One Quote Review: Redployment by Phil Klay

Phil Klay’s Redeployment was recommended to me by my aunt, who told me that after hearing him talk about war, she was struck by how similar he was to me. I will take that as an immense and somewhat inappropriate compliment, because Klay is a veteran and a tremendous writer. But I take from my aunt’s reflection that there is something of a resonance between my Christian pacifism, which never imagines that war is unnecessary and Klay’s refusal to allow his collection of portraits to collapse into a moralistic tome that declares simplistically that war-is-bad-ok.

My favourite story is called “Prayer in the Furnace”, charting the difficulties of a chaplain in Iraq. Caught between confessions that allude to war crimes and a hierarchy intent on denying any such possibility, he finds himself preaching one Sunday – after receiving advice from his mentor, a Jesuit priest – this glorious homily:

“Who here thinks.” I asked the small group of Marines who’d gathered for Sunday mass, “that when you get back to the States no civilians will be able to understand what you’ve gone through?”
A few hands went up.
“I had a parishioner whose six-month-old son developed a brain tumor. He watched his child go through intense suffering, chemotherapy, and finally a brutal, ungraceful death. Who would rather go through that than be in Ramadi?”
I could see confusion on the faces of the Marines in the audience. That was good. I didn’t intend this to be a normal homily.
“I spoke to an Iraqi man the other day,” I said. ”A civilian, who lives out there in that city I’ve heard Marines say should be razed. Should be burned, with everyone in it perishing in the flames.”
I had their attention.
“This Iraqi man’s little daughter had been injured. A cooking accident. Hot oil spilled off the stove, all over the girl. And what did this man do? He ran, with her in his arms, to find help. And he found a Marine squad. At first, they thought he was carrying a bomb. He faced down the rifles aimed at his head, and he gave his desperately injured daughter, this tiny, tiny girl, to a very surprised, very burly corporal. And that corporal
brought him to Charlie Medical, where the doctors saved his daughter’s life.
“That’s where I met this Iraqi man. This man of Ramadi. This father. I spoke to him there, and I asked him if he felt grateful to the Americans for what we’d done. Do you know what he told me?”
I held the question in the air for a moment.
“‘No.’ That’s what he said. ‘No.’ He had come to the Americans because they had the best doctors, the only safe doctors, not because he liked us. He’d already lost a son, he told me, to the violence that came after the invasion. He blamed us for that. He blames us for the fact that he can’t walk down the street without fear of being killed for no reason. He blames us for his relatives in Baghdad who were tortured to death. And he particularly blames us for the time he was watching TV with his wife and a group of Americans kicked down his door, dragged his wife out by the hair, beat him in his own living room. They stuck rifles in his face. They kicked him in the side. They screamed at him in a language he did not understand. And they beat him when he could not answer their questions. Now, here’s the question I have for you, Marines: Who would trade their seven-month deployment to Ramadi for that man’s life, living here?”
No one raised a hand. Some Marines looked uncomfortable. Some looked angry. Some looked furious.
“Now, I wouldn’t be surprised if this man supported the insurgency. The translator said the man was a bad guy. An ‘ali baba.’ But clearly, this man has suffered. And if this man, this father, does support the insurgency, it’s because he thinks his suffering justifies making you suffer. If his story about his beating is true, it means the Marines who beat him think their suffering justifies making him suffer. But as Paul reminds us, ‘There is none righteous, no, not one.’ All of us suffer. We can either feel isolated, and alone, and lash out at others, or we can realize we’re part of a community. A church. That father in my parish felt as if no one could understand him and it wasn’t worth the effort to make them try. Maybe you don’t think it’s worth trying to understand the suffering of that Iraqi father. But being Christian means we can never look at another human being and say, ‘He is not my brother.’
“I don’t know if any of you know Wilfred Owen. He was a soldier who died in the First World War, a war that killed soldiers by the hundreds of thousands. Owen was a strange sort. A poet. A warrior. A homosexual. And as tough a man as any Marine
I’ve ever met. In World War One, Owen was gassed. He was blown in the air by a mortar and lived. He spent days in one position, under fire, next to the scattered remains of a fellow officer. He received the Military Cross for killing enemy soldiers with a captured enemy machine gun and rallying his company after the death of his commander. And this is what he wrote about training soldiers for the trenches. These are, by the
way, new soldiers. They hadn’t seen combat yet. Not like he had.
“Owen writes: ‘For 14 hours yesterday I was at work teaching Christ to lift his cross by numbers, and how to adjust his crown; and not to imagine he thirsts until after the last halt. I attended his Supper to see that there were no complaints; and inspected his feet that they should be worthy of the nails. I see to it that he is dumb, and stands at attention before his accusers. With a piece of silver I buy him every day, and with maps I make him familiar with the topography of Golgotha.”‘
I looked up from my sermon and looked hard at the audience, which was looking hard back at me.
“We are part of a long tradition of suffering. We can let it isolate us if we want, but we must realize that isolation is a lie. Consider Owen. Consider that Iraqi father and that American father. Consider their children. Do not suffer alone. Offer suffering up to God, respect your fellow man, and perhaps the sheer awfulness of this place will become a little more tolerable.”
I felt flushed, triumphant, but my sermon hadn’t gone over well. A number of Marines didn’t come up for Communion. Afterward, as I was gathering the leftover Eucharist, my RP turned to me and said, “Whoa, Chaps. That got a bit real.”

Your Correspondent, His hands aren’t sweaty, he was just holding a fish

We Were Just Sitting There Talking When…

When Wife-unit and I got married, someone made a speech about how they were convinced we were going to change the world. We struggled to change a tire on a Fiat 500 earlier this week, so I suspect that that claim has only grown more embarrassing with every passing year.

In our defence, we lived fairly intensely back then and people were often gripped by the sheer importance of the work that we all together were doing. We were making history, as young leaders in the first Presbyterian church plant in Ireland in a century. We were on the sharp edge of a movement that was sweeping the western world, establishing new and vibrant church communities that would rejuvenate Christianity and, to use the deeply arrogant language that was prevalent at the time, “incarnate” the Kingdom of God.

I don’t know what we were doing.

I share this bafflement with my friend, D.L. Mayfield. In her new book Assimilate or Go Home: Notes from a failed missionary on rediscovering faith, we get to follow along the journey as she discovers a vocation for ministry among refugees and then in the course of doing that ministry, learning that much of what she thought was ministry was wrong. Reflecting on my own experience in the light of this beautifully written book, I am prompted to suggest the following koan: True vocations start from mis-hearings.

The book is structured around four movements: Anticipation and Excitement, Reality Sets In, Depression and Culture Shock, Stabilization. These are the four stages traveled by the typical refugee as they settle into their sanctuary society. It is a revealing insight to the subtle theological weight of this work that Mayfield present ministry in terms of distressing displacement.

Mayfield tells how she hurled herself into ministry with refugees in her hometown. Fueled by the hagiographies of missionaries and evangelists that she read as a girl, her anticipation was that she would change the world, or at least change their world, those lucky few who would be subject of her attention. I don’t know how good she is at changing tires, but she has likewise failed to change the world.

Critically, the disillusionment and discouragement that she endures in these years of unspectacular ministry consisting of car rides and babysitting, failed English lessons and floundering food exchanges, is a loss of confidence in the traditions and assumptions she had inherited from the evangelical Christianity of her youth and her culture.

In Bible college, I was learning how to evangelize, how to convert those who believed differently than I did. Meeting the refugees was like enrolling in a practicum course: I could use all the tips and tricks I was learning in the classroom and implement them in the real world. Except, of course, nothing ever happened like it did in the textbooks.

The trauma inflicted on a refugee affects their ability to learn and remember. In the torrid tumult of being chased from your homeland, apologetic arguments about the divinity of Christ turn out to not be top of your agenda. Mayfield deftly explores the complex self-motivations that are at work in our outreach, the deep soul-reasoning that makes us hungry to be of use, any old kind of use at all. To say we are justified by faith, by grace, is to say that we cannot vouch for any merit of our own. The long struggle that Mayfield experiences is truly an account of conversion because she painfully comes to the end of her tradition and finds that it cannot convert her friends and it cannot sanctify herself. Our goal in the Christian life is not to make people more like us. To the extent that we seek safety in theological accuracy or in ministry competence (I winced in reminiscence at the evangelical leadership conferences as I read the “Life List” chapter) or in any other avenue that justifies us and our apparently insane insistence that we have the truth of the universe at our disposal, we evade the living God and miss out on the call he actually makes. Or as Mayfield puts it:

“All I over wanted to do was oppress people, in the kindest way possible”

This book is about American Christian experience engaging with American refugees. But it is deeply relevant outside that context because of how it presents an account of ministry as presence. Again and again we find that what matters is being with people. Patient attention to the ways of others is a much more significant aspect of being involved in Christian work than being able to say all the right things or co-ordinate strategy in all the right way.

Throughout the book I couldn’t help thinking of how it resonated with Dorothy Day’s The Long Loneliness. Day was the founder of the Catholic worker movement and she spent her life agitating for the rights of the poor and serving them food from her kitchen. She and her companions lived in community and offered hospitality to everyone who needed it. She did not change the world. Arguably, the plight of the worker is more precarious today than it was fifty years ago. The neighbourhood in which she primarily lived and worked, the Bowery, has now been gentrified beyond all recognition. Her homeland is no closer to pacifism than it was when it was dropping nukes on Japanese kids.

Dorothy Day

She was, in many ways, a failed missionary. She was keenly attentive to the self-deception entailed in do-goodery. She knew that the only antidote to the long loneliness of waiting for the Kingdom was community. She had to be converted out of the conviction of her youth to actually pursue the thing that convinced her.

Day summed up the work of her movement in the following way:

All of them understood the works of mercy – old-fashioned prayer books list them. The corporal ones are to feed the hungry; to give drink to the thirsty; to clothe the naked; to harbor the harborless; to ransom the captive; to visit the sick; to bury the dead. The spiritual works are to instruct the ignorant; to counsel the doubtful; to admonish sinners; to bear wrongs patiently; to forgive offenses willingly; to comfort the afflicted; to pray for the living and the dead.

And Mayfield closes her work in the following way:

We aren’t being asked to assimilate, but we are called to make our home here more like the kingdom we have always dreamed about but were too scared to believe was possible. Because God’s dream for the world is coming, looming brighter and brighter on the horizon.

That Kingdom action to which we are called is the business listed in the old-fashioned books. Living with people, eating with people, listening to people, helping people with the concrete things that trouble them. We weren’t called to save the world. We are called to follow the One who has already done that.

When Day looked back on her life – a life full of dramatic and remarkable events – she described it as nothing more than a long stretch of days when “we were just sitting there talking when…” they decided to feed whoever was hungry or set up farms of refuge or publish a newspaper about a longterm green revolution. “It was as casual as all that… it just came about… it just happened.” The ministry of the church that arises from genius technique dismisses such talk as unprofessional or careless. But this is how the work of God occurs. “It all happened while we sat there talking, and it is still going on.”

If you are involved in the mission of the church, I think you should buy and read this book. It’s on sale tomorrow.

Your Correspondent, Tugs at the heart, fogs the mind

‘Review’ of Captive to Christ, Open to the World by Brian Brock

Reviewing a book by a friend is a difficult thing, because you are already pre-disposed to like it. Reviewing a book by your PhD supervisor is practically impossible, because even if you don’t like it, you have to pretend you do (for a few years at least). So don’t think of this as a review. Think of it as an introduction to a book I think you should read. Because I really do like it.

Brock - Captive to Christ, Open to the World

In the introduction to Captive to Christ, Open to the World, Kenneth Oakes, the editor, shares one of the questions that Brian introduced him to: Who, exactly, owns the moon? Oakes beginning with the question about who owns the moon is totally appropriate. Conversations with Brian can be dangerous things. He reminded me with glee this week how one time last year, in a class full of undergraduates, a conversation with him ended up with me espousing an especially insane position whereby I advocated the murder of all the deer in Dublin. I never had any problem with deer, but I had serious problems with how I thought of animals. Brian’s conversations revealed that.

So the great strength of this book is that it is a collection of 8 conversations that we get to listen in on. The first two are conversations with Dutch theologians. The final 6 are conversations with Jacqueline Broen, who is now one of Brian’s doctoral students but back then was doing a masters in environmental theology. Like a conversation with Brian, this book is entertaining and illuminating and connections are made that you never realised were there.

The first chapter is a sort of introduction to the Brockian theological project, rotating around questions about his first book Singing the Ethos of God. I very much appreciated these sentences as a sort of summation of the key problem to be addressed by Christian ethics:

the way the theological academy teaches us to conceive our relationship to Scripture makes it difficult, if not impossible, to find our way from Scripture to the ethical questions of our real, lived lives, and conversely, we are taught that the people who are quite obviously doing this (like the Bible-believers I grew up with) were not doing so in an academically respectable manner.

So our job as theologians is to retrieve what we have lost. Earlier Christians could read Scripture and do theology hand in hand, they did their ethics as a form of theological commentary.

In the second chapter the conversation moves on to the topic of Brian’s second book Christian Ethics in a Technological Age. That is a sprawling giant of a text, full of meandering, illuminating conversations with philosophical and theological heavyweights. But in the new book, you get a sort of heavily compressed, verbal account of what is going on in that book. Technology is the repetition of the gesture by which Adam and Eve fashion coverings out of fig-leaves. It is our response to feeling the world is chaotic. Modern technology is a “fig-leaf reflex.” That is some deep theology pressed into a phrase.

This second chapter sees Brian speak about his relationship to Stanley Hauerwas, the technological wonders that mean that his son has survived leukaemia and the sharp end of our technological age. That sharp end is revealed when we consider how it is increasingly difficult to even conceive of the question that Christian ethics is about, namely: “How do we receive God’s sustenance?” My office-mate Taido joked yesterday that all the food in our local Tesco comes in plastic pods. In a world so habitually specialized, it is an imaginative effort to pray “Give us this day, our daily bread” and for those words to have meaning.

Chapters 3 through 8 are more general in nature, often discussing issues local to Aberdeen or St. Andrew’s and mostly hovering near an environmental agenda. But the range of issues touched upon is sort of staggering. What does it mean to do theology in a secular society (“in a public context you don’t have to make theological arguments all the time”), how church should relate to the world (“God does have something to give to us … the world needs the church to know who that God is.”), the utter dependence on cheap energy that gives our life shape, and how the false freedom of the market is revealed by a trip to Burger King are just some of the branches explored.

This book isn’t quite “Brian Brock for Dummies”. As I say, it is like over-hearing a conversation over coffee between him and other academics. As such, Nietzsche and Kant are referenced in answers. But so too are Donald Trump’s scandalous Aberdeenshire mis-adventures in environmental devastation for the sake of golf. It will tax the average Christian reader, but it will be richly rewarding. You’ll get a sense of how theology is done in Aberdeen: in worship, in dialogue with the world, in humility. You’ll better understand why my thesis or subsequent work won’t “solve” the problem of being wealthy westerners. And the reason why it won’t offer solutions isn’t just that I am nowhere near smart enough to do it. Rather, you’ll begin to see that to expect a “solution” falls short of what it means to be Christian. The theological ethicist’s job is “to allow theology to generate a different set of questions.” You’ll begin to see how the quest for Biblical principles that is so rampant in Christian discourse can be a way to evade God. After all, once we have the principles, we can discard the Bible and the living, active God. You’ll come to better understand what Brock means when he says that the core responsibility of the theologian is:

to teach students how to think and speak with one another as Christians.

Theology is no mere study. It is service to our neighbour as an act of worship. The goal is not to discover some ineffable truth and make it merely effable! It is truthful speech in love. It is action. It is service. It is worship.

Captive to Christ, Open to the World is, as such, a strange, different, curious little gem of a book.

Your Correspondent, His parents missed Woodstock, and he’s been making up for it since.

Book Review: The Empire of Necessity by Greg Grandin

Greg Grandin, who wrote Fordlandia, a book I devoured earlier in the summer, published a book this year called The Empire of Necessity. It is one of those marvelous books that comes along every now and again that deals with disparate threads of argument in parallel but refuses to compress it all into a neat cross-stitchable message at the end.

It is a book about slave-trading. Specifically, the shipment of slaves. Specifically, the shipment of slaves around the age of Revolutions at the turn of the 19th Century. Specifically one particular slave ship (The Tryal) that revolted.

That’s a lot of threads, all handled impeccably.

But it is also a book about Herman Melville and seal-hunting and the writing of a less renowned Melville novel called Benito Cereno, which re-told the story soon afterwards.

These divergent trajectories are held together and Grandin ranges between these points effortlessly. It is a stunning achievement really. The description of the shift in Presbyterian preaching in New England in the late 1700s towards moral confidence (in term spurred on by Unitarianism) at the beginning comes around at the end to help understand how the economics of slavery operated. The description of the geography of seal hunting grounds resonates as the overland passage of slaves from Argentina to Chile, through the Andes is unpacked.

The captain of the ship that stumbled over the Tryal was initially unaware of the slave revolt. The story how that came to be is utterly central to the entire book so I will leave it untouched. Suffice to say, Amasa Delano didn’t have the happiest life in all of Christendom. When he returned to America after years at sea, the entire society had begun its shift into modern capitalism:

Debt had taken a more central role in the growing nation’s economy, and Delano was trapped in its grip, dragged through court and, it seems, thrown into debtors’ prison.

The Englightenment hopes of the democratic revolutions in France and America are still taught in Irish primary schools as a humane achievement. In many ways they are. But Grandin’s book is breathtaking in how it reveals the ways in which the possibility of democracy rested on the economic boost of slavery and how the political rhetoric of Republics was revealed as deficient (if not a sham) by the utter refusal to grant full humanity to slaves. Liberty was secured by slaves. Melville pinned this hypocrisy down in an epigraph he used for one of his books:

Seeking to conquer a larger liberty, man but extends the empire of necessity.

We need more of books like this – by which I mean not just sumptuously creative history but books about this darkness at the heart of our present self-understanding. The West is built on slavery. The quays of Dublin were built with interest paid on loans by Liverpool slave-ship owners. The research and design that makes the Intel factory in Leixlip so astounding is conducted in Arizona and California, on land that was robbed from civilizations that were destroyed. There is no Eden for us, only Fall.

Until we tell that story right, we can’t get to grips with capitalism or globalisation or Christian mission. We can’t understand where we are if we never knew where we came from.

Your Correspondent, Got accepted to college after he sent a refusal letter to them without ever applying

Everywhere is Anywhere is Anything is Everything

My supervisor recently lent me a formidable coffee table book just published about Douglas Coupland’s art. As a suburban boy, there is something positively Coupland-esque about the fact that I have never managed to see any of his work up close and in person. The world goes on elsewhere, in Berlin and New York and Santiago and Dalian, but in Maynooth I could track it all through a browser window – which is something for which we should be grateful. The title reminds us after all, that everything is now anywhere.

I knew of some of Coupland’s artwork before, like his Digital Orca installation and his security blanket covered with the world’s most trusted corporate brands, but so much of it was new to me:

Coupland art

In Coupland’s introductory essay he tells us that growing up in North Vancouver – a logging centre turned into the suburb of a dynamic, utoptian city – taught him that enlightenment invariably comes at the expense of nature. Coupland’s work, in his art and in his writing at its best is testimony to this. The world where everywhere is anywhere and where anything is everything is a plastic world; creation has been superseded in our minds and replaced in our space with invention.

With essays from some of my favourite artists like Chuck Klostermann and William Gibson and Michael Stipe, this was a treat of a book to peruse. But it is Coupland’s art that rightfully lingers. For the Biennial of the Americas, held in Denver, Colorado in 2013, Coupland erected this sign on a vacant lot in the city.

Detroit everywhere

A week later the city of Detroit declared bankruptcy. Today, it’s drinking water supply is undergirded by help from the United Nations. Everywhere is anywhere is tinkering on the edge of oblivion.

I am intellectually inclined towards the aphorism. Surely this is why Hauerwas is my theological mentor and Vonnegut is the saint I would pray to, if I prayed to saints. It is why the parables exert such a mighty influence over my mind. It is even why Lincoln Harvey is my favourite Christian on twitter. In 2012 in Berlin, Coupland exhibited his “Slogans for the early 21st Century”, stark zen koans, daubed in black capitals on bright backgrounds.

Slogans by Coupland


The piece of art that struck me most forcefully is his collection of “hornet’s nests”.

Hornet's nest

Writing a book is an audacious thing to do. To capture a story you made up in ink pressed on to paper is to make a statement that lingers long after you may have repudiated the tale you told. These delicate nests, that mimic the homes created by fierce, angry and painful tormenting insects, are constructed by tearing out pages of his own books, chewing them up in his mouth and then gently drying and peeling them into these hives.

But the works that will probably resound into the future are the works that Michael Stipe writes about. One, called The Poet, looks like just another piece of dotted art, the kind of thing that you see in every final year exhibit in every art college. But this is 2014. Even with art that doesn’t instantly resonate with us, we feel a need to take out our iPhones and Galaxies and Nexuses and snap a photo to stick on Facebook later. When you take a photo of The Poet, the cellular phone machine you carry in your pocket interprets it for you.

You see the Falling Man from September 11th.

You carry the ability to see and hear and learn everything you would ever want to see and hear and learn in your pocket and your handbag but you use it to read puns sent out by an Anglican priest in London. Or at least I do. The total availability of data forces us to choose where we will register what the data represents. As Stipe puts it, Coupland “offers us the choice to either see or not see these deeply internalized images.”

The Poet

The most affecting essay in the collection is by Sophia Al Maria, “A Millennial Moment”. She is an artist based in Qatar who was born around the time I was born. Her essay charts how her life has changed along with the period Coupland’s work has been prominent. The descent into the madness of the never-ending war on terror is captured powerfully. She has an anecdote about recognising a voice behind her on an escalator in Doha and realising it was the boy from high school she had a crush on. Now he was a US Marine and as she is “swathed head-to-toe in the black polyester of my Qatari national dress: the abaya,” she is not recognised. Her old friend walks by without seeing her. We choose what we see. Al Maria becomes “Anonymous. Obscured. Out-of-focus.” Now she is “like some tacky shadow of death, a target in whatever pre-combat simulator he probably trained on, not a girl he went to high school with.”

Coupland grew up in that generation after the post war economic boom. He grew up in a military family in the midst of the Cold War and the threat of nuclear annihilation. He grew up in a time where people still felt utterly convinced that optimism was the right way to respond to the world. When I first read his early works I found a man preaching my Gospel – humans are advancing. As I aged, I have come to see I am right about that and very wrong too. Coupland’s art is about progress – but the progress that actually did happen. Tyler Johnson, the protagonist of Shampoo Planet, progresses from his parents failed hippie commune to yuppie certitude. The prefab dreams of North Vancouver gave rise to a world where we try to forget the falling man of Manhattan. The digital logic of clean, straight-edged LEGO may have cognitively conditioned us to imagine a future where things fit together, but we have broken them up.

We are creators who are creatures. We are creatures who unmake as fast as we create. That Coupland continues to unveil the vulnerability entailed in that means he is a friend you should make. He isn’t always a happy friend, and his books are sometimes very badly off course. But as Chuck Klostermann quotes it in his essay, “Bad taste is real taste.” Coupland, even when is off-course, is somehow headed in the right direction.

Coupland's slogan before his YouTube event

Your Correspondent, Shopping at face value

Who Owns Scotland?

In The Poor Had No Lawyers, Andy Wightman does four things:

    > He recounts the history of Scotland as a history of successive land grabs.
    > He explains how these land grabs express themselves today in the wildly unbalanced patterns of territory ownership in Scotland.
    > He offers some cogent and well thought through arguments about how land reform could happen.
    > He puts yet another nail in the coffin of the “Vote No” campaign.

My mother is not the kind of person who has a list of “personal heroes”. She is not easily swayed. But growing up it was evident that at least one of the great titans of Irish history had her allegiance and that was the one armed land agitator and trade-unionist, Michael Davitt. Davitt hailed, like my mother, from the western county of Mayo. But in the late 1800s his influence across the island of Ireland and even into Britain was massive. He secured tenants rights for the multitude of farmers that up till then had relied on the graces of their absentee landlords to get by. He initiated a land reform movement that would successfully deconstruct the vast estates, owned by the landed gentry of England, that covered the island. He tried to preach his message of worker solidarity and agitation in Britain.

But Scotland still needs a Davitt.

The first land grab came soon after the Norman invasion, back in the 1100s. The monarchy installed feudalism at the expense of the existing clan structure. The second land grab came soon after the Reformation. The state installed Presbyterianism at the expense of the existing church and monastic lands. The land grabs continued up until the turn of the 20th Century, as common land that was a rich resource across the country slowly got stripped away and appropriated by landed interests.

The common agitation that ought to be Irish and Scottish independence is revealed as far back as 1609, when the Royal Privy Council forced the clan chiefs to submit to English ways or lose their lands. Notice how the legislation sees “Irische” as the root of the problem. Schools would be established in every parish in the Highlands so that:

the youth be exercised and trayned up in civilitie, godlines, knawledge, and learning, that the vulgar Inglische toung be universallie platit, and the Irische language, which is one of the chief and principall causes of the continewance of barbarities and incivilitie amangis the inhabitantis of the Ilis and Heylandis, may be abolisheit and removeit.

Abolishing language because it is barbarous and uncivil is the height of urbanity and civility.

From Wrightman:

The pattern of landownership in the nineteenth century became more concentrated as the new Highland elite extended their holdings. By 1870, for example, Sir James Matheson, who had amassed a vast fortune from trade in China, owned 424,560 acres of land. The Marquis of Breadalbane owned 458,421 acres across Perthsire and Argyll. The Duke of Sutherland held all but a few glebes and lighthouses across the 1.2 million acres of Sutherland. And, by 1900, over half the land area of the Highlands was owned by just fifteen landowners.

– Andy Wightman, The Poor Had No Lawyers, 46.

Things of course have vastly improved between then and now.

969 people own 60% of Scotland.

If a people do not own the land, the people are not free.

Counting inland water and land, Scotland consists of about 19.5 million acres. 1,550 people own over 10 million acres of that. Voting yes at least opens the possibility of land reform. Voting yes at least puts some distance between the governance of Scotland and the culture of English aristocracy, most perfectly captured in the ongoing expansion of Elizabeth Windsor’s private estate at Balmoral, which she inherited from her parents, who inherited it from their parents, who bought it under a dodgy deal in 1852 and then had a law passed in 1853 to make sure that they could keep it. It has been expanded at least five times since the end of World War II.

Balmoral Estate

The United Kingdom currently holds the world record for invasion of other sovereign states. Only 22 countries haven’t had the honour of Her Majesty’s forces arriving with weapons and the threat of murder. How did a little temperate island in the north Atlantic come to dominate the world for centuries? They had a training grown for colonizing in Ireland. This laboratory meant their research and development, when it came to imperialism, was way ahead of competitors. But Scotland suffered in the same way. It continues to suffer, with a disproportionate number of its young working class men serving and dying in Britain’s contemporary wars of profit.

The final land grab that Wightman records is the grab for Africa, India and southern Asia, which was accomplished with technique, manpower and politics that originated in Scotland.

An independent Scotland will have many obstacles to face. Engineering the cogs and wheels of government will be complex. Devising an alternative economic strategy to the exhausting approach modelled in Ireland might be too much to hope for. And the people who will run this new country are as craven as the next batch of politicians. Watching “You’ve Been Trumped” demonstrates that! But land matters. Land reform will most effectively happen under an independent Scotland.

Your Correspondent, He’s the reason today bananas are called “yellow fatty beans”

Book Review: Honey From The Lion by Doug Gay

Doug Gay is a Scottish theologian who has written a book entitled “Honey From the Lion“. It intends to offer a theological defence of nationalism, with a specific application to Scottish nationalism. It manages to do this without becoming a “God thinks you should vote yes” diatribe, so that is pretty impressive right from the beginning.

Scotland free?

So the argument that Gay makes is firstly, that there is a kind of nationalism that isn’t bad. He goes further than this and thinks that nationalism can take a shape that can be good, even good enough that Christians can embrace it. His unpacking of the ideas that trade around the concept of nationalism in the early chapters is really very good. He points out that in a world of nation states, nationalism is pretty much inevitable. Quoting Jonathan Hearn he suggests: “Liberal democracies do not so much transcend nationalism as domesticate it.”

This is something I have noted since moving to the UK. The ubiquity of the Union flag on packaging, the “Great British” trope present in the titles of products of popular culture, and the always present symbols of military power are notable when you first arrive in Scotland. Is this the liberal nation state domesticating the “lion” of nationalism, extracting honey that is sweet for society? Or is there a connection between the common and aggressive racist and xenophobic graffiti I see on the streets of Aberdeen and the voluminous reminders of Imperial Britain in all aspects of our shared life?

In other words, I am not so sure that nationalism can be domesticated. But Gay makes a really excellent case by marking out the ways in which nationalism is out of bounds theologically. Our nationalism cannot be imperialist or essentialist or absolutist but instead our task would be:

    To renounce imperialism is to renounce domination and to practise recognition of the other.
    To renounce essentialism is to renounce a biological nationalism based on the ius santuinis or law of the blood in favour of a habitat-based nationalism, based solely on the ius solis, on the law of territory.
    To renounce absolutism is, in the language of the Barmen Declaration, to place the state under God, asserting God’s sovereignty over the state and the state’s accountability to God.

– Doug Gay, Honey From The Lion, 81.

Having staked out the argument that nationalism can be a good, Gay moves on to consider the idea of a Christian society. Throughout the book he is in dialogue with some serious theological voices; Milbank, O’Donovan, Hauerwas, Bretherton, and Cavanaugh, amongst others. I presume he hasn’t dealt with my Facebook posts on the topic because he sent the proofs off to the publisher before I came out in favour of the Yes vote and swung the entire referendum. The leading idea that allows us to consider society Christian-ly is Augustine’s concept of society sharing objects of love; “The better the objects of this agreement, the better the people; and the worse the objects, the worse the people.” Christian theological thinking on society demands a rejection of the flat space imagined by militant secularists and instead conceives of society as a complex space where the state and the market and the arts and the religions and all the other human collusions that make up our shared life clash against each other and cling to each other and compromise with each other.

In the book’s second half, Gay gives us a history of the Scottish devolution movement and a really good, practical chapter on the good, the bad and the middling that can be said to have come from the Edinburgh parliament since it was inaugurated in 2000. The book closes by suggesting certain ways in which the independent state of Scotland could go if the vote on September 18th is “Yes”.

Having not been completely convinced that Christians can dabble in nationalism, I am convinced that we cannot simply dismiss it. Gay demonstrates, for example, how Scottish nationalism in the 20th Century has been internationalist in nature. That those two things sit side by side is not inherently contradictory. Similarly, as a Christian socialist, Gay compellingly shows how socialism can accommodate nationalism – think only of how effective nationalism was for colonies in the overthrowing of the British empire.

He does completely convince me, a second time, that I should vote Yes in the referendum. This paragraph, quoting Charles Warren, is especially convincing to me:

Half of the entire country is held by just 608 owners and a mere 18 owners hold ten per cent of Scotland. Of Scotland’s private land, 30 per cent is held by 103 owners, each with 9,000 hectares [22,250 acres] or more, and 50 per cent by 343 owners. A minuscule 0.025 per cent of the population owns 67 per cent of the privately owned rural land. Thirty owners have more than 25,000 hectares [61,750 acres] each.

– Doug Gay, Honey From The Lion, 121.

Paragraphs like this should be on the tip of every tongue in Scotland. Of course, land reform doesn’t live or die based on the answer to the September 18th vote, but an independent Scotland is in a vastly stronger position to undue centuries of hoarding of the basic asset that a nation has – its space.

In the final chapter Gay turns to the possibility of a Scottish constitution and his discussion of the establishment of the Church of Scotland and the persistence of the Windsor monarchy in an independent Alba are far less convincing than his argument for a Yes vote. The trouble with both is revealed in his anecdote that at the ceremony where Elizabeth Windsor was made Queen of England and Scotland, the Archbishop of Canterbury refused communion to the Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland. What kind of Union is this that people want to protect? What kind of Christian nation is the UK? It seems to me that the ambivalence about both establishment and monarchy is a failure to follow through with the style of the earlier chapters. He makes such a good go of launching so complex an argument as a defence of nationalism that his himming-and-hawing here about the peculiarities of the Church of Scotland’s role in Scottish law seems to lack clarity. The hedging on monarchy is even worse.

But I am a staunch Republican, and maybe I am just sore that he didn’t join my team at the end?

There is one more question raised by the end of the book that I need to unfurl on my unfortunate readers. Gay proposes the use of common good” as the rubric under which Scotland ought to shape its new independence. But the failing here is the poverty that I always encounter with this language. What is the common good that holds Scotland together? There is no such thing. The conceptual deployment of Augustine’s common objects of love is one thing. The practical application of Catholic Social Teaching’s common good is another. What’s the common good in intractable conflicts – for example between profitability and sustainability? The common good is obviously sustainability, but the common choice will be for profitability. Or what’s the common good is in incommensurable moral conflicts – for example on the question of legalised abortion? Competing goods do not necessarily overlap. How does common good help as a political idea if it doesn’t lead to meaningful compromise?

The best reason for voting yes is that the new Scotland won’t have nuclear power or nuclear powered submarines or nuclear bombs. The second best reason for voting yes is that the new Scotland won’t invade Afghanistan or Iraq or Sierra Leone or the Falkland Islands. The reasons that Gay cites are excellent reasons as well. And the argument he makes that carefully extracting a narrowly-defined nationalism from the jaws of the lion can lead to sweet honey is a good one. The book is a rare example of theology being applied to contemporary issues in non-simplistic ways. It is practical theology at its best. That doesn’t mean all the arguments are equally convincing and it isn’t without its flaws, but it is genuinely worth tracking down.

The best reason for voting no is that you will really miss Liz Windsor’s face on some of the money used in Scotland or because an actress from Game of Thrones recommended it on Twitter. Small nation states are well placed to thrive in the years ahead and Scotland is a distinctive culture with its own language and history. It is more open and more socialist than the UK. It has arguably the most impressive educational traditions in the world. Its citizenry will be better off (not necessarily richer, as Gay points out with wonderful Christian clarity) making decisions about what happens in their territory without the opinions of people from Swansea, Sion Mills or Stockport weighing just as heavily as the folk who live in Stirling.

We can advocate this position and still be skeptical of nationalism. After all, Samson, who took the honey from the lion, ended his life in an act of suicide terrorism that killed thousands of people. He killed them because they were the enemies of his people, even though in so doing he directly repudiated the Torah that constituted his people. Nationalism can be rejected, while the nation state of Scotland can be welcomed.

Practical theology like the kind found in this book should be welcomed too.

Your Correspondent, A little boy told him “The English are best at everything”

An Inalienable Right To Talk About Rights

Last year I wrote an article for The Other Journal about the ambivalence with which Karl Marx engaged the concept of human rights. I argued in that article that rights-discourse may casually draw on concepts of universality but that the reality is that they are time-bound, culturally-conditioned and loaded with the biases, assumptions and convictions of the people who draw up the laws.

This is not a contentious claim.

I proposed that remembering that rights get “created” in this way helps Christians to engage in conversations about extending rights-talk to things they might be opposed to because it reminds us that the rights that are extended are always a compromise between the contingent factors at play in societies. So for instance, rhetoric of assisted suicide as a human right should be no more distressing than talk of assisted suicide as a medical policy in circumscribed situations. Both are things Christians object to. Both are things that will come to fruition in different states in the coming years. And both can be tolerated while our opposition to them remains (graciously) stubborn.

A friend sent me a book for my birthday that I would never have thought to get for myself and I read it recently. Is That A Fish In Your Ear? is the renowned translator and linguist, David Bellos’, introduction to the complexity and adventure of translation. It is far from a perfect book, being unusually dull-witted when it strays into Biblical interpretation, but it was a very enjoyable riot through some key considerations.

In Chapter 20 he argues that international law is one of the major sites for translation in today’s world and to investigate the difficulties involved he traces the path from the French declaration on the Rights of Man in 1789, through to the UN Declaration and its subsequent elaborations. The critical problem rests on gender language (very relevant to my recent posts). D├ęclaration des droits de l’homme et du citoyen explicitly states to whom it refers. Male citizens.

Human rights

While the UN Declaration on human rights is a direct descendant of the French declaration, you can automatically see the significant change that occurs between droits de l’homme and human rights. But when you translate human rights into other languages, all kind of ambiguities spring up and so the international jurisdiction that relies on the UN Declaration such as the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (1966) or the Convention on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women (1979) don’t even mention the phrase.

It isn’t just that human rights as a concept fails to achieve universality. It fails to achieve consistency even in its own semantic use. How could it be any other way? Human rights is a legal discourse and so it has to take the shape of legal languages in the various nation states where it applies. What law is in Ireland is different from what law is in Scotland. That’s why Ireland isn’t the same country as Scotland. The “universal” human rights that apply in Alba hold in Eireann because the two cultures are so similar, but the ways that they take form have to be different.

This in no way undermines the significant achievement of the UN Declaration. Nor does it neuter the power of human rights language, which for all its failings is at least one way that the majority world can demand equity from those with the money and the power. But it does encourage us to be careful in thinking about how easily we can talk about the universality of these rights.

It reminds us that the philosophical conceit that human rights are inalienable and just need to be recognised by society has reality only as a political lever. In societies where that leverage doesn’t hold, the rights will not be recognised. It does not necessarily follow that those societies and cultures are more primitive.

Further, when we imagine we are selflessly agitating for rights which today appear radical, we may find that future generations see us clearly as people engaged in everyday politics, but found guilty of using a particularly lofty language to achieve our aims. The French Revolution was intended by its leaders to be a liberation of society, but it defined society to exclude the majority of it.

In all likelihood, we’re making equally big mistakes, to which we are blind.

Your Correspondent, Thinking too much gave him wrinkles

A Better Way To Make Sense of Gender in the Church: Equal To Rule by Trevor Morrow

Here Comes A Resolution
This week I have sought to unpack (for myself, as much as anyone else) why the Kellers’ book The Meaning of Marriage disappointed me. On Monday I praised the good aspects, on Tuesday I introduced the core problem of complementarianism, on Wednesday I tried to show how this argument rests on natural theology and yesterday I picked at the big issue, which is how this form of complementarianism runs a risky game with an unusual reading of the Trinity.

Today I want to turn to consider a different book entirely, that I read at the same time. Equal to Rule (published in Dublin by Columba Press but available everywhere at a brilliantly low price on Kindle) is written by the former Moderator of the Presbyterian Church in Ireland, Trevor Morrow.

I should begin by clarifying that just as Keller has had a huge, formative, positive influence on me, I have learned vast amounts from Morrow. Different from Keller, Trevor Morrow is a personal friend. I became a Christian listening to his sermons at Lucan Presbyterian Church and I am lucky to count him as a mentor who has guided me through my faith since then, encouraged me into preaching and then into ministry and came round to my house one cold January day in 2010, when I had two broken arms, to tell me that I needed to think about doing a Theology PhD.

So the clarification is that I am biased in favour of the book I’m about to discuss. I got to talk it through with Trevor over coffee before it was ever written and I got to read preliminary copies and I even get thanked on the Acknowledgements page. But if you think that means I will automatically like what he has to say, I remind you that my devotion to Keller is such that I once went on an expensive pilgrimage to hear him give two talks on how to preach, flying to London to learn from him in person. I appreciate both of these guys, who enrich and serve the church in significant ways. I think there are problems with the Kellers’ marriage book and I think that Morrow’s book is a much better approach. So let me explain how.

How To Decide Who Reads Gooder?
There has been one line of inquiry notably absent from my critique of the Kellers’ and that is Scriptural discussion. Whatever reference I have made to their reading of Scripture has been positive. The book can be read as an extended reflection on Ephesians 5 and the reading that it offers, apart from jumping off into complementarianism, is superb. It doesn’t offer extended treatments of the contentious passages. This is one of the reasons that the Kellers manage to espouse the doctrine in so winsome a fashion – they consciously avoid getting bogged down in defending “Biblical doctrine”.

The doctrine is defended Biblically by citing the passages in the New Testament that refer to gender issues (verses from 1 Timothy and 1 Peter are especially important to them). Only the most unfair of students would look at the complementarian interpretation of Scripture and deny that it has internal coherence (their Trinitarian theology might not pass such a test!). Yet on the “egalitarian” side, they have a strong and internally consistent set of readings for the verses that are at the centre of the debate.

How do we get out of this textual logjam? Christians have numerous ways of shaping tensions towards health. We might have an authority that declares the right way to read the texts, like the Roman Magisterium. Or we might have a big ecumenical council of all the bishops and they might issue some guidance (harder since the Orthodox schism and the European Reformation!). Or we might agree to live together and seek to embody our positions with grace.

This is the position that the Presbyterian Church in Ireland came to in 1973. We ordain women to eldership and to ministry and we still welcome people whose conscience doesn’t land in the same place. And in Equal to Rule, Trevor Morrow lays out the rationale behind why this decision was reached and why we maintain this decision. The sad fact is that the influence of American evangelical culture means that complementarians are increasingly influential in the denomination and they are perhaps more strident than old fashioned conservatives (although what do I know – I no longer even live in Ireland!).


What Complementarians Might Suspect I Am Like

A Diminutive Book With A Powerful Punch
So Morrow’s book is the rarest of thing. It is a churchman, explaining the position of a church, for the sake of church-members. This isn’t just of interest to people who are a part of my tiny denomination however. There are three factors that make it especially worthwhile.

Firstly, it is an excellent example of a Christ-focused interpretation of Scripture. He reads the Bible with Jesus as the controlling factor in interpretation. What does that mean? It means that Morrow reads the rest of Scripture informed by what Jesus, the best reader of Scripture ever, says first. He is “particularly concerned that women will experience in reading this the love and acceptance which Jesus brings in restoring them to be co-rulers with men over the new creation.” (8) In support of this he quotes this lovely bit from Dorothy Sayers, talking about how around Jesus women were:

first at the Cradle and the last at the Cross. They had never known a man like Jesus – there never has been such another. A prophet and a teacher who never nagged at them, never flattered or coaxed or patronized; who never made arch jokes about them, never treated them either as ‘The women, God help us!’ or ‘The ladies, God bless them!’; who rebuked without condescension; who took their questions and arguments seriously; who never mapped out their sphere for them, never urged them to be feminine or jeered at them for being female; who had no axe to grind and no uneasy male dignity to defend.

– Trevor Morrow Equal to Rule, 9-10.

Jesus was taught the Scriptures by a woman and he was witnessed in his glory by women, he taught women after Easter Sunday and sent them as his apostles and through his Spirit he gifts them today to lead and guide the church. This simple prioritising of Jesus clarifies a great deal.

Secondly, Morrow reads the wide narrative of Scripture. Of course, this is what all Christians with skill in reading the Bible do. The Bible interprets the Bible and Keller is as good at this as anyone I know. This is why the doctrinal reference to speculative inner hierarchies within Trinity is so disappointing. The dots that Morrow connects are not tenuous or arcane. You begin in Genesis 1 and 2 with equality. In Genesis 3 there is Fall and the distortion of gender identity that produces, among all the other chaos, misogyny and the rest of the sin that we bear. But from that point onwards the culture-transcending revelation of God pierces through with judges and prophets and poets and saints that direct our attention to the restoration of creation’s goodness. This comes to fruition in Jesus, and Morrow reads the succeeding letters of the New Testament as part of the real-time working-out of what the Kingdom means for worshipping communities. Figuring out what it means for gender is why we have the passages over which people battle. But Morrow is able to draw on as many fine resources as anyone else to justify the evangelical and Reformed position Irish Presbyterians took.

Thirdly, this is all achieved with a brevity and clarity that is sort of amazing. I sat down to write a quick word here about how Morrow’s book is a useful rejoinder to Keller’s. Now I’ve written over 1270 words. But Morrow gets this entire argument, an extensive set of practical advice for how to encourage women into leadership and pointers to further resources in 106 pages. He does it without using the words like “the epistemic relations within the hypostatic union”. I could leave out the line-drawings that head up sections, but my admiration for how straightforward this book is just grows.

My Experience Of the Egalitarianism of the Gospel
Morrow is an outstanding preacher, but when I was first considering Christianity he shared his pulpit with two younger ministers, one of whom was a South African woman. Lorraine Kennedy Ritchie would preach from the Old Testament and have me on the edge of my seat. She would cry in the pulpit, so moved by the words she was called to expound upon and so overwhelmed by the task that she had to fulfill.

In the congregation were women who are now leaders, evangelists, elders, ministers or in training to be ministers. These friends of mine had the same transformative experience, not just of Trevor’s gift for preaching, but the Gospel’s gift of community. Men and women were gathered by the Spirit into this little band of folk lit up from the inside by the goodness and beauty of God. I met one of my dearest friends in the world one Sunday in that church and she is now in leadership in a church plant in middle England. Her roommate is finishing off training for ordination. Her friend is the minister in inner city Galway. My wife runs an intervention programme for children in Aberdeen and preaches in the local churches. There are probably 10 women who are elders in the Presbyterian Church who I met in that relatively tiny congregation.

But the men went into leadership as well, to an extent unparalleled anywhere I know of. Men who are now ministers all over the island and as far afield as Switzerland were members at Lucan at some stage. They come under the influence of Lucan, where the practical steps of discovering and cultivating gifts in men and women were taken seriously, and they found a joyous call to dedicate their life to prayer and preaching, eucharist and baptism.

This is not down to Trevor Morrow, as much as I revere the man. It is down to the Gospel. Lorraine Kennedy Ritchie didn’t cry in that pulpit because she is a woman and my argument isn’t “Well don’t women bring something to the task that men can’t!” I know this because I cry in that pulpit. I cried in Lorraine’s pulpit when she had me preach there the week before I moved to Scotland. I cry in every pulpit because I, like Lorraine, am a human being incapable of comprehending just how glorious a thing God has done.

At the final stage for selection for ordination, I had to give a short sermon in front of a panel of ministers and elders. I broke down in tears there too, trying to explain how the older brother in Luke 15 couldn’t get past himself to see what his Father had for him (see how deeply Keller influences me!). As I remember it, in that slightly embarrassed quiet as I sought to control my sobs, Rev. Cheryl Meban reassurred me with a smile and encouraged me to take my time. In that moment of extreme vulnerability, I didn’t find myself grateful that there were women who were ministers. I found myself grateful that there were ministers who could pastor me. It was God’s choice to gift her the way He did, and gift me in a similar way.

Conclusion: Where we Stand
The brutish effect of careless complementarianism will leave men afraid to be human and women disbarred from being human. The Kellers don’t come anywhere close to that kind of machismo and princess-fascism, but nonetheless their argumentation is out of character, over-extended and highly problematic. The content of the good news is new creation. Man and woman are called to partake in it.

They become citizens of the Kingdom on the same terms. They are gifted on the same terms. They should be welcomed on the same terms.

Your Correspondent, Always finishes on a sexist joke

The Danger of Trinitarian Arguments for Gender Roles

So I am almost done. On Monday I talked about the things I liked in the Kellers’ book The Meaning of Marriage. On Tuesday I introduced how they argued for a complementarian understanding of gender roles, which I felt was a strange turn for the book to take. Yesterday I tried to demonstrate how natural theology is under the surface of that argument. Today I get to the real objection I have with the book, which is how underneath it all, the Kellers draw on a tenuous theology of the Trinity to develop their theories on gender roles. This is an alarming way to address a relatively open question. It is both problematic that they use such treasures to resolve a minor problem but also how dangerous is their use them.

This is a real problem, which I think justifies all these thousands of words expanded on it.

The Real Problem Is The Trinitarian Machinery of the Argument
I hope it is clear that I have huge respect for the Kellers. And the considered reader will realise that this entire complementarian edifice cannot be built simply on the natural categories I discussed yesterday. On page 200, in the succeeding chapter, they come back to the empty-set that is masculine and feminine and they re-assert that they don’t want them to be defined: “it is nearly impossible to come up with a single, detailed, and very specific set of ‘manly’ or ‘womanly’ characteristics.”

So I propose that the natural theology argument that I went over yesterday is just a habit that is slipped into, a common coin in American evangelicalism that can be traded in without ever noticing that you are passing counterfeit currency. The real machinery of the argument is the source of the major problem I have with this book.

The Kellers lock down their complementarian gender roles argument by reference to the Trinity.

I’ll let that settle in.

The entire question of Christianity could be summed up by asking, “Who do we call when we call on the name ‘God’?” The early church was made up of radically monotheistic Jews and confusingly pantheistic pagans who came to the conclusion that when you call on the name Jesus you call on God. Over time, as they grappled with what it meant to worship this God-who-begets-the-son-Jesus-who-comforts-us-in-the-Spirit, Christians derived the language of persons and essence and formulated a concept we call Trinity. God the Father, God the Son, God the Spirit. One God. Three persons. A single essence. The attributes of God followed and before long you find Thomas Aquinas sitting in Paris writing with both left hand and right at the same time, expounding on all the things we can know if we know this one thing.

So when we talk about Trinity we are talking about the very core of Christianity.

Chichester Cathedral Trinitarian tapestry by John Piper

I have thought about this for a week, since finishing the book, and I think I can phrase it gently now. It annoyed me no end upon first reading it. So here goes: To resort to Trinitarian argument to resolve a cultural question about marriage roles is the equivalent of firing a Patriot missile to drill a hole in the wall. In terms of arguments, this is as an astonishing over-reaction. It speaks of the heightened way that American evangelicals go about their business. One could speculate that the bad habits of heresy-hunting, bitching and gossipping and the lack of any real ecclesial bonds means that Christians find themselves using the most explosive and potent and subtle (and dangerously complex) tools we have to resolve relatively minor disputes.

There is a tremendous asymmetry between starting a book about marriage and finishing with a theology of Trinity.

Before we even get into the nuts and bolts of the argument, we have to see how poor a step has been made. We jump from a pastoral book full of cultural commentary into a debate about how the about-dance of God implies gender-roles in marriage (that need to be defined in each particular instance depending on context). These components don’t fit together.

But I am afraid to say, it gets worse. The Trinitarian theology that is espoused is a form of subordinationism. This is a variety of Trinitarian thinking that has re-appeared since the late 1970s. Before this generation, the last major figure I know of to espouse it was John Milton. It itself is not a heresy, but it certainly leads in that direction. If you take it to its logical conclusion it arrives at Arianism, which is the foundational Christological error. You can block its way from going down that dark alley, but only at the expense of veering off into tri-theism.

In short, this is a new and dangerous kind of argument.

What subordinationism argues is that there is a hierarchy within the Trinity. God the Father is above God the Son and the Spirit. The Son is “subordinated” to the Father and so, the Kellers argue, the wife should be “subordinated” to the husband. This is saved from being pure power-play by the perfect mutual love of the persons in the Trinity. “The Son defers to his Father, taking the subordinate role. The Father accepts the gift, but then exalts the Son to the highest place.” (176)

Now that movement can be justified on functional grounds. In the Gospel of John especially, Jesus is seen as the Sent-One, on a mission from God the Father. So you could use this to describe an aspect of Jesus’ work. But the Kellers appear to ontologize this functional arrangement. What I mean by that is that they make this arrangement part of the very being of God. They are not saying that the Father and the Son are on the same team, playing different roles, from incarnation to ascension. They are saying that the Father and the Son are in some deep way placed in an order, one above the other, one below. How else can they make the correspondence “we are differently gendered to reflect this life within the Trinity”?

If it is true that man and woman are fundamentally different, and that this reflects the life within the Trinity, then it follows that Father and Son are fundamentally different. If Father and Son are of different essence, we are no longer talking about the same thing Christians talk about when they talk about God. We must realise what is at stake when we build our picture of Trinity up from our level. The conservative Christian who embraces this argument is running the most serious of risks. It is not good evangelical theology. It is insufficient as a reading of Scripture.

And if you still don’t see the danger in this problem, I refer you to the Athanasian Creed, the Nicene Creed, or even the Westminster Confession of Faith. They all articulate a view of the Trinity that shows no trace of hierarchy, subordination or these sorts of internal roles. To speculate on the inner-life of the Trinity to justify some internal arrangement of marriage is dubious. To do it with a view of Trinity that is so fraught with ambiguity is outright dangerous.

You see the irony here? In pursuit of supporting a socially conservative position they cherish, complementarian engage in a very non-conservative interpretation of the Holy Trinity.

Conclusion: So Here’s My Problem
So can I recommend a book that is altogether excellent, apart from 35 pages that are terrible? Is it just that the solid, good stuff at the start of the book goes awry towards the end and we don’t have to stress about it too much? Or is the stuff at the end, built on a theory about the inner workings of God, the source for all the apparently solid stuff, that in fact, in retrospect, looks super-dodgy?

Books about marriage are much needed. We have so few of them that puncture the cultural idolatry of the institution, avoid getting dragged into political positions that wrestle the life out of Christian witness, and actually offer good, gracious, practical advice. I love Tim Keller’s preaching and aspire to embody his winsome and considered approach to things. I really appreciate how this book is so deeply centred on Christ. It just makes it all the more disappointing that the Trinitarian reflections do not begin from that centre either but speculate loftily.

My problem isn’t simply what do I make of this book but what are we to make of a Christian culture that sometimes seems so devoted to certain kinds of cultural institutions that we’re happy to warp the Scriptures and also our doctrine of God to keep getting the outcomes we want?

I want to recommend this. I want to buy many copies so I can give them away to friends who are getting married. Instead, this will go back on the shelf and I’ll keep looking for the book that hasn’t yet been written.

Tomorrow I will draw your attention to a much better book about gender roles that isn’t going to sell nearly as many copies or be nearly as influential. That book is Equal to Rule by Trevor Morrow.

Your Correspondent, Knows there is just one who is unconfused, unchangeable, indivisible, and inseparable