually making my own way to seminary. Looking back on my path and recognizing my inherent curiosity of all things biblical and theological, I still often wonder why more people do not follow the call of God to seminary. My own journey was borne out of the sincere desire to follow God; much like the desire of the ancient monastics. Why then were there not millions of people making their way into higher Christian education instead of committing their lives to humdrum careers and normalcy? This assumption, I learned while reading Chittister’s commentary on the Rule, is an inherently arrogant one. In reality, Benedictine spirituality recognizes the vast number of divine callings each individual might experience. It is not the role of everyone to attend seminary and enter vocational ministry (wouldn’t the ministerial job market be terrible?). The role of each individual is simply to do what he or she is called to do. Whatever your vocation, Chittister suggests, perform your work wholeheartedly and with humble zeal. That is the Benedictine way. I am reminded of a speech that Dr. Martin Luther King gave to a group of junior high students shortly before his assassination in which he urged the children to perform their vocation with integrity: “If it falls your lot to be a street sweeper, sweep streets like Michelangelo painted pictures, sweep streets like Beethoven composed music…Sweep streets like Shakespeare wrote poetry. Sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will have to pause and say: Here lived a great street sweeper who swept his job well.”[3] In this strange concept of vocation, the Rule attempts to find the revolutionary in the everyday, the divine in the mundane.

I felt that the most powerful section of Chittister’s book was her explication of Benedict’s chapter on humility. Several years ago, my wife Alyssa and I were struck by the powerful resurgence of the intentional Christian community movement that accompanied the publication of such popular books as Shane Claiborne’s The Irresistible Revolution and Rutba House’s 12 Marks of a New Monasticism. The desperate need for a mending of broken relationships, both personal and ecumenical, and the desire to break the dominant cultural paradigm of individualistic consumerism inspired us to dream up an egalitarian intentional Christian community in which all would be welcome as both teachers and students. Our community would be based upon monastic principles of ora et labora, a rhythm of prayer and work, and a shared communal gift or trade (charism). We called our project Anavah House, from the Hebrew word for “humility.” Yet anavah is not simply meekness or modesty. Anavah is what makes Benedictine monastic spirituality function—it is the notion that everyone has something to teach, and everyone has something to learn from everyone else. It is the very foundation of mutual submission and humble obedience—in a word, anavah is the mark of a committed monastic vow of stability.

While our plans for this community never actualized, the premise of Anavah House remains a guiding influence on our interpersonal relationships and our connection with the established Church. It is to anavah that Chittister is referring when she explains, “When we know our place in the universe, we can afford to value the place of others. We need them, in fact, to make up what is wanting in us” (p.95). And yet the recognition of this virtue is scarce, both in the Church and in the secular Western world alike. Chittister is most certainly correct in referring to humility as “the lost virtue of our era” (p.99) that must be recaptured if we are to live out the Benedictine vision of the Reign of God.

Conclusion: Outside the Cloister

In a time when secular individualism is considered normative and the holy writings of our collective past are deemed crusty and outdated, Chittister offers a fresh commentary on an ancient monastic text, reminding us of the roles humility, compassion, and obedience play in nurturing a genuine spirituality. Furthermore, the Rule speaks to the absolutely essential role played by human community—which Chittister herself defines as “the universal obligation to live fully ourselves and to live well with others” (p.153)—in the ongoing conversion of the Christian life.  In A Spirituality for the 21^st Century we find a sincere attempt to meet a generation grown weary of organized religion, a generation of “spiritual, not religious” gyrovagues, and strike up a much-needed dialogue upon the common ground of stability, community, and compassion. The Rule is not just for monks. The Rule is for all who seek an ordered life, and a genuine relationship with the divine. A Benedictine spirituality, says Chittister, “is a way of life…that makes the humdrum holy and the daily the stuff of high happiness. It is a way of living that leads us to pursue life to its fullest” (p.302). The Rule of Benedict: A Spirituality for the 21^st Century is a fantastic study aid to help us along in that very pursuit.

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[1] More Young People Are Moving Away From Religion, But Why? NPR, January 15, 2013, “NPR Special Series,” http://www.npr.org/2013/01/15/169342349/more-young-people-are-moving-away-from-religion-but-why?utm_source=NPR&utm_medium=facebook&utm_campaign=20130115 (accessed January 16, 2013).

[2] Drew Smith, “3 Ways to Improve Your Religious Literacy,” EthicsDaily.com, January 17, 2013. http://ethicsdaily.com/3-ways-to-improve-your-religious-literacy-cms-20383 (accessed January 17, 2013).

[3] “What Is Your Life’s Blueprint?” TheSeattleTimes.com. Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Civil Rights Movement. http://seattletimes.com/special/mlk/king/words/blueprint.html (accessed January 18, 2013).

Review of Beth Felker Jones, Marks of His Wounds: Gender Politics and Bodily Resurrection

Joshua Paul Smith. Review of Beth Felker Jones, Marks of His Wounds: Gender Politics and Bodily Resurrection (New York City: Oxford University Press, 2007).

The problem of a normative dualism has for centuries—millennia, even—plagued not only the most brilliant theological minds of the Church, but has been a driving force behind popular culture, as well. A Neo-Gnostic separation of soul from body is alive and well in many churches today, and continues to inform popular conceptions of what constitutes a “normal” human body. The harm that this dualism visits upon the body—particularly female bodies—is ironically both physical and spiritual. Bodies are fashioned and broken by the 10-billion-dollar-a-year cosmetic surgery industry, by eating disorders, and by dangerous normative expectations glimpsed in tabloids and on swimsuit models. Few attempts have been made by theologians to reconcile a Christian understanding of a bodily resurrection with feminist conceptions of the body. Such is the basis for Beth Felker Jones’s Marks of His Wounds. In five short chapters, Jones attempts to argue that not only do gendered bodies matter in the future physical resurrection of the dead, they are indeed integral to understanding the grace of God’s redemptive plan for humanity.

Jones’s thesis is twofold: 1) A new, holistic feminist anthropology is needed to replace those feminist theories of the last several decades that have slipped into a body/soul dualism that considers only the female body or only the female essence, and 2) this holistic feminist theory of the body is reconcilable to the orthodox Christian tradition of the physical resurrection of the dead. This twofold thesis is punctuated by the necessity of bodily sanctification reaching from the eschaton into the present.

In the first chapter, entitled, “The Body Broken,” the author establishes the problem that she hopes to address—namely, that current feminist and theological anthropologies have proven insufficient for developing a theology of the body as a psychosomatic (body/soul) unity. To take on a feminist theology of bodily resurrection, it is first necessary to determine what constitutes embodiment, and furthermore, feminine embodiment. A difficulty with any such undertaking is that even feminists are predominantly dualistic when it comes to theories of the body: either a woman is a woman because of her physical composition (essentialism), or gender itself is transcendent and performative, based upon roles dictated by a one’s dominant culture (constructivism). Rejecting this dangerously dichotomous approach, Jones suggests that there is a third option which allows for both the respect of our physical forms as well as the recognition that humans are more than the sum of our parts: the body is good, says Jones, but the body is also broken.

The second and third chapters (“The Body Ordered” and “The Body Dying,” respectively) expand upon this idea with perspectives on the general resurrection of the dead from Augustine and Calvin. Utilizing Augustine’s theology of the body and his understanding of bodies that are “ordered toward God,” Jones argues that physical resurrection of the gendered body must occur if the redeeming work of the Creator is to be complete. The physical body is not inherently evil—quite the opposite, in fact. The physical body, as a creation of God, is good. Through sin, however, holistic body/soul unities become disordered in our love of “things of the flesh” over the “things of God.” Jones insists, along with Augustine, that the future resurrection of the dead necessarily rests on the re-ordering of psychosomatic entities toward the City of God through the transformation of psychikon bodies into pneumatikon bodies.

Jones’s treatment of John Calvin, however, is not as clear. Calvin’s theology of the body, she points out, differs significantly from that of Augustine. While Augustine understood the body to be inherently good yet disordered under sin, Calvin understands the body as that which prevents the soul from fully comprehending God. Where Augustine viewed the corruptibility of the flesh as the ultimate enemy of embodied creatures, Calvin reserves this claim for death itself. In fact, while the future bodily resurrection of the dead is a theological reality for Calvin, he nevertheless maintains an intrinsic dualism that distinguishes body from soul. However, Jones argues that for Calvin, the concept of the noetic—that is, the intellectual knowing of God—is ultimately inextricable from the optic, or the seeing of God at the eschaton, and that these are in turn connected to God’s sanctification of the physical individual. This implied physical act is vital to an embodied feminist theology that embraces the gendered physicality of the resurrection.

In the fourth chapter, “The Body Raised,” the author further argues the necessity to conceptualize human beings as psychosomatic wholes. Jones makes a case for the non-reductive physicalism of the body/soul unity. Regardless of what a soul is, is should be understood as completely inseparable from the physical body. In essence, one’s identity is bound by both body and soul. Perhaps nowhere is this more evident than in the hypostatic unity of Christ himself—though the analogy ultimately breaks down, the psychosomatic unity for which Jones argues is nevertheless very similar to the contention that the physical body of Jesus and the divine nature of Christ were one and the same.

The final chapter, “The Body Sanctified,” establishes an ethics of living the eschaton in the present as proleptic of the future resurrection of the dead. Jones here examines two traditions of resurrection embodiment: the eradication of gender in the resurrection according to Eastern tradition, and the retention of gendered resurrection bodies in the Augustinian tradition. For feminist theologies, the Eastern tradition is particularly problematic, since it rests on the presumption that gender will not be carried over into the resurrection due to the inclination of gendered physical bodies toward lust. This perspective, Jones maintains, is inherently gender-biased. One might here recall the promise of Jesus in The Gospel of Thomas to make Mary the Magdalene male in order that she might participate in the Reign of God. Instead, Jones maintains the full continuity of (albeit redeemed and transformed) gendered bodies in the resurrection. Augustine’s concept of bodies reordered at the eschaton toward the love of God eliminates any concern of lust from those who might claim gender retention unholy. Furthermore, Jones concludes that an embodied resurrection must have implications in the present—the Church much take its cue from Jesus, who remains for us the example of one truly ordered toward God, not in his maleness, but in his cruciformity. 
There are, of course, occasional shortcomings in Jones's argument. For instance, the concept of humans as psychosomatic wholes—the very premise upon which this study rests—leaves a few questions unanswered when explored more thoroughly. If, like Jones, we are to reject both essentialism, which claims that gender is determined by physical anatomy, and constructivism, which holds that gender is the sum of one's environment and social upbringing, then what of those who are subject to the very real dualism lived out every day in the transgender community? If one's gender is integral to his or her identity in the redeemed New Creation, how then are we to approach those for whom sexual identity is an unclear struggle, or otherwise completely dichotomous? If the physical, gendered body is important in the resurrection to mark someone as a fully integrated person, then what of those with androgynous or intersex bodies? Jones's claim has very serious implications for a great number of people whom she fails to acknowledge in her assessment. 

Despite all this, Marks of His Wounds remains a well-argued and thoughtful examination of both the dangers of Neo-Gnostic body/soul dualism and the necessity of an adequate theology of the body that respects what God created as good—human, gendered, psychosomatic wholes. Though at times Jones’s primary thesis may appear lost among dense language and layered thoughts, the book ultimately converges on the very heart of what it means to confess belief in resurrection of the dead: that God created human bodies as good, and God will restore them to that goodness once again in the New Creation.

Review of "Divine Rebels," by Deena Guzder

This is a review I wrote on "Divine Rebels," by Deena Guzder, for the Englewood Review of Books. You can read the original post here.

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There’s a famous scene in Jerome Lawrence and Robert Edwin Lee’s 1970 play,The Night Thoreau Spent In Jail, in which Henry David Thoreau—a noted author, environmentalist, transcendentalist, and anarchist—sits alone in a moonlit prison, listening to the cry of a loon outside his window. Thoreau, imprisoned for a night in Concord, Massachusetts, in July of 1846, refused to pay taxes for fear of the money being used to subsidize the Mexican-American War. In the play, upon hearing of Thoreau’s incarceration, his friend Ralph Waldo Emerson rushes to the prison in the night. Peering in through the bars from outside the jail, he asks, “Henry, what are you doing in there?” to which a composed Thoreau replies, “Waldo, what are you doing out there?”

Like Thoreau, the activists Deena Guzder describes in Divine Rebels have had enough of the established paradigm, opting instead to stand in the way of injustice, placing their reputations, financial well-being, and even their lives on the line for the sake of their Christian morals. Though Divine Rebels is nonfiction, it flows with an interwoven narrative, connecting the individual stories of “holy mischief-makers,” highlighting Guzder’s superior skills as both a journalist and a story-teller.

Though the book focuses primarily on Christian social activists of the last fifty years (and, regrettably, mostly male figures—what happened to Dorothy Day?), the subjects of Divine Rebels run the gamut of passionate causes—from proponents of racial equality and anti-nuclear-proliferation movements to war tax resisters and ecojustice advocates.

These peaceful revolutionaries are my heroes; As a child, I grew up idolizing folk heroes like Paul Bunyan and Joe Magarac—larger-than-life figures whose roots reach deep into the American psyche of rugged individualism and determination. Later I drew inspiration from historical figures of great power and influence—Harry Truman and J.F.K. Now, I find that the people I admire most are those committed to living lives committed to their strong Christian ethics of hospitality (such as Jim Corbett, the “accidental” advocate of illegal immigrants and the founder of the Sanctuary Movement), peacemaking (like Roy Bourgeois, a Maryknoll Roman Catholic priest and crusader for the closing of the School of the Americas at Fort Benning) and compassion for the poor (author, activist, and member of the new monastic movement, Shane Claiborne). These spiritual giants are living, breathing proof that Christians with social consciences still exist, and are courageous enough to stand up to the law—at times even willingly breaking it.

Guzder’s book reminds us that we—our churches, our culture—need people like Robin Harper, Daniel Berrigan, and Jim Zweig. It clears away some of the dust that has settled on our mild-mannered, middle-class American Christianity, and recalls the radical core of our faith—women and men who take Christ’s call to love and serve the world quite literally, and at great personal expense.

There are, however, occasional glaring holes in Guzder’s support of these activists. For instance, much is made of Quaker peacemaker Robin Harper’s transference of war tax dollars to nonprofit organizations that promote peacemaking programs, but a defense of his actions in light of Jesus’ teachings is conspicuously absent. What of his critics, who claim that Jesus specifically commanded his followers to “render to Caesar what is Caesar’s” (Matthew 22:21)? In fact, Guzder frequently avoids any discussion of scriptural reasoning for the actions of her subjects, which some may feel detracts from the validity of their cause. In addition, Divine Rebels sports a liberal bias that even the most free-thinking might find off-putting, often attributing the motives of her subjects to commitment to progressive values or leftist pride and politics.

Divine Rebels resounds loudly and pervasively with the activist’s maxim, If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention. Guzder’s essays describe women and men who radically napalmed draft records, snuck onto military bases to play Oscar Romero speeches over loudspeakers, camped out in redwood trees, and even smeared their own blood over weapons of mass destruction in a symbolic act of peaceful resistance. However, it might be beneficial to us to remember that Thoreau also once said, “A man can beat so loudly on the eardrums that nobody hears what he is trying to say.” Though we need radical saints and activists to remind us that we must press forward beyond injustice and oppression, there are times when the medium drowns the message. And while I wait expectantly for the day I have the opportunity to be arrested for my own convictions as a Christian, it is fairly safe to say that I will not be splashing my blood over fighter jets or hammering on nuclear warhead nosecones any time soon.