The Intersection of the Personal and the Public

At least here in the United States, Christianity as we know it often gets tied to the political spectrum. Of course, there is nothing new about that: the period in Continental history we describe as the Reformation was nothing if not political. In fact, the entire history of the church as such is fraught with conflict and the affairs of humanity. In one sense, that is exactly what we would expect. What is politics, after all, if not the theory and practice of government, deriving from a word that originally comes from Greek politēs (“citizen”) and extended to polis (“city”). That is, it is rather naïve and sentimental to imagine a world without politics, for as long as there are people, there will exist a need to organize their labors, divide their duties, deal with legal issues, and in general take care of the daily affairs of life. Then too, people being people, there will always be the overly ambitious and the grabs for power and the dishonest persons who step on the necks of others to climb to the top. So then, we would expect that the political sphere and the religious sphere would often be intertwined. However, along came a chapter in British and American history that introduced a radically new idea in the name of progress, tolerance, and diplomacy best known as “the separation of church and state.” It is gross reductionism to say that when the church holds the scepter it also holds the axe that removes heads, but it does at least approximate the idea this separation seeks to remedy.

Christianity itself is an interesting creature. For 1500 years, give or take a few, the European world was held together primarily by one church. There was of course the Orthodox Church that also existed from early on and a few other groups claim that title as well, but the Church of Rome unquestionably was the central organizing unit throughout the European continent. Whether we like him or not, a monk named Martin Luther made radical history by publicly elevating his own conscience above papal authority. In re-centering Christianity within the private believer, the changes effected rippled into every sphere, not least of which the political, one of many dominoes set up and then toppled, leading us into everything from social contract theory to democratic appointment to the invention of the individual as such: the concept of the individual as individual. Were it not for Martin Luther—again whether we like him or not—the modern world with its capitalism, democracy, separation of powers, individualism, and all the many things we take for granted could not have existed, or, if they existed, they would almost certainly have required some other Martin Luther. In just these last five hundred years, the effects of Christianity have been profoundly political.

We have mentioned Christianity’s effects, but what was at stake during the Reformation that involved the faith itself? We know what it was in the Apostle Paul’s day: the controversy was long and bitter over to what extend the new faith should honor its parent Judaism. In the four hundred years to follow, the controversy was over which books to include in the bible, conflicts that saw no little sweat, heated words, and inflammatory rhetoric. Every other day, a new crop of heretics sprouted up, only to be uprooted to reveal another crop growing beneath. History repeats itself with subtle variation, and if the early church could not decide how much honor was due Father Moses, the Reformation era could not decide how much was due Mother Church. First the Jewish understanding of God was flawed, and now the Roman one, patricide and matricide—perhaps even deicide—the seeming norm of this unruly faith. (And that says nothing about actual regicide, not to mention thousands of slaughtered Turks.)

If the central organizing church is being overruled, a new question arises: what is authoritative, and why, and to what extent? We do not want any of that “popish religion” anymore, so we need a new anchor. The bible is one obvious candidate. So, beginning just with it, what is it? Is it a historic document compiled by many persons over many years or is it ahistorical, timeless, eternal? Is it both? and how does that work exactly? To what degree do we interpret the bible and to what degree does it interpret itself or interpret us? What degree does our reason and other learning play in this process or interpreting or being interpreted? What about extra-biblical things like the signing of the cross or kneeling during prayer or the use of pipe organs to provide musical accompaniment? What about religious theater? Do we omit such things entirely because they find no clear mandate in scripture? What role do the sacraments play in worship? If we admit sacraments, how many and which ones? Does the bible prescribe only two sacraments? If so, should we therefore observe only two, or are up to seven permissible because they further the faith even if they have no immediate mandate in scripture?

The questions in the above paragraph may seem tedious, but people lost their heads because of them. Then too, it is interesting to note the differing assumptions about reality that spin out of the controversies as well. For example, if we look at the Eucharist or communion, just one sacrament virtually everybody believed was instituted by our Lord (though in exactly what was was far from being agreed upon), we can get some sense of the myriad ways these debates played out. When a Roman Catholic priest takes and blesses the bread, a miracle takes place called transubstantiation. The so-called “accidental” properties of the bread remain—its shape, size, color, texture—but its “essential” properties literally become the body of Christ in a divine miracle. For Luther, when the priest takes and blesses the bread, it too is the body of Christ because God is ubiquitous, and being everywhere at once, of course he is also in the bread: this doctrine is termed consubstantiation. For Calvin, when the minister blesses the bread, it becomes the outward sign of an inward work. For Zwingli, when the bread is blessed, it is merely done in remembrance of Christ. If one traces this progression from the Roman Catholic Eucharist to the Zwingli remembrance, the degree to which God is physically present in the bread becomes further and further removed from any kind of transcendental understanding. It passes from a miracle, to a metaphysical truth, to a mere sign, to a remembrance that refrains from commenting on where the body of Christ might happen to be at any given moment. That this trend also happens to correspond to a more scientific understanding of the universe is not incidental: there is a definite correlation between a modern world view and a medieval one with implications that hold for present-day Catholics and Protestants alike.

It is not only the bread that gets transformed during this time period. As we move further and further away from the Roman Catholic center, we get multiplied and often contradictory understandings of what Christianity should be and ought to be. We now have a table with assorted elements that may or may not be deemed authoritative and in greater or lesser degree. These items include tradition, the bible, human reason, and private inspiration, with a number of bulleted sub-headings nested under tradition. If we do not accept Rome, what about those rituals and practices that help stay the minds of the faithful but are not immediately spoken of in scripture? Do we sanction them, expressly forbid them, merely tolerate them? We have already asked a billion questions about the bible: what role, what authority, what amount of either? And human reason? Do bibles interpret themselves? And is the bible a closed canon, miracles something that passed away with the early church? Or can and does God still work and move in people’s lives by providing further revelation and/or still performing miracles on occasion?

Our little detour through the annals of time was simply a very extended introduction to say that when it comes to Christianity and politics, and in particular when it comes to Christianity and the politics of the United States, there is absolutely nothing obvious about how they should and ought connect. That it seems obvious at times simply suggests that we have tunnel vision, seeing only our own country and our own way of deciding which of the four items on the table will carry weight for us and in what degree. Ever since Martin Luther made possible the modern “individual,” faith is now (thankfully) relegated to the personal sphere and politics to the political: separation of church and state. I say “thankfully,” because as our excursion above suggests, people start losing their heads when faith becomes a political force. But when faith is brought into the personal, it can inform our lives and give them meaning. Of course, faith still affects the political realm as well, but the difference is one of prescription. I speak as the individual, not as the politician of the Christian faith. Put differently, I anchor my political decisions in my faith, but I do not then turn around and say that all people everywhere must adhere to my political decisions as the very ordinances of Christ: I do not purport to tie my political decisions to the collective Christian body as a whole. Since the Reformation, we now have—to reiterate—the individual and the political, the personal and the public, a dichotomy absolutely unheard of in feudal society.

For that matter, it would be very tempting to say that if we follow Christ, our decisions are certainly going to align with this political party or that one, at least on individual causes. For surely Christ does not champion poverty or war, does welcome the little people, does not fill in the blank. But that is simply not so, for while we may agree that Christ stands for these things, we cannot ever seem to agree on exactly how, the differing sides of the political spectrum very often concerned with the same problems, yet proposing diametrically opposite solutions, believing all the while that such are clearly mandated by Christian authority, whether traditional, biblical, rational, or inspirational. Consider again what the Reformation shows us: Christianity is a very broad designation with a two millennia history. It is not at all obvious what elements on the table—tradition, bible, reason, private inspiration—carry weight and authority and to what degree. It only seems obvious to us because our minds are set and we surround ourselves with like-minded persons who reinforce our conclusions. How we answer the question of which item and in what degree has everything to do with the particular brand of Christianity we subscribe to. I do not say that we should not stand for what we believe is right and true: this very newsletter you are reading attempts to do that very thing on a (nearly) bi-weekly basis. I do propose, however, that we have a little more humility about the matter, recognizing that divine inspiration is too often subject to human interpretation.

I was listening to a program on National Public Radio (NPR) sponsored by the American Association of Retired Persons (AARP) entitled “Reviving Faith & Politics in a Post-Religious Right America.” (Note: Should anyone follow this direct link to the broadcast stream, it requires RealPlayer. If you are using a Windows operating system and would prefer an alternative to RealPlayer—a program that takes up a lot of space and does not always play nicely with the other programs on your PC—you can download and install these two free codecs here and here. The default configurations of both should work just fine.) The description of the program reads as follows: “Jim Wallis is an evangelical Christian minister and political activist who has worked to harness the power of faith to bring about social justice and an end to poverty. He resists being labeled as ‘left’ in his thinking, yet he has often been a lone voice in opposition to the radical religious right.” Specifically, Wallis advocates a bipartisan position, though it would depend partly on where one was situated in the political spectrum whether one agreed with that assessment or not. (To a person unapologetically on the right or the left, the middle almost always appears to tilt too far in the opposite direction, since the respective side effectively becomes for that person the “new middle.”) That Wallis seeks to work with both right and left, however, seems to me commendable: he seeks to put aside the differences long enough to champion causes very few believe unimportant, proposing dialogue rather than what too often becomes emotionally charged ad hominem attack. I highly recommend giving this program a thoughtful listen, particuarly if you are reading this newsletter in the United States.

What struck me most about the broadcast was something he said at the end that has really nothing to do with politics, except indirectly. He spoke of two opposing attitudes we all take in life. On the one hand, we are often tempted to cynicism, particularly when our differences seem far greater than our common cause. The cynic in us cares and cares deeply, else the cynic in us would not be cynical but indifferent or apathetic. Yet the cynic has effectively given up hope, retreating from the world, withdrawing into a cocoon. For the modern-day believer, that position is perfectly understandable. Not only do we have a tumultuous world to contend with, most of us secretly long for a simpler faith and see our differences not as any cause of celebration, but as glaring obstructions to the simplicity of joy and freedom and love and peace. The account that I present above is anything but simple, and the vast majority of us are aware that Christianity is not that nice, smooth, homogeneous faith we would like it to be, pure and radiant as the children who sat on Jesus’ knee. But squarely facing the history of our faith, we nevertheless can embrace it and make it our own, reshaping it, reshaping the world around us. Some of us may even attempt to throw out Christianity altogether and paradoxically seek only to follow Christ. Whatever our perspective and approach to Christianity, the second attitude Wallis describes is one of hope over and against our tendency toward cynicism.

Life is to large degree what we make it. There is no great virtue in burying our head in the sand and being unaware of what goes on around us, though ignorance in many cases is bliss and certainly there is such a thing as unhealthily feasting our mind on those things that serve only to keep us perpetually stirred just as there is such a thing as taking a fast from the cares and concerns of life. Everything has its season, though I think that if we care to make a difference in the world at all, we will not be unaware of what is going on around us, save perhaps during those times we do need to pull away and clear our heads. But there is a difference, for our retreat is only for a time; like Jesus, we retreat to the mountain to pray before returning again to heal and feed the multitude.

The question is not whether we ought to be aware of the affairs of the world around us. The question is how we choose to react to what we see. That is the question that matters. Do we retreat into cynicism, deeply caring but immobilized, losing hope, accepting defeat? Or do we choose to embrace hope, believing that our words and our actions really can—and do—make a difference? It is true that we may not be able to change the course of affairs in the world. Most of us do not sit in the driver’s seats of our various nations and we therefore have very limited control—generally—over the decisions that are there made. But while we have little control over the public sphere, do we likewise despair of making a difference in daily life? As a people, we can be most schizoid at times, on the one hand insisting that the personal and public not mix under any circumstances, on the other witnessing what takes place in the public sphere and correspondingly despairing on the personal.

Such things no doubt affect us all differently. For myself, however, I think that the world in which I live is daily confronted with such temptations to despair. The Renaissance and corresponding Restoration have largely shaped the world I daily inhabit, teaching and taking classes as I do. The university, that place where public intellectuals are born and grow their wings, has been a constant in my life for nearly a decade now. It is a place of ambitions, the meeting ground for those who will be active shapers of tomorrow’s world. That is why I so powerfully resonate with the words of Marxist critic Arnold Kettle as he explicates Shakespeare’s Hamlet in his now out-of-print Shakespeare in a Changing World:

To my mind, Kettle not only has his finger on Hamlet, he’s staring intently at us as he does. We are the descendants of the Renaissance and the Reformation; we live in a world often divided on so many fronts. If we have any inclination at all toward the public sphere, the sense of despair that we feel can at times be acute. When we start feeling this way, perhaps the best thing that we can do is retreat. Not retreat in despair and defeat, physically withdrawing in an intellectual universe where we take our last stand, but rather follow the model we see in the gospels, retreating to the mountainside—wherever the mountainside might happen to be for us—to pray. We retreat not inwardly, withdrawing from the world, though we retreat inwardly withdrawing from the world. The paradox of our previous sentence in this: the first withdrawal and retreat is self-centered, cynical, and self-defeating whereas the second is energizing and re-creative, enabling us once again to take our place in daily life, choosing to embrace hope, choosing to believe that our words really do make a difference, choosing to believe that our actions are capable of transforming lives for the better. In this way, the personal and public intersect not in any sectarian sense—which we seek to avoid—but in a truly spiritual sense, our world transformed for the greater glory of God whose kingdom is not of the earth even though his creatures very much are.

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