Islam, Modernity, and Us

Still not sure if anyone actually reads this thing, but every now and then I get an email from someone referring to a post of several months ago, so I guess I should at least seasonally update my blog. Last weekend was quite busy for me; I was at Notre Dame for the Center for Ethics and Culture's annual fall conference, "Modernity: Yearning for the Infinite," then for our regional Communion and Liberation Advent retreat. So here is one reflection that struck me from the conference (although there are many more insights offered by speakers or in conversation that I won't be listing here). I may post a reflection from the second keynote, by Paul Griffiths, later this week or next.

First, the conference began with Professor MacIntyre's keynote, "Islam, Modernity, and Us." His provocative thesis was that when we talk about Islam, we're talking about ourselves, because we as Christians strive to engage modernity, which is ambivalent toward religious claims. While modernity is not irreligious, it offers a circumscribed space in which to practice one's faith, provided religion does not threaten the boundaries of other elements of modern life, such as politics and technology. In fact, modernity tends to fragment life, such that my work life is distinct from my personal life, and both from political or biological life; there is no public forum in which to ask what is the good for me, or for us, qua human beings, which religion tries to do. Instead, markets operate by independent, amoral norms; as for technology, what can be done may, indeed should, be done; and the limitations of our politics are taken as a given, even if perhaps modern democratic politics cannot adequately address today's most pressing issues. Each of these fields is taken as self-justifying and autonomous, without facing real, critical challenges in the public sphere (universities don't count).

As religions try to adapt to modernity, an easy impulse is to assimilate, accepting a truncated version of themselves that keeps them from genuinely challenging the established order. As believers become dissatisfied with restrictions on their freedom, they might rebel, rejecting the modern project altogether and seeking refuge in an ahistorical, fundamentalist version of faith (I'm reminded of the imam's city of halted clocks in Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses). In promoting a purportedly pure, absolute faith, "the other" becomes evil, and violence ensues. These two options, I think, are the most common because they are easy. Religious people are either secularists dressed in religious garb, or artifacts enshrined in a museum, which lose their meaning because they have lost their context.

The via tertia (not a via media) that MacIntyre endorses seeks to create a space in which revelation is brought into conversation with reason and all the evidences at our disposal; a locus at which every aspect of my life can be discussed not as it relates to my prescribed, delineated roles, but as it relates to me, in a holistic sense. MacIntyre talked about a movement of Muslim women in Egypt who have begun gathering together to discuss ideas or their own conduct, even, for example, how they should dress in public. Each contribution to these meetings is expected to be defended rationally, yet they also insist on engagement with religious tradition. One can see these movements in the Catholic Church as well, such as in Communion and Liberation.

As to how these movements challenge the established order, I'm not sure. I don't think anyone should feel particularly threatened by the fact there are citizens taking their lives and actions seriously. But then again, they are radical precisely because they put on the table questions that might make me limit or revise my use of certain technologies, or my conduct at work, or I might just become a gadfly that puts a challenging question on the table now and then. What's truly revolutionary, however, is the change that such movements can accomplish in individuals; and every shift in character and identity has its ripple effect on communities. A friend asked me over lunch at the conference, if I were to found a revolutionary society, what cause I would choose, what I would fight against. My first thought was that I would wage a war against myself, a space where I could challenge myself and others to examine critically our lives and to make a real, persistent effort to live authentically, reasonably, and faithfully. This project is important for me because I find that it's much easier to identify and affirm the truth, than to care about it; and if I don't care, why should I expect others to? As far as my actions are concerned, only a change in me really change the world. Furthermore, finding peace within empowers us to advocate the right causes well, because we are freed from anxiety and insecurity about who we are.

Second, movements to dilate reason and begin a conversation with faith also make room for cross-cultural dialogue. As long as religion is invited to the table only after it is crippled by external restrictions, there is no room for dialogue, because religion will not be taken seriously. There is a toleration more dangerous than hostility, for some kinds of toleration allow me to think and say whatever I want, and people will tell me "That's an interesting thought," or "Good for you!", but will never accept a challenge that threatens their way of life; at least those who are hostile perceive, and must come to terms with, the offense. It's a goal of mine to take part some day in an interreligious network between Christian, Jewish, and Muslim movements that take faith and reason seriously, because a forum such as that is perhaps the best chance we have for true dialogue today.

Forgotten Wars

I've been reading a fascinating book by French philosopher Bernard-Henri Levy, who pretty much parachuted into five of today's worst warzones: Sri Lanka, South Sudan, Burundi, Angola, and Colombia (War, Evil, and the End of History). What distinguishes these wars is that, unlike our grand, world-shaping battles, they have no meaning. No battle for the soul of Islam, no clash of civilizations, no confrontation of ideologies. Rather, children are pressed into military service, and innocent people live aware that no one cares whether they live or die, nor will anyone know their fate. How will a massacre of a rural African village affect me? How will the success or failure of a rebel militia affect the course of world history? The global implications of battles involving the West and radical Islam are clear, or if not clear, at least certain. The forgotten wars, however, have no implications.

Sri Lanka has been in the news recently, because violence has re-erupted between the Tamils and the Sindhalese. I read an article about some Catholic priests who have been rushing around their village trying to protect civilians of all faiths (Christians are a small minority; the ethnic conflict is between Hindus and Buddhists, with neutral Christians and, believe it or not, Muslims caught in the crossfire of terrorism). A priest called out to the world, "We are heading towards an isolated, unknown and silent death. Are we going to be a people forgotten? Not cared for? Is the World going to keep silent now and count on our bones from mass graves to sit on judgment? How will the international community especially the European Union, Co-Chairs, and Peace envoys of Norway and Japan be indifferent when innocent, unarmed, people are systematically decimated." Apparently, one priest, who witnessed the massacre of 15 people he was sheltering in his Church, has recently disappeared.

As a catechetical minister in the states, this story struck me inasmuch as it contrasts with the ease of my ministry. I spend my time planning discussions on social justice, catechizing new Christians, or discussing Scripture with high school students at Starbucks. Surely these activities fulfill some needs of the Church where I am placed. But in Sri Lanka, ministers are doing all they can just to preserve life in an inescapable hell. It's tremendously difficult for me to imagine a genuinely life-or-death ministerial situation. I try to instill in all to whom I minister the conviction that they are created in the image of God, that their lives and choices have meaning and implications. How could I do that when faced with a society that utterly disregards human life, or a world that ignores the deaths of so many? How could I find God and show him to my parish when my people were living as a people damned--unnamed, forgotten, and of no consequence any longer?

While I can think of no practical responses I can initiate (any suggestions?), I do recall Paul's admonishment: "God has so constructed the body as to give greater honor to a part that is without honor, so that there may be no division in the body, but that the parts may have the same concern for one another. If one part suffers, all the parts suffer with it; if one part is honored, all the parts share its joy" (1 Corinthians 12:24-26). Events in the Sri Lankan Church are just significant as events in the American Church, where we concern ourselves with things of greater (practical) consequence, things that actually have effects; somehow I wonder if what happens in forgotten regions, where our voice is of no practical significance, is in fact of greater consequence, for our words and actions in those regions interrupt, however quietly, the darkness of hell. (I wonder: How is the work of Christians in those forgotten parts of the world perceived?) Who are we to say that pivotal events in our history are also pivotal eschatological, when perhaps the suffering of those abandoned to violence, of those remembered only by a God who seems not to care, is more eschatologically definitive. That is, our response to the forgotten might more deeply define our world and our humanity than does the outcome of the great wars going on today. I can't do much for the forgotten, but a first step is to practice greater solidarity, at least in prayer, with all "the damned," all those meaningless victims of meaningless violence, who cannot even console themselves that their annihilation--whether by physical death or dehumanization or utter loss of agency--is in service of some greater cause. I can at least listen to the voiceless, and begin to give them a voice....

More on Responses to Terrorism

open book: This is what bothers people

Hey, for those interested in more on the topic below, including a lot of voices who disagree with me, check out this post by Amy. You can also get a bonus post from me by scrolling down to my comment on her site.

Unjust Suffering and Just War

For those who are more loyal to this blog than I have been over the past three months (Dad), here's a new post after a busy summer of classes.

One of my most interesting classes this summer was on human suffering. We read a variety of theological texts, and surprisingly, not many dealt with questions that occupy us today. Even our professor, in designing the course, expected to consider the classic Humean question, "How can a benevolent God create a world in which evil exists?" Turning to texts in the Christian tradition, we discovered that a more pressing question for much of our history was "Why should Christians suffer more than everyone else?" and "What is Christian suffering?" Today, the question of theodicy weighs heavily on our shoulders today; no less urgent, however, are those ancient questions forgotten in our historic and religious amnesia: Why do the just suffer? How do we react to suffering?

The surprising answer that many authors proposed is that Christians should expect to suffer; in fact, if we're not suffering, we must ask ourselves if our faith is genuine and active. Christians, and all people who live justly, inevitably suffer in this world for two reasons. First, we are required to give up what looks like success to the worldly in pursuit of what is truly good. For example, a pregnant, unmarried teenager who opts to carry her child to term instead of aborting will likely have to abort her own hopes and dreams of success out of love for her child. Temptations to seek what is most advantageous to us crouch at the door, and in choosing the good, we lose our life; but only in dying out of love are we truly born to eternal life and happiness.

Second, we can be persecuted for choosing the good. For example, the woman who chooses to bear her child might be scolded by her boyfriend and parents and be ostracized by her friends. Partly these influences want what is advantageous for the girl they love, but their love is infected with anger and resentment toward one who would challenge them with a more perfect love. It's embarassing for human beings to see someone give her life completely for another, when human love is generally conditional. If you're successful, or if it's convenient, I will love you; there's always a limit to how much of myself I will share. Thus when we see Jesus's love revealed in his abasement and presence among the poor and accused, we initially seek his annihilation, or at least flee from him, afraid that his perfect love will expose our half-hearted charity.

So what does all of this have to do with just war? In a conversation at a wedding last weekend, a friend and I reflected on the crises in the Middle East. Given Hezbollah's clearly unjust tactics, like their use of civilians as shields, and their ambiguous juridical status, how is a modern nation to justly defend itself? In what ways is it permissible for a nation to defend itself against unjust tactics?

Several years ago, at the dawn of the Iraq war, I argued in a talk that, as a practical tool, just war doctrine must keep apace with developments in warfare; changing circumstances must affect our action, which is always action in context. For example, modern military capabilities might justify a preemptive strike against an imminent threat; but modern means of diplomacy, which must be exhausted before military action becomes licit, militates in the opposite direction and suggests that like capital punishment, war might become obsolete in modernity. You can read more at an article at PBS.com (actually, the article missed my thesis entirely, but I was still excited to be quoted at PBS).

My conversation last weekend led me to a further consideration. How effective should we demand just war to be? I realized talking points in defense of, say, Israel's action in Lebanon or America's action in Iraq, included a premise such as: "The only way for Israel to defend itself is to...." For example, the only way for Israel to defend itself is to accept (regrettably) collateral damage (high civilian casualties), because Hezbollah is using noncombatants as shields. Israel must defend itself, therefore it is just to incur high civilian casualties in modern warfare. Furthermore, inaction might lead to even higher civilian deaths from terrorism. (In response to this last point, we are obliged to protect civilians when possible, but we are not directly responsible for civilian deaths accomplished by other parties, as we are responsible for deaths caused by our own action. The question is what means of defense are just.)

The common argument outlined above assumes that justice and injustice are on equal footing. Justice should always be effective against injustice. Therefore, the only effective means of defense is by definition just. But where in life are justice and injustice on equal footing? If justice is always so successful, why is injustice so tempting? It is quite easy to cheat one's way through many difficulties, whether copying someone else's homework, practicing insider trading, or even murdering those who obstruct our prosperity. Injustice actually appears to be more advantageous than justice, because no means are barred. Justice limits our possibilities, but it ensures our integrity, even if it leads us to suffer. While we must always callibrate just war theory to our changing world, it is dangerous to assume that justice will always win. Rather, justice often requires great sacrifices. Once we realize that justice requires limits, our response to unjust tactics, such as using civilians as human shields, becomes clearer. A nation must defend itself, but it must do so justly. When we must choose to limit our means of defense to avoid collateral damage or to make ourselves more vulnerable, we may have to choose the latter.

Thus even today we may be martyred for the sake of justice. This fundamental aspect of Christian life and tradition appears to be far from our consciousness in our current intercivilizational crisis. But it is not just Christians for whom these reflections are relevant. Christ, our master, died a convicted felon, but so did Socrates. In fact, in Plato's "Republic," Socrates accepted Thrasymachus's challenge that the perfectly just man, to reveal that he loves the good for its own sake, must suffer and die in this world. Now is the time to recall that we pursue justice not for our success, but simpy for its own sake. The perfectly just will give up everything for justice.

(FYI, I don't really rise to this standard, but it's important to sketch the standard and examine
ourselves according to its logic. Our approach to the Good is a life-long journey that persists beyond our death. Nor do I expect most nations will be interested in holding themselves to a standard of justice; if leaders tried always to act justly, they'd probably be voted out of office quite quickly, although cynicism ought not blind us to those leaders who do seek justice.)