When I talk to people about Revelation, I usually get a negative reaction: It is hard to understand. It is frightening. It isn't like the rest of the New Testament.

A lot of people just avoid the book altogether.

I'm convinced that we struggle with Revelation because we read it from a position of privilege. We live in a powerful country that possesses unprecedented economic and military power, and we are afforded all of the rights of citizenship within that country. This is particularly true of those of us in the middle class. We have no idea what it is like to live with our necks under the boot of the great world empire of our day, helpless, exposed, and with no meaningful civil rights.

The people who wrote (and read) Revelation knew that feeling. They lived in the shadow of Caesar and his vast Empire, which could crush them quickly and unexpectedly at any time and for any reason. They had felt the unfairness of the Imperial tax, which – unlike our modern taxation systems – would not necessarily be used to benefit the local community and its needy. They felt the tension of living in a culture that treated Caesar like a god while proclaiming instead that Jesus, one of Caesar's victims, was the true God.

When Revelation is read from their perspective – from the vulnerable position of the powerless – the central theme can be seen as one of hope -  hope that the current regime will one day face judgment, and that a newer, more just world will emerge in its place.

But when Revelation is read by the privileged, it looks completely different. God, it sounds like, is pronouncing judgment on us - calling those in power to accountability for the way they treat their lesser brothers and sisters in the global community.

It shouldn't be surprising that we find Revelation to be a little unsettling. It isn't written to us as much as it is about us.

We don't like that. We shouldn't. We aren't supposed to like it.

But maybe, just maybe, if we are willing to hear the book for what is is actually saying, it can teach us – as individuals and as a nation – to live more responsibly among those who do not share our place of privilege.

So…I thought it would be interesting to talk about the authors' proposal for a new "logic" and the way it would interact with the judicial system, which is so heavily dependent on classical systems of reasoning and rhetoric.

First, the "logic" of new materialism.

The philosophical waters here are a little deeper than what I am used to, but I think I've got the gist of it.

The first world is dominated by two important assumptions about human thought. The first of those is that the "rules" behind human reasoning are based on some sort of objective reality that is outside of humanity. That is, we assume that our systems of reasoning, inquiry, and logic (handed down to us from the Greeks) exist outside of our own language and experience. The second is that our brains are essentially machines which process the world based on those "rules." These systems of rationality are not themselves good or evil, but neither are they "real" in the sense that most of us believe.

Crockett and Robbins point out that human thought is "emergent." We possess brains, which are unimaginably complex and flexible (i.e, they possess plasticity). And, by adapting to our experiences with the world (and other humans that are in the world) – we slowly grow to develop ways of thinking. Those ways of thought, however, are ultimately grounded in a physical universe to which we are connected. Or, as Crockett and Robbins put it, our thinking must ultimately "flow back" into the Earth out of which it came.

Much of what the authors have to say here reminds me of Fritjoff Capra's work on physics and mysticism. However, as death of God theologians, they want to avoid the "new-agey" language of interconnectedness, lest it suggest a "spiritual" dimension to our world that is distinct from their own concept of the spiritual. It seems to me that they do a few more gymnastics than are necessary, but that they eventually end up in a good place: the concept that human thought itself is integrated with, and dependent on, the well-being of our world.

Which brings us to a sort-of "crisis" of human thought. During the last century or so, we have developed two very distinctive ways of thinking. One of them, grounded in mathematics, has given birth to half of the academic disciplines: the physical sciences, economics, psychology, etc. The other has given birth to the so-called "humanities": art, literature, etc. Thus, we have come to think it two distinct and largely disconnected ways. (I am tempted to call this "quantitative" versus "qualitative" reasoning, but I don't do that because I'm not sure I follow all the nuances here, and the authors don't put it that way).

Crockett and Robbins propose a solution – a sort-of "new logic" – as a means of rediscovering our interconnectedness to the world and harmonizing the two forms of analysis I described above. It involves reconnecting our way of thinking to our being itself. We should look, they say, to a "logos" – or an ultimate nature of the universe. Or, to use an Eastern term, we are seeking a "dao," or a rhythm between and among opposites. This way of "thinking" is less rigid, more poetic, and more self-aware than the classical models of rationality that dominate our world.

This way of "thinking" would pose several problems when it comes to judicial processes, but two of them stand out more than the others in my mind. The first one is that a poetic, "dancing" logic would create unpredictable outcomes.

Although those in the legal academy differ on the purpose of law, most agree that one of its chief functions is to provide citizens with a means of understanding the limits of acceptable behavior. In order to do this, it must be possible for people to predict how the state will react to its behavior. If I run this stop sign, what will the state do to me? How would I be punished? What if I run the stop sign because of a medical emergency? Does that change anything? If I make a contract with Susan in which she is obligated to provide me with five crates of apples, will I have a recourse if she does not deliver them? What will happen to me if I don't follow through with my agreement with Joe? Can I get away with giving him less than he paid for?

The courts rely on, and are supposed to implement, a system of rigid, analytical logic, so that people can rely on the courts to act (or not act) given a particular set of behavior. And, to borrow a phrase from Pirates of the Caribbean, society is going to change if the law suddenly stops becoming a rule and "more of what you'd call a guideline."

Yet it seems to me that a shift to legal analysis with more plasticity could also have some positive benefits. People are less likely to get trapped in technically illegal positions that are relatively innocuous, and – by the same token – more serious consequences can be visited on those who are guilty of particularly egregious conduct.

I also think that the journey to "new logic" is already underway on some levels. Several important Federal doctrines are already implemented under broad lists of "considerations" that must ultimately be addressed by the court on a case-by-case, and fact-by-fact basis. These "consideration" based doctrines reflect something of the interconnected, wholistic approach that the new logic would suggest. It is not difficult to conceive of economic, or even environmental doctrines based on the "broad consideration" model.

The second major problem posed by the "new logic" in a judicial context relates to the implementation of nonlocal, nonindividualistic remedies for wrongful behavior.

A form of analysis that takes into account a connectedness to our world is ultimately going to lead to the need for remedies that involve effects that cannot be felt in any one place or by any one person. Judicial systems are not very good at dealing with these sorts-of things.

To illustrate: many forms of corporate behavior, while not creating any immediate, apparent problems, can lead to all kinds of long-term consequences for the environment, as well as for other people in other times. Polluting the ground today may cause groundwater issues for another generation. Making a contract for delivery of goods with a third world producer may lead to inhumane treatment of people in another society.

Courts struggle to deal with these things because they are used to enforcing rights for individuals in the society in which they exist. Courts are good at making sure a person who is injured in a car accident is compensated. They are not so good at making sure that the economy of a foreign country, 100 years from now, is not decimated as a result of ongoing deforestation.

Developing systems for dealing with these issues is going to be tricky and will probably require a lot of trial-and-error. But it can be done. It will involve re-thinking how constitutional protections are extended, particularly to noncitizens, as well as numerous changes to international law (an area in which I am not qualified to speak). The political processes to get these ideas in place will be difficult.

However, I think they can be done. Already, the courts are comfortable with the idea of "next friends," who can bring claims on behalf of those who are legally incompetent to do so. The idea of the "next friend" may be one good place to begin in conceptualizing these changes.

And the bottom line is this: these changes have to be made. Already, the clock is ticking. We are running out of time. And if our best lawyers…and theologians, and poets, and politicians, and scientists, and filmmakers don't begin to focus on the problem, future generations may inherit a planet that is almost unrecognizable.

***

Other posts on the blog tour:

Bo Eberle: 1 & 2 posts on the energy proposal & a review of the book.

Joel Harrison & Matt Bernico:  digital culture & religion.

Tad DeLay: the politics of energy this thursday!

Joe Carson: questions for the assumptions of radical theology.

Jonathon Snyder: digital culture.

Maria Drews

Rick Quinn 

Scott Cowan 

Adam Moore 

So, first, a quick sketch of what the authors mean by "new materialism."

And the best starting place for that is to have a look at what the "old materilaism" is about. The "old materialism" can be thought of on two levels. One of them is a description of moral failure. The other is a philosophical concept.

"Materialism" is a term that got thrown around a lot during my youth in the 70s and 80s. When "church" people talked about materialism, they were primarily concerned with a personal sin that involved a desire for riches and possessions. If you spent too much time desiring and chasing after "stuff," you were considered to be too "materialistic." Attachment to the physical was not considered to be pious, since our minds and hearts ought to be focused on the "spiritual" (meaning, to most people at that time, "non-physical"). Thus, my first encounter with this concept had more to do with personal piety than with a way of describing the universe.

As a philosophical concept, however, "materialism" is a belief that the physical universe is all there is. There is no separate spiritual realm ("dualism"), nor is there a hidden aspect of the physical universe that cannot be explained by the laws of physics (let's call it "wholism"). Materialism arguably gave us a lot of good things and a lot of bad things (some of which bear a striking relationship to the church-y kind of materialsm that involves moral failure).

Two of the most notable influences on "old" materialists are Marx and Freud. Both critiqued religion for providing a sort-of "substituted sense of satisfaction" within modern society. That is, because people became unfulfilled in a world that was increasingly dominated by capitalists and dismal urban existences, religion jumped in to tell people that they could possess (or defer, and then later possess) a good life through their faith in God. Science and economics were viewed as the things that were "real" and God, theology, religion, etc. were viewed as harmful to the development of humanity.

The materialist ship, however, has been sinking for some time. Developments in various fields of science, not least of which involve cosmology and quantum physics, have turned classical science on its head. And shades of materialism have been found lurking behind some of the most dismal events in that last century of human history.

Crockett and Robbins accept some of the materialist criticism as legitimate. However, they believe that Marx, Freud, and their followers, have made an improper assumption – that all religion is uniform. They believe that, in the place of classic theological models, a new model can be developed which takes seriously the present, physical universe. This way of thinking – this "new materialism" – has broad concerns like other theologies, but ultimately "genuinely takes account of the earth without lapsing into wishful thinking…"

Again, as I said in the last post, I don't think you have to stretch Christian theology to such radical extremes to get into a model similar to new materialism. I think it can be done just as easily by getting rid of some assumptions that have filtered their way into Christian thought during the modern era. However, my purpose here is not to quibble on that issue.

Rather, I want to get to the reason that Crockett, Robbins, and I all agree that it is important for theology to take the "real world" very seriously. And that reason is this:

We are rapidly approaching a point in history where we will almost certainly face a dramatic, global crisis. As Crockett and Robbins put it, Western capitalism, which dominates the landscape of the first world, is based on the philosophy that indefinite economic growth is possible. However, the resources of our planet are finite, and, eventually, growth is going to slow, or even reverse. If we get to that point, the global economy is going to descend into chaos. Furthermore, as we get closer and closer to those limits, we are experiencing economic and ecological instability, and the systems of constitutional republics, which also dominate the first world, are incapable of dealing with the problem, because they are functionally controlled by corporate interests.

There is a time where these sorts-of claims were only held by the "lunatic fringe." But no more. In many academic circles, and among certain economists, it is now more of an assumption than one of several possibilities.

We either begin to deal with the problem now on every level (political, religious, philosophical, etc.), or we hand over an unimaginable mess to our children. The choice is that simple.

Where the authors of the book and I agree is this: theologians generally, and Christianity more specifically, must come to grips with this reality, and begin to speak to it.

When I get to the engagement post, I don't want to be laying a lot of groundwork, so I thought I'd do a little here, as well as in another post between now and my "official" blog tour post.

So, today, a little about Crockett and Robbins' theological perspective.

Crockett and Robbins are "death of God" theologians. "Death of God" is a form of radical theology that is unfamiliar to most Christians. In short, this form of theological reflections takes seriously Nietzsche's claim that "God is dead." However, for the most part, believers in this approach do not merely take it that the increasing secularization of culture has progressively pressed the notion of God into the margins, and then, eventually, completely from our consciousness. Rather, adherents to death of God contend that, in the death of Jesus, God also vanished from our world. In the place of God's presence, we are left with the spirit of God, which continues to live within humanity.

Death of God theologians argue that we are "on our own." There is no point, they say, in waiting on God to come charging over the hill to rescue us from our predicaments. God has left a part of  the divine behind with us to live in us, and we must now find our own way and take responsibility for our own future.

As an adherent of "new creation" theology, I find this approach to be problematic. The idea that God no longer exists (at least, in the form in which God was known in the ancient world) is not only seriously depressing to me. It is also inconsistent with the way I read the New Testament, and it strips orthodox eschatology (the notion of what will happen at "the end" of the present world) of any significant meaning. (No surprise there, I suppose. Its called "radical" theology, after all!)

However, I admire the ethic that follows from this approach. The idea that humanity needs to learn to live together, on this planet, in a responsible manner, is quite sensible to me. In fact, I think it can easily be argued that a healthy, orthodox perspective ought to lead us to a similar ethic.

So…while I have a lot of reservations about the foundational assumptions that are made by Crockett and Robbins, I am equally enthusiastic about the ethical direction to which they point.

I'll explore the perspective that gives birth to their ethic ("the new materialism") in the next post.

Yes, I knew that Borg and Crossan were skeptical about miracles, even about the resurrection – you can read about their skepticism for yourself in the last chapter. Yet within their account of these last 8 days, I began to see something I hadn’t before – something that was there all along, but that I, and those who had told the story to me all of those years, had missed.

When he came into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, and throughout the rest of the week, Jesus was making a decidedly political statement.

That word: “political.” It is unnerving for most of us. Politics and religion – they are supposed to be separate, aren’t they? And look at what has happened, especially recently, when the two have gotten mixed up: we’ve ended up with a lot of partisan arguing over abortion, and sexuality, and “taking God out of the schools” and such. When “God” and “politics” come up in the same sentence, we get restless.

But there is no question about it. Jesus, who had spent most of his time ministering to poor people in the back-woods of his nation, the small towns with people who just barely get by, and who spent the majority of their lives under the boots of the people who were under the boots of Rome. That Jesus is now marching into Jerusalem in exactly the same way a ruling King would, to the applause of all of those back-woods folks and moving straight toward the temple where, on the next day, he is going to openly defy the authority of those who are in charge of the temple. He is going to call them robbers and thieves, because that is exactly what they were. He is going to teach against them. He is going to predict their demise.

Then, they are going to kill him.

This is no accident. Its not Jesus simply being Jesus and inadvertently stumbling into a hornet’s nest. Nope. As Jesus has long been telling his followers, his plan was to go into Jerusalem, to provoke, to step right over the line, and to submit to his trial and execution.

I had heard this story all my life, yet it was as if I was hearing it for the first time. Why hadn’t it been told this way before?

The story I had always heard went something like this: God, knowing that humanity was sinful and unable to help itself, decided to allow his only son, Jesus to be killed in Jerusalem. So he told Jesus to go to Jerusalem to his death. Jesus obeyed. Then, a lot of things that were just Supposed to Happen took place. They arrested Jesus, they flogged him, and they crucified him. All of this was just the way God willed it. Not much talk about why people were angry with him, or why they would kill him. It just happened because it had to happen that way for God’s sacrifice to be made.

This way of telling the story, the one that had always been told to me, is one that focuses on atonement. It is a story about how a righteous God comes to Earth and saves a sinful people. It is a theological story, rather than a political one.

I later learned that these two stories tend to get pitted against each other. Those who tell the theological story like to dismiss the political story as ultimately impotent and meaningless – “Jesus didn’t just die to make a point about oppression!” they complain. Those who tell the political story mock the tendency of the theological storytellers to slip into “fairy tales” that have nothing to do with the history of the day or the actual accounts of these events that are told in scripture.

Arguing about which story is best seems to me to be the wrong approach. Rather, I believe that these are two stories that desperately need each other.
A purely theological story may be intellectually satisfying to people who wrestle with concepts about God’s holiness and the human need for reconciliation, but it ultimately has no grounding in reality. A purely political story may ring very true and authentic, but in the end it will never be capable of answering the big questions about the purpose of Jesus (or our own purposes) on this planet.

I am convinced that these are not two stories, but one. I don’t know all of the reasons why. I can’t give you a precise explanation that perfectly reconciles everything that is told in one of those stories with everything that is told in the other.

The story of Jesus’ last week, the story of his challenge to the temple authorities and his teachings against them, the story of the Passover meal, the Passion, his death… it is all a great mystery. There is no question in my mind that it is a story of open, political defiance against injustice and domination. Yet, something else –something more – is going on as well. Along with millions of Christians before me, I believe that it is transcendental in nature. It was what it was, but it also has something to do with where the world came from, where it is going, and even what is happening here and now, in our time and place.

The death of Christ did something that goes beyond words, atonement theologies, and simple answers.

And now, again, the time has come to enter into the mystery of that story.

I attempt to score myself on the "Olson Scale of Theological Liberalism" below. :

Question 1: Do I think the universe is open to God's "special activity" (i.e., "miracles")?

Answer: Yes. No qualifiers on this one.

Verdict: Not liberal.

Running Score: 0 out of 1

Question 2: Do I begin theologically with the notion of "special revelation"? (By this, I think he means do I think there is some sense of a theological norm that has a divine origin, rather than one in human experience and culture)

Answer: Yes. However, this one is a little more complicated. I believe in divine revelation, but think it occurs within human experiences and communities. Always has, always will. See one John Wesley and his quadrilateral.

Verdict: My guess is that the notion of divine revelation being all mixed up with human experience is what makes Olson squirm on this point, so I'll take a "liberal" mark on this one. (Does this make all non-evangelicals "liberals"?)

Running Score: 1 out of 2

Question 3: Is my Christology truly incarnational? (In other words, do I think Jesus existed as "the Word" prior to being on earth? That he is categorically different from other "great souls"?)

Answer: Yes.

Verdict: Not Liberal

Score: Liberal 1 out of 3

Question 4: Do I think God is the "author" of scripture? (Olson rejects the notion that scripture is merely a "wisdom-filled source of religious illumination" but does not require a belief in "divine dictation." He says this issue largely comes down to whether one believes that the Bible is unique when compared to other writings, etc.)

Answer: I do think the Bible is a source of illumination that reflects our "ancestors' experiences of God" (who doesn't?). I also reject the notion of divine dictation. I also think the Bible is unique compared, say, to the collected teachings of the Buddha – though, again, I believe it is a product of the divine working within human experience and human community.

Verdict: I honestly don't know how Olson would react to this. I think he would find that I lean toward the "liberal" approach, but not whole-heartedly. Score a very wishy-washy half point.

Score: 1.5 out of 4

Question 5: Do I think "salvation" is forgiveness, reconciliation, and sanctification or is it only the realization of human potential?

Answer: I don't think "salvation" is only the realization of human potential. I think it is a lot of things, many of which have to do with the social, environmental, and political situation in our world. I also think, in part, it is forgiveness, reconciliation, and sanctification.

Verdict: Again, I don't quite know how Olson would look at this. I'm going to go with a half point again. I think he would prefer that I have a stronger emphasis on atonement for personal sin, though my perspective isn't too far askew.

Score: 2 out of 5

Question 6: Do I believe in a "real" return of Jesus Christ to bring about a new world of righteousness?

[Interesting note: In Olson's world, inclusivists and universalists are presumably not theologically liberal because they believe in a "real" new world of righteousness - he requires a sense of Jesus' return, but his test doesn't require agreement with the traditional notions of hell/judgment]

Answer: Yep. I can't say that all of the stories and parables about the "day of Christ" are 100% "literal," but I do think my eschatology is strong enough to pass muster with Olson. I line up with Wright, and I think he is probably comfortable with that.

Verdict: Not liberal.

Final Score: 2 out of 6

Under Olson's six-point test, it can be said that I have been influenced by theological liberalism, but that I haven't drunk the Kool-Aid. Its probably a fair assessment.

How do you think you would score?

Four possibilities are apparently suggested by Justin, none of which are entirely satisfying to him (or to Rachel, or to me).

The first possibility listed is the one that I have always found to be really bizarre. It is the suggestion that people "choose" to be gay.

I don't really have a reference point to reflect on some of the other causes. I didn't grow up in a particularly dysfunctional home. I never had the experience of being "tricked" into being gay. And if there is a "gay" biology, I don't have it. However, even as a heterosexual, I can speak to the issue of whether sexuality is "chosen."

The short answer is: no, I never chose to be heterosexual. Or, to put it the other way, I never felt like I could have -  but did not – exercise an option be be "gay" at some critical juncture in my life.

If we all have to make a choice to be gay (or straight, or bi-sexual), and if gay people are simply the ones who made the "bad" choice, I never experienced it.

As I became an adolescent, I found that I liked girls. I didn't choose to like girls. I just found that I became a stammering, awkward, hormone-producing machine every time I was around girls that I thought were attractive.

I didn't make the choice to be heterosexual. I simply was heterosexual. And throughout my life I've never reached a point where I thought I could choose to be different. "Straight" is what I am, not what I chose.

Why would I think the experience would be any different for those who have same-sex attractions?

I also think that, in reality, sexuality is much more complex than the gay/straight binary suggests. Even among those who are straight, the notions of what is attractive can vary wildly. I am no psychologist, but those experts whom I respect say that sex-attraction is a product many things – genetics, culture, environment, experiences. All of those factors, and others, can lead to vastly different types/"shades" of sexuality.

Not only do we need to get away from the notion that people "choose" sexuality. We also need to get away from the notion that it is some binary either/or proposition.

None of this is intended, by the way, to be a comment on the morality of sex-attraction. I am only suggesting that we need to have a more nuanced appreciation for the whole concept of sexuality when we have these discussions.

How did a marksmanship club become the most powerful lobby in Washington?

"Little did Madison realize that one day in the future weapons-manufacturing corporations…would use his slave patrol militia amendment to protect their 'right' to manufacture and sell assault weapons used to murder schoolchildren."

Supermodel Cameron Russell talks about the modeling industry in a straightforward, honest way: "Images are powerful but superficial." She finds a way to describe the problems in the industry without being judgmental and dismissive.

Time to change the scoring system for Scrabble?

"Outlawing guns won't curb crime! If you outlaw guns then only outlaws will…wait. What?"

This infographic on student debt is astounding to me. How/why did college get so expensive, and why are kids being asked to mortgage their future to get a four-year degree?

What is going on here? The article suggests that women just need to be better at being mavericks (my term, not the authors'). The suggestions are to challenge authority, color outside the lines, promote yourself (and your agendas) aggressively, and stop trying to be liked by everyone – go for respect, not popularity!

Its probably reasoanble advice, and there is nothing more I'd like to see than the 4.2% number rise dramatically in the coming years. However, I also think its important not to ignore a more fundamental problem that won't be resolved by a simple shift in womens' approach to their careers.

The problem may well be that women don't make "good" psychopaths. Here is what I mean: there is evidence that the same traits that make-up the cocktail that is psychopathy also make for great CEOs: lack of empathy, lack of remorse, lack of a sense of loving kindness, etc. In short, the ideal 21st-Century CEO is someone who is willing to coldly, ruthlessly even, serve the bottom line of the corporation, without giving a second thought to the human costs that are involved. Even if someone isn't, clinically speaking, a psychopath, the system is still going to reward someone who leans in that direction.

Women can be psychopaths, too, but there are less of them and – if I understand the academic research correctly – they aren't generally quite as effective at externalizing the effects of the disorder the way male psychopaths do. So they can be unstable, but not (usually) in a way that feeds the corporate beast as effectively.

I hope that the HBR article proves helpful to women who are trying to break the glass ceiling, but moreso hope for changes in corporate culture that value some of the things that mentally stable people – both men and women – can bring to the table: compassion, a desire for justice, and a creative mind that serves the human condition as well as the quest or profit.

Sorry, folks, but the US Government will NOT be building a Death Star.

I watch the BCS, and I agree: all those comments about Katherine Webb were a little ridiculous.

Check out Richard Beck's hot new atonement metaphor based on the trillion dollar platinum coin.

Shane Claiborne asks: what would Jesus have to say about our culture of gun violence?

From Rachel Held Evans: "We dishonor the memory of the millions of Christians who have suffered very real persecution through the centuries when we confuse a lack of privileged status with persecution.  As Robert Cargill has noted: 'There is a difference between persecution and the loss of privileged status. Just because you didn’t get what you want doesn’t mean that you are persecuted. It means you can’t have everything.'"