Teddy Roosevelt famously said, "Speak softly and carry a big stick, and you will go far." If there is any United States president who has followed this advice better than Barack Obama, I don't know who it is. The "big stick" part of the quote is clear. The US has consistently spent more on the military under Obama than Bush Jr. (see here). Notwithstanding the ending and winding down of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, there is no credible reason to think Obama is any threat to continued American military dominance. Perhaps he wields the "stick" less indiscriminately (though there are serious questions to be asked about his controversial drone program), but the stick is, if anything, bigger than ever.
If this changes in Obama's second term (should he get one), it will be because of the so-called sequestration cuts, which (see previous post) are not Obama's fault. In any case, it is inconceivable that the election of either of the presidential candidates will result in anything but a continuation of the overwhelming military superiority of the United States. Whether that is a good thing or not is another question.
If I am reading the tea leaves of the right wing's (and Romney's) common complaint about Obama's supposed "apologizing for America," it is the speaking softly part of Roosevelt's philosophy, which Obama clearly follows better than the braggadocio Bush, that they really object to. As if being diplomatic is a bad thing! As if it is not a very effective tool in the arsenal of a world power (=empire). Clearly, under such conditions a substantive political debate about foreign policy is impossible.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Systematically Misrepresenting our Military Spending?
Is the Romney campaign systematically misrepresenting our military spending? It sure looks like it. A few days ago Dana Milbank pointed out Romney's mendacity about looming cuts in the defense budget. These cuts have nothing to do with Obama, as they were decided by congressional members of both parties. But this did not stop Romney from representing Obama as a military-budget-cutting pinko.
Then Sarah Kliff (on Ezra Klein's blog) discussed Romney's recent words about our federal spending on the military versus health care, and there is more misinformation. Romney said that we spend 18% of GDP on health care and %4 on the military. This is, at best, a confused mess of a statement. First of all, we do not spend 18% of GDP on health care. That is closer to the percentage of the federal budget which goes to this source. (See here.) 4% of GDP on the military is more accurate. However, by stating it this way Romney gives the impression that we spend almost five times the amount on health care that we do on the military, whereas the real figures are just about even. If one wishes to add private spending to the total that we spend on heath care, that would help Romney's case, but he would still be wrong.
So what is going on here? Romney wants us to save money on health care by cutting that part of the federal budget. To try to get people on his side, he inflates the numbers on health care spending (pretending that it is a percentage of GDP) while trying to make military spending look small by comparison. Meanwhile, he is trying to make Obama look ridiculous, as if Obama is going after small government expenses and ignoring a much greater area of spending.
The truth of the matter is, the US government spends about twice as much of its GDP on defense than the world average, and about as much as it does on health care. If we were to bring the military budget down to a reasonable level, we could easily afford our health care spending. Add to that the revenue likely to come from an end to the Bush-era tax cuts, and the problems disappear. Obviously there are savings to be made in health care spending, but there is no reason to do so by simply cutting benefits (like the Ryan plan intends to do). Rather, more, not less government intervention is needed to rein in the industry. Ironically, Romney effectively admitted as much in his words quoted in the Kliff post, because he praises the Israeli plan, which does just that.
Military spending is the gift that keeps on giving to the American right-wing. It adds to the deficit, giving an excuse to cut other hated programs. It makes its proponents look patriotic. And finally, it enriches weapons manufacturers and other military contractors. Unfortunately, as the Romney campaign is counting on, we keep falling for it.
Then Sarah Kliff (on Ezra Klein's blog) discussed Romney's recent words about our federal spending on the military versus health care, and there is more misinformation. Romney said that we spend 18% of GDP on health care and %4 on the military. This is, at best, a confused mess of a statement. First of all, we do not spend 18% of GDP on health care. That is closer to the percentage of the federal budget which goes to this source. (See here.) 4% of GDP on the military is more accurate. However, by stating it this way Romney gives the impression that we spend almost five times the amount on health care that we do on the military, whereas the real figures are just about even. If one wishes to add private spending to the total that we spend on heath care, that would help Romney's case, but he would still be wrong.
So what is going on here? Romney wants us to save money on health care by cutting that part of the federal budget. To try to get people on his side, he inflates the numbers on health care spending (pretending that it is a percentage of GDP) while trying to make military spending look small by comparison. Meanwhile, he is trying to make Obama look ridiculous, as if Obama is going after small government expenses and ignoring a much greater area of spending.
The truth of the matter is, the US government spends about twice as much of its GDP on defense than the world average, and about as much as it does on health care. If we were to bring the military budget down to a reasonable level, we could easily afford our health care spending. Add to that the revenue likely to come from an end to the Bush-era tax cuts, and the problems disappear. Obviously there are savings to be made in health care spending, but there is no reason to do so by simply cutting benefits (like the Ryan plan intends to do). Rather, more, not less government intervention is needed to rein in the industry. Ironically, Romney effectively admitted as much in his words quoted in the Kliff post, because he praises the Israeli plan, which does just that.
Military spending is the gift that keeps on giving to the American right-wing. It adds to the deficit, giving an excuse to cut other hated programs. It makes its proponents look patriotic. And finally, it enriches weapons manufacturers and other military contractors. Unfortunately, as the Romney campaign is counting on, we keep falling for it.
Monday, July 23, 2012
What is Government For?
The recent events in Colorado have given rise to the usual arguments about gun control, American violence, and the like. Jason Alexander (of all people) has written a wonderful piece which deftly demolishes the usual right-wing ideological, constitutional, and would-be practical arguments with a passion and clarity that almost causes one to forgive him for his part in "Shallow Hal." What I would like to do here is to take this occasion to discuss my view of the Christian understanding of government as it relates to this contemporary issue.
Part, if not the major part, of our current political stalemate is the fact that deeply-held opinions about the nature of government are so disparate. The right wing, whilst generally complaining about government itself, or at least government being too "big," seems to operate on the assumption that governments are a necessary evil meant only to be the referee, as it were, in the economic competition between individuals. It has no stake whatever in ensuring who, if anyone, "wins" in the competition, but only making sure that certain rules are followed. It might not be a fair contest, but that is because some people have certain advantages (like natural talent in a sport) which naturally mean they will succeed while others fail. For the government to intervene on behalf of the losers is akin to a referee calling specious fouls against an NBA superstar in an attempt to level the playing field.
The left wing, on the other hand, believes governments exist precisely to level the playing field. Whether it has succeeded can be known based on the outcomes. If a few people continually win and others fail, that is a legitimate cause for concern and action.
It is not always this simple, of course. Often, sometimes in the same breath, a conservative will insist that the government has no business ensuring outcomes, and then also insist that a laissez-faire posture on the part of governments vis-a-vis the economy (low taxes, little spending and minimal regulations) is, ironically perhaps, the best way to ensure the most prosperity for the largest number of people--a desirable outcome. This would be a genuine argument that could be made, if only we could agree once and for all that outcomes are relevant to government policy and that general facts can be trusted to give us the information we need here. Unfortunately, this conversation rarely, if ever, takes place, probably because of the differing philosophical commitments I have outlined. The conservatives always have recourse to the tactic of dismissing the relevance of the discussion when the facts are against them, and in my experience they do not fail to avail themselves of it. In truth, they cannot seriously engage in the debate on outcomes. They only wish to undermine the left-wing position from within.
But what does the Christian gospel tell us about our lives as political beings? I can no longer think, as I once did, that the pacifist position settles the matter. The Sermon on the Mount might be interpreted along these lines, but then again it might not. It is not at all clear that the theological meaning, if any, of government is in any way directly at issue in this text. The locus classicus of the 13th chapter of Romans, on the other hand, is clearly concerned with governmental authority, which it clearly assumes is inclusive of "bearing the sword." The pacifist position, in light of this passage, must insist that Christians, while living under governments and even giving them theological justification (however relative), are bound vocationally to resolute non-participation therein. But this strikes me as inherently illogical. If governments' work is God's work, Christians can hardly stand aloof from it.
The best solution to the problem that I can come up with begins with theological anthropology. If humans, in light of the Gospel, are bodily creatures called to covenant faithfulness to God, there is an inevitable duality to their existence, the differentiated relation between what is traditionally called "body" and "soul." Karl Barth's formula of the relation between creation and the covenant is instructive. Creation, he said, is the external basis of the covenant, and the covenant is the internal basis of creation. What he meant, I think, is that the covenant is the eternal purpose of our creaturely existence, whereas our creaturely existence is the necessary means of that covenant. These two realities are asymmetrically related, and because of this, necessarily differentiated. They cannot be dissociated; nor can they be collapsed into one another. Creation has no independent meaning, but as related to the covenant it has a certain relative legitimacy and relevance.
What this means about us as body and soul is that our bodies have the purpose of physical--temporal and spatial--actualization of our existence as God's covenant partners (our souls). The body is not the soul, but it's purpose is to sustain it. Therefore our bodily existence has a relative legitimacy, and we are bound as Christians to give it its due, while not treating it as an end in itself. Within our existence as bodies, clearly, economics and politics have theological import. Economics has to do with the material sustenance of our bodies in their inter-relation. Politics concerns the use of force, inevitably against bodies, for the sake of dealing with the violence that can be brought against bodies in our fallen world.
I am being somewhat intentionally vague when I say the government exists to "deal with" violence. It is arguable what this "dealing" necessarily entails, as we shall see. But that violence is at issue is a reasonable inference. The Apostle Paul in the aforementioned Romans 13 said that government is God's means to "execute wrath on the wrongdoer." That these "wrongdoers" are the violent is not directly specified in the text. That is my own theologically-informed interpretation. However, it is a legitimate one, I think, based on other texts. Despite its questionable textual provenance, the story of Jesus being confronted with the adulterer in John 8:1-11 is instructive on this point. Jesus here probably indicates disapproval of capital punishment for sexual offenses as such (i.e., ones that are not inherently violent). This does not lessen their severity as sins (cf. Matt. 5:27-32) but, I think, it puts them out of the realm of governmental interference. With a call to repentance, Jesus let the woman go. He did not suggest that she be fined instead of stoned. It is reasonable, therefore, to assume that the "wrongdoers" mentioned in Romans 13 are the violent only.
But what is the government's duty in dealing with violence? Paul says it "executes wrath" on its perpetrators. This could be taken to mean they are to punish them with reprisals, but not necessarily try to prevent the violence. But prevention is, I think, clearly implied. Possible punishment to be feared clearly indicates deterrence, which is a kind of prevention. Thus, I think it is reasonable to infer that prevention of violence is at least part of the government's raison d'etre as established by God.
There are many issues raised by these reflections. For instance, the fact that there is such a thing as economic violence--an example: refusing life-saving medical care to those who cannot afford it--would seem to indicate a legitimate place for governmental interference in such matters as part of its responsibility. I would like to focus here, however, on the issue of gun control. The usual argument against it seems to assume that the use of deadly force in the prevention of crime is a legitimate activity of all citizens and not just a government prerogative. The biggest problem with this assumption, as I see it, is that it blurs the distinction between government and its agents on the one hand and the rest of civil society on the other. Whilst purporting to limit government, therefore, it seems to succeed only in expanding it indefinitely to include everyone. If the very point of government is the bearing of the sword (i.e., weapons), this argument seems to assume that the government is everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. This will not do theologically. There is a legitimate place for the limitation of the use of deadly force to a singular entity within a jurisdiction. That is what government, essentially, is. And if the use of force to stop crime is essentially limited to governments, there are few legitimate reasons why private citizens need to be allowed to own weapons.
Hopefully with these thoughts we have established a basis on which to discuss various political issues. It should be clear how this perspective cuts across typical political dichotomies. I know that I am not likely to make many friends with these words, but it is, as I say, the best I can do right now. I am trying to deal with complex issues on their own terms, not make everyone happy (which isn't possible in any case). I know there is no easy and air-tight position, and many of the theological options have their merits. If you have challenges and questions, I welcome them. If all you have for me is abuse, however, I'd appreciate you keeping it to yourself.
Part, if not the major part, of our current political stalemate is the fact that deeply-held opinions about the nature of government are so disparate. The right wing, whilst generally complaining about government itself, or at least government being too "big," seems to operate on the assumption that governments are a necessary evil meant only to be the referee, as it were, in the economic competition between individuals. It has no stake whatever in ensuring who, if anyone, "wins" in the competition, but only making sure that certain rules are followed. It might not be a fair contest, but that is because some people have certain advantages (like natural talent in a sport) which naturally mean they will succeed while others fail. For the government to intervene on behalf of the losers is akin to a referee calling specious fouls against an NBA superstar in an attempt to level the playing field.
The left wing, on the other hand, believes governments exist precisely to level the playing field. Whether it has succeeded can be known based on the outcomes. If a few people continually win and others fail, that is a legitimate cause for concern and action.
It is not always this simple, of course. Often, sometimes in the same breath, a conservative will insist that the government has no business ensuring outcomes, and then also insist that a laissez-faire posture on the part of governments vis-a-vis the economy (low taxes, little spending and minimal regulations) is, ironically perhaps, the best way to ensure the most prosperity for the largest number of people--a desirable outcome. This would be a genuine argument that could be made, if only we could agree once and for all that outcomes are relevant to government policy and that general facts can be trusted to give us the information we need here. Unfortunately, this conversation rarely, if ever, takes place, probably because of the differing philosophical commitments I have outlined. The conservatives always have recourse to the tactic of dismissing the relevance of the discussion when the facts are against them, and in my experience they do not fail to avail themselves of it. In truth, they cannot seriously engage in the debate on outcomes. They only wish to undermine the left-wing position from within.
But what does the Christian gospel tell us about our lives as political beings? I can no longer think, as I once did, that the pacifist position settles the matter. The Sermon on the Mount might be interpreted along these lines, but then again it might not. It is not at all clear that the theological meaning, if any, of government is in any way directly at issue in this text. The locus classicus of the 13th chapter of Romans, on the other hand, is clearly concerned with governmental authority, which it clearly assumes is inclusive of "bearing the sword." The pacifist position, in light of this passage, must insist that Christians, while living under governments and even giving them theological justification (however relative), are bound vocationally to resolute non-participation therein. But this strikes me as inherently illogical. If governments' work is God's work, Christians can hardly stand aloof from it.
The best solution to the problem that I can come up with begins with theological anthropology. If humans, in light of the Gospel, are bodily creatures called to covenant faithfulness to God, there is an inevitable duality to their existence, the differentiated relation between what is traditionally called "body" and "soul." Karl Barth's formula of the relation between creation and the covenant is instructive. Creation, he said, is the external basis of the covenant, and the covenant is the internal basis of creation. What he meant, I think, is that the covenant is the eternal purpose of our creaturely existence, whereas our creaturely existence is the necessary means of that covenant. These two realities are asymmetrically related, and because of this, necessarily differentiated. They cannot be dissociated; nor can they be collapsed into one another. Creation has no independent meaning, but as related to the covenant it has a certain relative legitimacy and relevance.
What this means about us as body and soul is that our bodies have the purpose of physical--temporal and spatial--actualization of our existence as God's covenant partners (our souls). The body is not the soul, but it's purpose is to sustain it. Therefore our bodily existence has a relative legitimacy, and we are bound as Christians to give it its due, while not treating it as an end in itself. Within our existence as bodies, clearly, economics and politics have theological import. Economics has to do with the material sustenance of our bodies in their inter-relation. Politics concerns the use of force, inevitably against bodies, for the sake of dealing with the violence that can be brought against bodies in our fallen world.
I am being somewhat intentionally vague when I say the government exists to "deal with" violence. It is arguable what this "dealing" necessarily entails, as we shall see. But that violence is at issue is a reasonable inference. The Apostle Paul in the aforementioned Romans 13 said that government is God's means to "execute wrath on the wrongdoer." That these "wrongdoers" are the violent is not directly specified in the text. That is my own theologically-informed interpretation. However, it is a legitimate one, I think, based on other texts. Despite its questionable textual provenance, the story of Jesus being confronted with the adulterer in John 8:1-11 is instructive on this point. Jesus here probably indicates disapproval of capital punishment for sexual offenses as such (i.e., ones that are not inherently violent). This does not lessen their severity as sins (cf. Matt. 5:27-32) but, I think, it puts them out of the realm of governmental interference. With a call to repentance, Jesus let the woman go. He did not suggest that she be fined instead of stoned. It is reasonable, therefore, to assume that the "wrongdoers" mentioned in Romans 13 are the violent only.
But what is the government's duty in dealing with violence? Paul says it "executes wrath" on its perpetrators. This could be taken to mean they are to punish them with reprisals, but not necessarily try to prevent the violence. But prevention is, I think, clearly implied. Possible punishment to be feared clearly indicates deterrence, which is a kind of prevention. Thus, I think it is reasonable to infer that prevention of violence is at least part of the government's raison d'etre as established by God.
There are many issues raised by these reflections. For instance, the fact that there is such a thing as economic violence--an example: refusing life-saving medical care to those who cannot afford it--would seem to indicate a legitimate place for governmental interference in such matters as part of its responsibility. I would like to focus here, however, on the issue of gun control. The usual argument against it seems to assume that the use of deadly force in the prevention of crime is a legitimate activity of all citizens and not just a government prerogative. The biggest problem with this assumption, as I see it, is that it blurs the distinction between government and its agents on the one hand and the rest of civil society on the other. Whilst purporting to limit government, therefore, it seems to succeed only in expanding it indefinitely to include everyone. If the very point of government is the bearing of the sword (i.e., weapons), this argument seems to assume that the government is everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. This will not do theologically. There is a legitimate place for the limitation of the use of deadly force to a singular entity within a jurisdiction. That is what government, essentially, is. And if the use of force to stop crime is essentially limited to governments, there are few legitimate reasons why private citizens need to be allowed to own weapons.
Hopefully with these thoughts we have established a basis on which to discuss various political issues. It should be clear how this perspective cuts across typical political dichotomies. I know that I am not likely to make many friends with these words, but it is, as I say, the best I can do right now. I am trying to deal with complex issues on their own terms, not make everyone happy (which isn't possible in any case). I know there is no easy and air-tight position, and many of the theological options have their merits. If you have challenges and questions, I welcome them. If all you have for me is abuse, however, I'd appreciate you keeping it to yourself.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Prisons and Unemployment - A Modest Proposal
Our society currently has four problems that are related in many ways; some well-known, others surprising: (1) prison overcrowding, (2) rampant unemployment, (3) governmental budgetary deficits, and (4) prison privatization. Problems (1) and (4) create obvious problems with prison conditions, the latter because the profit motive mitigates against prisoner welfare and because private corporations are not held to the same civil-rights standards as government entities. Also obvious is the causal connections between these problems. Problem (2) probably contributes to (1) and certainly contributes to (3) through lost tax revenue. Bleeding hearts will probably wish to reverse these trends through higher taxation which will directly help (3), indirectly (through social safety-net improvements) help (1), and through helping (3) will lessen the motivation for (4). However, this solution seems unlikely in today's political climate. Therefore another solution is called for.
What has not been noticed sufficiently are the possibilities of expanding upon prison privatization for the general welfare, particularly of prisoners. Putting prisoners to work has a long and established history. Why not, then, tap into this obvious labor resource by converting prisons to dormitory-attached factories, warehouses, and the like for private enterprises? The benefits to all concerned are obvious.
First of all, governments and corporations can both save money by working together. Sharing costs of feeding and housing the inmates, it is conceivable that both will spend less. The usual cost of detaining a prisoner minus the contribution per inmate of the corporation will be the savings of the government. The usual wage of a worker minus the corporation's contribution (probably much less than a living wage--perhaps even less than minimum wage) will be the savings of the corporation. They can then share the profits. Win-win.
Second, the conditions of prisoners can be significantly improved. As long as the enterprise in question is profitable (and why shouldn't it be?), there will always be an incentive to expand operations, thus lessening overcrowding issues. As long as the corporation's contribution (however small) is more than the savings of the government in caring for inmates, spending per inmate will be increased. How can we doubt, moreover, the benefits of contributing to society through good, honest work rather than remaining idle? Businesses wishing to have a productive workforce would obviously wish to keep conditions humane. There will, then, be no need for labor unions and the problems they cause. Additionally, support for the death penalty--which could mean the loss of someones cheap labor--will probably wane. It is conceivable that the practice can be abolished.
Businesses taking advantage of this opportunity might wish to include a nominal wage for their employee-inmates. Prisoners can use their savings to pay reparations to their victims, buying them shorter sentences (at the discretion of the proper authorities, of course), or they can spend them at corporate "stores" on the premises for improvements to their dormitories and other goods. This not only gives them an incentive to work, but can also be profitable for the corporations involved, provided that spending this money in other than authorized ways is prohibited.
As prisoners' conditions improve, the motives for addressing social problems will decrease. Crime will no longer be seen as a scourge, but rather as an opportunity. Governments can save even more money by finally abandoning attempts at addressing poverty and other causes of crime, and focusing solely on arresting criminals and putting them to use. Budgetary problems will become a thing of the past. Perhaps non-inmate wages will be depressed as they are undercut by cheap prison labor, but so what? In fact, there will no longer be any reason for any minimum wage laws. Why should a business spend money on wages that could be spent at prison facilities with greater profit potential?
And once minimum wage laws are abolished, unemployment will decrease. This is for two reasons. First, once labor is cheaper, companies can hire more, as any reputable economist will tell you. And second, the unemployed, who may be tempted into crime, can be rounded up and put to work. There might even be an incentive to pass laws with individual mandates for employment, if necessary. Those who do not work outside of prisons can then be put to work within them without further ado.
Finally, problems with illegal immigration will be mitigated to the advantage of all. Because many enter the country illegally to work clandestinely at menial jobs for less than minimum wage, why not make the whole thing open and above board? That is, why not arrest them and put them to work in prisons doing what they already do anyway? Other solutions have been shown to hurt businesses that depend upon cheap labor. The prison solution avoids that problem.
I hope we can get over our understandable but misguided scruples and put this into practice with all dispatch.
What has not been noticed sufficiently are the possibilities of expanding upon prison privatization for the general welfare, particularly of prisoners. Putting prisoners to work has a long and established history. Why not, then, tap into this obvious labor resource by converting prisons to dormitory-attached factories, warehouses, and the like for private enterprises? The benefits to all concerned are obvious.
First of all, governments and corporations can both save money by working together. Sharing costs of feeding and housing the inmates, it is conceivable that both will spend less. The usual cost of detaining a prisoner minus the contribution per inmate of the corporation will be the savings of the government. The usual wage of a worker minus the corporation's contribution (probably much less than a living wage--perhaps even less than minimum wage) will be the savings of the corporation. They can then share the profits. Win-win.
Second, the conditions of prisoners can be significantly improved. As long as the enterprise in question is profitable (and why shouldn't it be?), there will always be an incentive to expand operations, thus lessening overcrowding issues. As long as the corporation's contribution (however small) is more than the savings of the government in caring for inmates, spending per inmate will be increased. How can we doubt, moreover, the benefits of contributing to society through good, honest work rather than remaining idle? Businesses wishing to have a productive workforce would obviously wish to keep conditions humane. There will, then, be no need for labor unions and the problems they cause. Additionally, support for the death penalty--which could mean the loss of someones cheap labor--will probably wane. It is conceivable that the practice can be abolished.
Businesses taking advantage of this opportunity might wish to include a nominal wage for their employee-inmates. Prisoners can use their savings to pay reparations to their victims, buying them shorter sentences (at the discretion of the proper authorities, of course), or they can spend them at corporate "stores" on the premises for improvements to their dormitories and other goods. This not only gives them an incentive to work, but can also be profitable for the corporations involved, provided that spending this money in other than authorized ways is prohibited.
As prisoners' conditions improve, the motives for addressing social problems will decrease. Crime will no longer be seen as a scourge, but rather as an opportunity. Governments can save even more money by finally abandoning attempts at addressing poverty and other causes of crime, and focusing solely on arresting criminals and putting them to use. Budgetary problems will become a thing of the past. Perhaps non-inmate wages will be depressed as they are undercut by cheap prison labor, but so what? In fact, there will no longer be any reason for any minimum wage laws. Why should a business spend money on wages that could be spent at prison facilities with greater profit potential?
And once minimum wage laws are abolished, unemployment will decrease. This is for two reasons. First, once labor is cheaper, companies can hire more, as any reputable economist will tell you. And second, the unemployed, who may be tempted into crime, can be rounded up and put to work. There might even be an incentive to pass laws with individual mandates for employment, if necessary. Those who do not work outside of prisons can then be put to work within them without further ado.
Finally, problems with illegal immigration will be mitigated to the advantage of all. Because many enter the country illegally to work clandestinely at menial jobs for less than minimum wage, why not make the whole thing open and above board? That is, why not arrest them and put them to work in prisons doing what they already do anyway? Other solutions have been shown to hurt businesses that depend upon cheap labor. The prison solution avoids that problem.
I hope we can get over our understandable but misguided scruples and put this into practice with all dispatch.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
What is Metaphysics? - A Barthian Perspective
I have had the privilege this semester of auditing a class at Princeton Seminary on Karl Barth's dogmatics and ethics of election. A recurring theme in the class discussion has to do with what, precisely, Barth means by the term "metaphysics." From his justly famous Epistle to the Romans and throughout his career, Barth made no secret of the fact that in his view, theology should be thoroughly purified of any metaphysical residue.
This view, both in Barth's own work and that of his followers, has been met with much confusion and consternation. I wish in this post to provide a perspective on this issue that will, hopefully, clear the air of some of the most persistent misunderstandings.
A caveat: though Barth's theology has been very influential on my own thought, both directly and through his interpreters, I am by no means a qualified Barth scholar. The following thoughts are first of all my own. I suspect some, perhaps most of Barth's followers would share my view, and perhaps Barth did, or would, as well. In any case I think that what I have to say is mostly congenial to Barth.
Part of the confusion about Barth's rejection of "metaphysics," I suspect, is that the word itself has often been used to mean, more or less, what we today call "philosophy." Before modern times, what we today would call "science" or "natural science" was called "natural philosophy." Philosophy, that is, was thought to include not only what we today would call "philosophical" issues, but also what we would consider scientific matters. Anything else, within philosophy, was considered "metaphysics."
Since Kant, if not earlier, modern philosophy has tended to reject certain ways of thinking, referred to as "metaphysics." But this metaphysics, I think, only included some of the things that were previously thought to be included under that word. In particular, what modern philosophy meant to reject under this label was any method of acquiring knowledge about transcendent realities (e.g., God, the soul, etc.) through investigation of and meditation on concrete, directly observable phenomena.
Into this context came Karl Barth. Of course, his thought would never have taken the precise form it did had it not been for his particular historical situation, and the influence of Kant (more directly, the Marburg "neo-Kantians" of the early 20th century) on his thought. Nevertheless, Barth did not simply accept one (modern) philosophical perspective as beyond question in such a way that it controlled his understanding of theology. Nor could he have done so, for reasons we shall now see.
Concerned as Barth was with re-claiming the Reformation principle of sola Scriptura, he was naturally happy to accept the philosophical perspective of much of modernity. Why should we care if we cannot know about God or the soul by our own efforts, if we can know these things in faith from God's self-revelation? In fact, insofar as philosophy takes away the metaphysical path, it might drive us to the only source left to us; in that, Barth might say, we should rejoice. This is to say, Barth did not simply accept certain philosophical perspectives as if we were (perhaps unfortunately) bound to limit ourselves to "only" knowing God through Scripture. If anything, the causal relation went in the other direction.
But if we cannot know God through metaphysics, this also means we do not know God via any philosophical path. Any such path would be, by definition, metaphysics. Here is where a lot of confusion arises in discussions about Barth and barthianisms. For if the problem arises, for Barth, when we think we know God through philosophy, does this not mean that we should reject philosophy tout court, at least when doing theology? One might be forgiven for thinking that that is, indeed, Barth's position. But if so, he obviously contradicts himself, seeing as how he draws on philosophical work (e.g., Kant, Hegel, Buber, and even Plato).
Therefore, many seem to think, Barth cannot really be rejecting philosophy as a way of knowing God. He must really mean that we should reject knowing God through ancient and medieval, Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy, and opt for modern alternatives instead. And if so, he is, at best, somewhat arbitrary. Worse, if we do know God through philosophy after all, then the suspicion arises that when we change our philosophical perspective, we may believe in a different God. In any case, if we cannot avoid knowing God through some philosophy, then if we cannot know God this way, we are left with agnosticism. For these reasons, it is thought, we should resist the modern rejection of metaphysics with all our strength, with all due respect to Barth's unfortunate protestations.
However, this is not really Barth's position. That is, he does not conclude, and his view does not logically necessitate that he conclude, that philosophy is simply useless for theology, in spite of the fact that he was in deadly earnest when he insisted that we do not know God through philosophy, even of a modern sort. It seems to me that everything depends on how one uses philosophy in theology. It is, as it often is in Barth's thought, a matter of order.
What I want to suggest is that for Barth, philosophy definitely has a place in theology. The question is one of locating that "place" and taking care that philosophy stay in that place. And this "place" is, I think, in an absolutely subordinate place. What I mean is that, for Barth, we do not know God through philosophy. Rather, we know God in faith through God's self-revelation in Christ, as witnessed to in Holy Scripture. It is only subsequently that philosophy legitimately comes in as a way of explicating, explaining, elaborating, and understanding what we already know in this way. In fact, philosophy is unavoidable and indispensable for these tasks, the tasks of the academic theologian. For these tasks!--and no others.
Once this order is understood, one will necessarily conclude that there are distinguishable and, as it were, observable differences between good and bad ways of using philosophy in theological work. Insofar as philosophy does not merely explain what is known through faith but adds to it, subtracts from it, or otherwise distorts it, something has gone wrong. This is metaphysics. And we can know when this happens because we know the content of faith from elsewhere, before we turn to philosophy.
It seems to me that more people should be able to get on board with this understanding of the order than merely "Barthians." After all, if, as so many defenders of classical metaphysics seem to assume, there are discernable ways in which Platonism or Aristotelianism are superior or even indispensable philosophical tools for rightly understanding the faith, this can only be something we know if we know what the faith is in such a way as to make sense of this claim. If we do not, it is nonsense. Those who hold to an ecclesiology that entails the conclusion that the ancient and medieval "doctors" of the Church cannot have been wrong in any way, of course, will probably not accept this order. However, it seems to me that most of those who have this kind of "high" ecclesiology still insist on making arguments which seem to assume this order or something like it.
If we accept this order of things, we can understand how it might be the case that certain philosophical ideas assumed by the early Church (most notably simplicity and impassibility) really did add to the faith and/or distort it in discernable ways. For example, the idea of impassibility caused problems for Christology in that it became necessary to deny that the divine Son suffered when the man Jesus did, in spite of the fact that according to the orthodox view there was no other subject of the union, or to make paradoxical formulations like that he "suffered impassibly." In any case, these are things that must be argued, and the order gives us a way of understanding the conditions under which we can argue about them.
Finally, I think this allows us to be freer and less anxious with regard to questions concerning which philosophy or philosophies we adopt in the theological task. For that reason alone it is worth considering.
This view, both in Barth's own work and that of his followers, has been met with much confusion and consternation. I wish in this post to provide a perspective on this issue that will, hopefully, clear the air of some of the most persistent misunderstandings.
A caveat: though Barth's theology has been very influential on my own thought, both directly and through his interpreters, I am by no means a qualified Barth scholar. The following thoughts are first of all my own. I suspect some, perhaps most of Barth's followers would share my view, and perhaps Barth did, or would, as well. In any case I think that what I have to say is mostly congenial to Barth.
Part of the confusion about Barth's rejection of "metaphysics," I suspect, is that the word itself has often been used to mean, more or less, what we today call "philosophy." Before modern times, what we today would call "science" or "natural science" was called "natural philosophy." Philosophy, that is, was thought to include not only what we today would call "philosophical" issues, but also what we would consider scientific matters. Anything else, within philosophy, was considered "metaphysics."
Since Kant, if not earlier, modern philosophy has tended to reject certain ways of thinking, referred to as "metaphysics." But this metaphysics, I think, only included some of the things that were previously thought to be included under that word. In particular, what modern philosophy meant to reject under this label was any method of acquiring knowledge about transcendent realities (e.g., God, the soul, etc.) through investigation of and meditation on concrete, directly observable phenomena.
Into this context came Karl Barth. Of course, his thought would never have taken the precise form it did had it not been for his particular historical situation, and the influence of Kant (more directly, the Marburg "neo-Kantians" of the early 20th century) on his thought. Nevertheless, Barth did not simply accept one (modern) philosophical perspective as beyond question in such a way that it controlled his understanding of theology. Nor could he have done so, for reasons we shall now see.
Concerned as Barth was with re-claiming the Reformation principle of sola Scriptura, he was naturally happy to accept the philosophical perspective of much of modernity. Why should we care if we cannot know about God or the soul by our own efforts, if we can know these things in faith from God's self-revelation? In fact, insofar as philosophy takes away the metaphysical path, it might drive us to the only source left to us; in that, Barth might say, we should rejoice. This is to say, Barth did not simply accept certain philosophical perspectives as if we were (perhaps unfortunately) bound to limit ourselves to "only" knowing God through Scripture. If anything, the causal relation went in the other direction.
But if we cannot know God through metaphysics, this also means we do not know God via any philosophical path. Any such path would be, by definition, metaphysics. Here is where a lot of confusion arises in discussions about Barth and barthianisms. For if the problem arises, for Barth, when we think we know God through philosophy, does this not mean that we should reject philosophy tout court, at least when doing theology? One might be forgiven for thinking that that is, indeed, Barth's position. But if so, he obviously contradicts himself, seeing as how he draws on philosophical work (e.g., Kant, Hegel, Buber, and even Plato).
Therefore, many seem to think, Barth cannot really be rejecting philosophy as a way of knowing God. He must really mean that we should reject knowing God through ancient and medieval, Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy, and opt for modern alternatives instead. And if so, he is, at best, somewhat arbitrary. Worse, if we do know God through philosophy after all, then the suspicion arises that when we change our philosophical perspective, we may believe in a different God. In any case, if we cannot avoid knowing God through some philosophy, then if we cannot know God this way, we are left with agnosticism. For these reasons, it is thought, we should resist the modern rejection of metaphysics with all our strength, with all due respect to Barth's unfortunate protestations.
However, this is not really Barth's position. That is, he does not conclude, and his view does not logically necessitate that he conclude, that philosophy is simply useless for theology, in spite of the fact that he was in deadly earnest when he insisted that we do not know God through philosophy, even of a modern sort. It seems to me that everything depends on how one uses philosophy in theology. It is, as it often is in Barth's thought, a matter of order.
What I want to suggest is that for Barth, philosophy definitely has a place in theology. The question is one of locating that "place" and taking care that philosophy stay in that place. And this "place" is, I think, in an absolutely subordinate place. What I mean is that, for Barth, we do not know God through philosophy. Rather, we know God in faith through God's self-revelation in Christ, as witnessed to in Holy Scripture. It is only subsequently that philosophy legitimately comes in as a way of explicating, explaining, elaborating, and understanding what we already know in this way. In fact, philosophy is unavoidable and indispensable for these tasks, the tasks of the academic theologian. For these tasks!--and no others.
Once this order is understood, one will necessarily conclude that there are distinguishable and, as it were, observable differences between good and bad ways of using philosophy in theological work. Insofar as philosophy does not merely explain what is known through faith but adds to it, subtracts from it, or otherwise distorts it, something has gone wrong. This is metaphysics. And we can know when this happens because we know the content of faith from elsewhere, before we turn to philosophy.
It seems to me that more people should be able to get on board with this understanding of the order than merely "Barthians." After all, if, as so many defenders of classical metaphysics seem to assume, there are discernable ways in which Platonism or Aristotelianism are superior or even indispensable philosophical tools for rightly understanding the faith, this can only be something we know if we know what the faith is in such a way as to make sense of this claim. If we do not, it is nonsense. Those who hold to an ecclesiology that entails the conclusion that the ancient and medieval "doctors" of the Church cannot have been wrong in any way, of course, will probably not accept this order. However, it seems to me that most of those who have this kind of "high" ecclesiology still insist on making arguments which seem to assume this order or something like it.
If we accept this order of things, we can understand how it might be the case that certain philosophical ideas assumed by the early Church (most notably simplicity and impassibility) really did add to the faith and/or distort it in discernable ways. For example, the idea of impassibility caused problems for Christology in that it became necessary to deny that the divine Son suffered when the man Jesus did, in spite of the fact that according to the orthodox view there was no other subject of the union, or to make paradoxical formulations like that he "suffered impassibly." In any case, these are things that must be argued, and the order gives us a way of understanding the conditions under which we can argue about them.
Finally, I think this allows us to be freer and less anxious with regard to questions concerning which philosophy or philosophies we adopt in the theological task. For that reason alone it is worth considering.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Pluralism Vs. Secularism
I haven't posted here for about half a year. I would say I'm sorry about that, but the fact is, I have had good reasons not to blog. I've been busy moving from the UK to the US, getting settled back in Princeton, NJ, and finally getting some dissertation writing done. But in any case, I'll try to be better about this in the future.
In this post, I'd like to define a couple of terms and discuss the distinction thereby established. I realize the terms as I define them are not exactly as others use them or define them. I don't see this as a problem. To do one's own thinking, one often needs one's own words.
This distinction has to do with politics. This is an important point to make, because these words might be used differently in other contexts, perhaps even by me. I am not here discussing those contexts, but only the context of politics. Keep this firmly in mind as this discussion proceeds.
So, in the context of politics, I would like to use the words "pluralism" and "secularism" to denote two distinct approaches to what might be called the intersection (or lack thereof) of the social and the political. Unfortunately, this brings us again to the necessity of explaining some idiosyncratic word usage. When I say "social" in this case, I do not mean to use the word to denote the various economic goods, issues, or rights often dealt with under certain so-called "social programs," "social safety-nets," and the like. Quite aside from the issue of the exact proper interaction of this "social" and the political, I am convinced that it is a different issue from that of the interaction of another "social" and the political. This other social is what is generally meant in terms like one's "social life," "social networking," etc. It denotes the sphere of voluntary association. Under this definition of the word "social," religion is obviously included.
Given that religion, among other "social" bonds, is a matter of voluntary association, and that politics (which involves, however indirectly, the government) is not a matter of voluntary association, two options present themselves. Either (a) political participation must involve the subtraction or (at least partial) suppression of one's social bonds/views/beliefs/etc., or (b) it involves creative agreements, compromises, etc., between those of different social groups and viewpoints. The first option (a) I call secularism, the second (b) I call pluralism.
I think that once this distinction is in place, it becomes clear that much of our present political/social discourse is very confused. Too often combatants in the "culture wars" shift almost imperceptibly from secularist to pluralistic assumptions and back, ignoring the irreconcilable distinctions. Or, on the other hand, some apparent pluralists are treated as if they simply equate the social (especially the religious) and the political, which ignores the similarities between pluralism and secularism (i.e., that they both assume that social bonds are voluntary).
It may have occurred to the reader by this point that I prefer pluralism as a solution to the problem. This is for two reasons. First, as a Christian, I do not consider it a live option for me to leave my faith behind when I consider politics. The second reason is related: I do not think anyone, in point of fact, actually does leave their social beliefs behind when they enter politics. In any case, I have yet to encounter an example. This seems to be the case for obvious reasons. Politics involves not only facts, but values. It seems incredible to me that at this point in history, anyone thinks that there are a set of values that all social groups can agree to. Secularism, on the other hand, seems to inevitably involve the view that there are such values.
Under pluralism, it is necessary to re-instate the value of tolerance. Obviously, tolerance cannot be the only value we live by, particularly in our social lives. But in politics, it is necessary. Again, I think our current political/social conversation sorely lacks this value. The "culture wars" are the case-in-point. These battles assume that, at least in politics, tolerance is not to be tolerated. Tolerance means you disagree with and/or disapprove of something, yet put up with it. In the culture wars, it is assumed by many in the right-wing that you cannot put up with anything you disagree with, whereas on the (so-called) left-wing it is often assumed that if you do not approve of something, you will inevitably stop putting up with it. As a consequence, it is assumed that (mere) tolerance cannot be tolerated. As is often the case in dualistic arguments, the two extreme sides feed off each other.
Obviously, there is a lot more to say on this issue. I will be very interested in continuing this conversation, and would like to hear your thoughts.
In this post, I'd like to define a couple of terms and discuss the distinction thereby established. I realize the terms as I define them are not exactly as others use them or define them. I don't see this as a problem. To do one's own thinking, one often needs one's own words.
This distinction has to do with politics. This is an important point to make, because these words might be used differently in other contexts, perhaps even by me. I am not here discussing those contexts, but only the context of politics. Keep this firmly in mind as this discussion proceeds.
So, in the context of politics, I would like to use the words "pluralism" and "secularism" to denote two distinct approaches to what might be called the intersection (or lack thereof) of the social and the political. Unfortunately, this brings us again to the necessity of explaining some idiosyncratic word usage. When I say "social" in this case, I do not mean to use the word to denote the various economic goods, issues, or rights often dealt with under certain so-called "social programs," "social safety-nets," and the like. Quite aside from the issue of the exact proper interaction of this "social" and the political, I am convinced that it is a different issue from that of the interaction of another "social" and the political. This other social is what is generally meant in terms like one's "social life," "social networking," etc. It denotes the sphere of voluntary association. Under this definition of the word "social," religion is obviously included.
Given that religion, among other "social" bonds, is a matter of voluntary association, and that politics (which involves, however indirectly, the government) is not a matter of voluntary association, two options present themselves. Either (a) political participation must involve the subtraction or (at least partial) suppression of one's social bonds/views/beliefs/etc., or (b) it involves creative agreements, compromises, etc., between those of different social groups and viewpoints. The first option (a) I call secularism, the second (b) I call pluralism.
I think that once this distinction is in place, it becomes clear that much of our present political/social discourse is very confused. Too often combatants in the "culture wars" shift almost imperceptibly from secularist to pluralistic assumptions and back, ignoring the irreconcilable distinctions. Or, on the other hand, some apparent pluralists are treated as if they simply equate the social (especially the religious) and the political, which ignores the similarities between pluralism and secularism (i.e., that they both assume that social bonds are voluntary).
It may have occurred to the reader by this point that I prefer pluralism as a solution to the problem. This is for two reasons. First, as a Christian, I do not consider it a live option for me to leave my faith behind when I consider politics. The second reason is related: I do not think anyone, in point of fact, actually does leave their social beliefs behind when they enter politics. In any case, I have yet to encounter an example. This seems to be the case for obvious reasons. Politics involves not only facts, but values. It seems incredible to me that at this point in history, anyone thinks that there are a set of values that all social groups can agree to. Secularism, on the other hand, seems to inevitably involve the view that there are such values.
Under pluralism, it is necessary to re-instate the value of tolerance. Obviously, tolerance cannot be the only value we live by, particularly in our social lives. But in politics, it is necessary. Again, I think our current political/social conversation sorely lacks this value. The "culture wars" are the case-in-point. These battles assume that, at least in politics, tolerance is not to be tolerated. Tolerance means you disagree with and/or disapprove of something, yet put up with it. In the culture wars, it is assumed by many in the right-wing that you cannot put up with anything you disagree with, whereas on the (so-called) left-wing it is often assumed that if you do not approve of something, you will inevitably stop putting up with it. As a consequence, it is assumed that (mere) tolerance cannot be tolerated. As is often the case in dualistic arguments, the two extreme sides feed off each other.
Obviously, there is a lot more to say on this issue. I will be very interested in continuing this conversation, and would like to hear your thoughts.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Liberal and Conservative "Evangelicals": Two Peas in a Pod
Being a formerly "conservative" evangelical myself, I take special interest in the tendencies of the growing tribe of mostly young white males who have the same, or a similar, history. Many call themselves "emergents," which indicates the narrative they like to tell about themselves: they "emerged" from something, and are, perhaps, still moving away from it; but to what?
The problem, it seems to me, is that what they typically take with them from conservative evangelicalism (hereafter "CE") is as important, if not more so, than what they leave behind. And these aspects of CE are not, in my view, positive aspects. Their new found liberalism rests on a very similar foundation to their old conservatism.
This foundation has three interconnected aspects. The first aspect shared in common between both CE and this "emerging" liberal evangelicalism (hereafter "LE") is anti-intellectualism. This claim will, no doubt, be surprising to many, since often the favored claim or assumption is that the "emergence" is based, in part at least, on a new openness to, and acquisition of, scholarly and scientific knowledge. However, I think the tendency toward anti-intellectualism is still prevalent even in and beyond this emergence. To explain this, it is necessary to distinguish between two similar types of anti-intellectualism. The first, obviously more prevalent in conservative circles (including CE) is the "I don't need no book larnin'!" type. Adherents of this type take pride in not being one of those stuffy intellectual types, openly or secretly relishing in the belief that knowledge, so sought-after by these intellectuals, is actually gained by the simple-minded wisdom they themselves exhibit. But there is a second type of anti-intellectualism, more subtle but nonetheless real. Adherents of this type like to pride themselves on joining the ranks of the intelligentsia--or perhaps only wisely appropriating the results of their efforts--without having to do any difficult work themselves. They read one book and presume suddenly to know what "the experts" or "scholars" think about a topic. Never mind that there may be significant disagreements even among the experts. Never mind that the position taken by the author of the book in question may be a minority opinion in the guild.
Both types of anti-intellectualism are basically forms of pride. This is why questioning the knowledge of either type of evangelical will get the same sort of huffy response. Not, "Oh, that's interesting; I haven't thought about that!" Rather, you get, "What do you know anyway?" Here we arrive at the second, related common aspect of CE and LE: a supremely self-confident bravado toward just about any kind of subject matter. Like all of us, they come to a subject matter with presuppositions. What sets them apart is the fact that no amount of investigation can get them to question these presuppositions in any depth. Granted, when an adherent to CE moves toward LE, some, at least, of the presuppositions do change, and undoubtedly this happens in connection with some measure of encounter with the subject matter or thought about it. But in general, this tends to happen at a very shallow level. Again, reading one book might overthrow an entire worldview and replace it with another. What they can't stand is the difficult, painful process of re-thinking a particular topic and its relation to their whole way of thinking in an integrative manner. So they "convert" quickly from one to the other (usually from CE to LE), so as not to have to spend any significant time studying or asking any questions.
Finally, there is the aspect (again, deeply related to the other two) of tending toward membership in one or another "in" group. Let's not be too hard on this tendency; after all, converting away from CE often involves many difficulties with parents, other family members, and/or friends. CE is often found in its own kind of in groups, forming quite unhealthy levels of enforced conformity. As bad as this is, it seems to be somewhat addictive. Finding another such group is understandably a felt need when one breaks with one of them. In these groups, one rarely or never has to question one's presuppositions, or to tolerate it when someone else questions them. The group feeds off of and reinforces the aforementioned bravado. After all, when all of one's peers think the same thing, then why look into the matter any more? And this brings us back to anti-intellectualism. This final tendency is well-illustrated by this joke:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cGB7RnjdLI
What CE and LE have in common, in summary, is a tendency to think about the doctrines of the faith, not with them. It is their underlying, unquestioned, liberal or conservative ideology which constitutes the perspective from which they consider the Christian faith. Admittedly, adherents of LE do seem to realize this to some extent. Formerly, as adherents of CE, they had thought that their way of thinking simply was Christianity, read more or less directly from the Bible. Moving toward LE, they find that this is not the case. But what to do once this realization comes? Simply reject CE (in favor of....?), because it is unaware of its own contingency? But this, it seems to me, is no solution, just a (probably partial) recognition of the problem. A solution can only be found in sustained confrontation with the subject matter of the faith, in such a way as to discover not only its superficial contents but also its deeper, underlying unity. But to do this would mean to reject CE at a much deeper level than "emergents" typically wish to reject it. It means committing oneself to the hard intellectual work, with patience and humility, and in such a way as to require that one learn to be in conflicted and conflictual community with others.
The problem, it seems to me, is that what they typically take with them from conservative evangelicalism (hereafter "CE") is as important, if not more so, than what they leave behind. And these aspects of CE are not, in my view, positive aspects. Their new found liberalism rests on a very similar foundation to their old conservatism.
This foundation has three interconnected aspects. The first aspect shared in common between both CE and this "emerging" liberal evangelicalism (hereafter "LE") is anti-intellectualism. This claim will, no doubt, be surprising to many, since often the favored claim or assumption is that the "emergence" is based, in part at least, on a new openness to, and acquisition of, scholarly and scientific knowledge. However, I think the tendency toward anti-intellectualism is still prevalent even in and beyond this emergence. To explain this, it is necessary to distinguish between two similar types of anti-intellectualism. The first, obviously more prevalent in conservative circles (including CE) is the "I don't need no book larnin'!" type. Adherents of this type take pride in not being one of those stuffy intellectual types, openly or secretly relishing in the belief that knowledge, so sought-after by these intellectuals, is actually gained by the simple-minded wisdom they themselves exhibit. But there is a second type of anti-intellectualism, more subtle but nonetheless real. Adherents of this type like to pride themselves on joining the ranks of the intelligentsia--or perhaps only wisely appropriating the results of their efforts--without having to do any difficult work themselves. They read one book and presume suddenly to know what "the experts" or "scholars" think about a topic. Never mind that there may be significant disagreements even among the experts. Never mind that the position taken by the author of the book in question may be a minority opinion in the guild.
Both types of anti-intellectualism are basically forms of pride. This is why questioning the knowledge of either type of evangelical will get the same sort of huffy response. Not, "Oh, that's interesting; I haven't thought about that!" Rather, you get, "What do you know anyway?" Here we arrive at the second, related common aspect of CE and LE: a supremely self-confident bravado toward just about any kind of subject matter. Like all of us, they come to a subject matter with presuppositions. What sets them apart is the fact that no amount of investigation can get them to question these presuppositions in any depth. Granted, when an adherent to CE moves toward LE, some, at least, of the presuppositions do change, and undoubtedly this happens in connection with some measure of encounter with the subject matter or thought about it. But in general, this tends to happen at a very shallow level. Again, reading one book might overthrow an entire worldview and replace it with another. What they can't stand is the difficult, painful process of re-thinking a particular topic and its relation to their whole way of thinking in an integrative manner. So they "convert" quickly from one to the other (usually from CE to LE), so as not to have to spend any significant time studying or asking any questions.
Finally, there is the aspect (again, deeply related to the other two) of tending toward membership in one or another "in" group. Let's not be too hard on this tendency; after all, converting away from CE often involves many difficulties with parents, other family members, and/or friends. CE is often found in its own kind of in groups, forming quite unhealthy levels of enforced conformity. As bad as this is, it seems to be somewhat addictive. Finding another such group is understandably a felt need when one breaks with one of them. In these groups, one rarely or never has to question one's presuppositions, or to tolerate it when someone else questions them. The group feeds off of and reinforces the aforementioned bravado. After all, when all of one's peers think the same thing, then why look into the matter any more? And this brings us back to anti-intellectualism. This final tendency is well-illustrated by this joke:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cGB7RnjdLI
What CE and LE have in common, in summary, is a tendency to think about the doctrines of the faith, not with them. It is their underlying, unquestioned, liberal or conservative ideology which constitutes the perspective from which they consider the Christian faith. Admittedly, adherents of LE do seem to realize this to some extent. Formerly, as adherents of CE, they had thought that their way of thinking simply was Christianity, read more or less directly from the Bible. Moving toward LE, they find that this is not the case. But what to do once this realization comes? Simply reject CE (in favor of....?), because it is unaware of its own contingency? But this, it seems to me, is no solution, just a (probably partial) recognition of the problem. A solution can only be found in sustained confrontation with the subject matter of the faith, in such a way as to discover not only its superficial contents but also its deeper, underlying unity. But to do this would mean to reject CE at a much deeper level than "emergents" typically wish to reject it. It means committing oneself to the hard intellectual work, with patience and humility, and in such a way as to require that one learn to be in conflicted and conflictual community with others.
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