unfinished work

In the short hour or two I have to write this entry, I hope I may be able to provide a shoddy glimpse of some of what I've been able to see hear, listen in on, and be a part of. I did not have any time at all last night to write down what I had seen or experienced simply because I was so tired and my brains were nearly bursting. But I'll try and take the time to account for last night (technically day one of this conference) and today, which is the second day, and has enough material in it to probably write a short book.

Day 1—or, Last Night

The evening session was largely an introductory one for the Emergent-y folks to get to know the two philosophers who we'd be conversing with. They're names are Jack Caputo and Richard Kearney.

When the two of them walked onto the stage and sat on a pair of stools with Tony Jones, who functioned as an M. C. of sorts (he's the cooridinator for the Emergent Village Network—if you have no idea what I'm talking about, this is the Emergent website). Tony, who's a whimsical Ph. D student with a flair for the humorous, was able to crack the surface of this awkward meeting between two religious philosophers and a bunch of ear-pierced church-disenfranchised Christians by making the two tenured professors introduce each other. The upshot was that neither had to be overtly humble about their work, since they were building up their colleague. They basically revealed themselves (and Tony named them as such) as perhaps the two greatest living philosophers in Western culture.

Kearney and Caputo have a classic tweedle-dum tweedle-dee look to their odd pair. Kearney is a tall, dashing (at least for a tenured professor) Irishman who can spew out sentences relating the heavy concepts of postmodern philosophy at high speed, and they come out beautifully colored by his quaint irish lilt.

Caputo, on the other hand, is a short (just shorter than me), sage-like grandfather with a mustache, thick glasses, and big hands. While thinking he would often bow his head, as if he was either praying or taking a nap, then come out bursting with an answer to the posed question while talking with those aged, flippant hands—as if he was sculpting the answers out as much as he was talking about them. He is extremely witty, much like you would expect your grandfather Jack to be, but his quaintness hides the giant of a mind beneath.

Both these men have every right to drop names to their heart's content, although they're so humble they never would—and it's not that they trying to be pretentious when they talk about things, it's just that they're so smart you can't help but feel small under their piercing gaze. The trick is to hold your own, ask a smart question (can I ask a smart question?) and continue eating your sandwich.

Both these men are close companions (Caputo especially) to Jacques Derrida, who revealed the whole theory of deconstruction during the 60's and 70's. Names like Marion and Paul Riceour are personal to them, not just professional figures that they studied as students—these are companion and comrades. It's very weird for me to think that this conference makes me a mere two degrees apart from Jacques Derrida (and everyone who reads this blog probably has three degrees).

But to get to the really important stuff, last night was really a two-hour lightning tour of philosophy, from Plato and Aristotle all the way up to the present decade. And we hit on some big theologians, like St. Augustine, along the way. The reason for this was to get everyone up to speed with the historical context of philosophy, and only two philosophers of the highest caliber could do that. Caputo summed up deconstruction itself, when asked to, in merely three words: "appreciation for ambiguities."

Further into the discussion, and in fleshing out that historical context, we also fleshed out the current context that God finds Him(It)self in. Basically, this was talking about the "death of the God of metaphysics"—or, a God who is an abstract Being that has little to no presence in the real world, and how that God, or that interpretation of God, is deeply out of touch with a world that questions the modern project. The modern project being the creation of utopia" that we can improve the world through science, that religion makes a person more moral, and that standardized education, for example, can make people smarter (as opposed to brainwashing them with propoganda). The death of this God is rooted in Nietchze and other "postmodern" philosophers, but also in major historical events like WWII, where the products of science were put to the most dehumanizing and destructive of uses. After all this, the world is grappling for a new kind of spirituality that doesn't function from a top-down kind of hierarchy, beginning with an abstract Being in the sky that filters down to small peon humans below.

And this is the reason why Christianity, as it is, is so out of touch with the current culture. It teaches about God according to metaphysical philosophies. Out goes the metaphysics, out goes the Christian God. But the taks of the conference, really, is to separate the two (and this is when deconstruction comes in), since metaphysics is a human creation. It's a human construction, and it abides by the human-created laws of Reason. But God, if there is really a Christian God, is an infinite being, so it cannot be contained by anything man-made (which would be innately finite). This is one reason why atheism has (and had in the past two centuries) such a strong appeal—in a world based in Reason (as in human constructions of reason) God doesn't fit.

So now we have to deconstruct our constructions of God. Christian theology has been tainted, in a way, by Platonism, which is the original source of this cold-hearted rationalism. It had to be tainted, originally, because that was the theory of fashion of the ancient times when Christianity was spreading through Greece. But this inheritence of philosophical baggage is biting us back now, we who live in a postmodern generation that no longer values cold-hearted rationalism as the ultimate means, and even an end to itself. The great task is to redefine our interpretation of God, and—for the Christians—that means going back to the Gospels and other original texts with fresh eyes.

My brain was easily fried the that night. But the best was yet to come.

Day 2

The morning of day two of the conference was all about deconstruction. It was "deconstruction in a nutshell" and it was a talking about why it matters to Christianity. Kearney and Caputo were back, but instead of being in the lecture hall of Eastern University, we were at an alternative Baptist Church's sanctuary—a sanctuary that welcomed GLBT folks into its congregation. It was a bright place with soft, cushioned couches instead of hard pews, and we were arranged in a semi-circle fashion around the three stools on which sat Kearney, Caputo, and Tony Jones. In the middle of this four-hour piece was a coffee break, and in the latter half of those four hours was a question-and-answer session where many people expressed concerns about how to translate this lofty theoretical work into daily spiritual practice.

But it was a good grind. Very good, in fact. Caputo can play as a pastor occasionally, but both men are, at their core, philosophers. The task of Emergent was to find the correlations—which, at least in my view, are readily available—between theory and practice so that both could be informed by the other. There was solemnity, there was laughter, and a few brain cells were burst along the way. And the day was not even done.

After those four hours was lunch. Lunch consisted of sandwiches, coke, and networking. Lots of networking. I made new friends, to put it shortly; the other point to these conferences (aside from talking to the honored guests) is to make connections with people who have likeminded interests but may be across the world. I met Ph. D students working on their dissertations in ancient Judaic rituals, I met burned and disillusioned youth leaders. I met cheery consulting people and anxious publishing representatives (the latter whom I want to talk to regarding book proposals for Children of Falin. But all were friendly, all were outgoing, and there was this constant, pervasive sense that there was a common goal here, but that the goal was getting interpreted in different ways. Which is a good thing, since what we learn here has to be translated back into what we experience at home.

I got to encounter Jack Caputo for a short while one-on-one during lunch, speaking with him about what I experienced as postmodern culture (around a person like him you can only talk about your perspective on these things—there's no place for pitching out your own theories about deconstruction here; where does one start?). He described to me how the current postmodern culture has come somewhat in waves—first wave in the 70's and 80's, second wave just now emerging. The first wave was what he called as a kind of "bad postmodernity" which took to heart a kind of absolute moral relativism (what I call a close-minded open-mindedness). It was all about deconstruction, but never talked about the indeconstructible (which is something that we'll probably cover day 3 of the conference). It was all about breaking down barriers, but never doing anything about it afterwards. This is the "destructive" kind of deconstruction—the kind that ultimately leads to a nihilistic existence that forges neither love nor community among people, between people, but rather leaves a person in a microcosmic existence, trying to scrape by with whatever little they may feel able to believe (or not believe). The search for truth, in this case becomes a mere shopping spree of beliefs that fit personal preferences rather than any kind of moral or ideological framework, though the shopping spree may parade as one.

The better kind of postmodern, however, as Caputo described, is the postmodern that recognizes the need for the respect of cultural relativity, but doesn't fall into the trap of absolute relativism. It seeks a conversation, or a dialogue, between the opposing ideas or beliefs, while not assuming that either one is right. Yet both recognize they need each other, because each one may have a piece of the bigger picture that the other doesn't yet have. This is why interfaith dialogue is so important. And it's also the reason why I hate the idea that religion is an exclusively personal thing. It is personal, yes, but not exclusively so. That assumes that religious beliefs have no bearing on what you do in life—how you treat others, how you eat, and even what topics of conversation you find most important. If religious belief is exclusively personal, it might as well be nonexistent, since that defeats the point of religion altogether—which is, namely, to affect one's lifestyle.

Some might be surprised as to how much a cultural relativist I actually am (I may be open minded in ways some other open-minded people may not like—that they may find, ironically, a little too relativistic). But I never want spirituality to be a dead conversation. The more the intensity, the more personal it is, the better! For me, this is uniquely what humanity is about, and if spirituality is at the center of our lives and how we treat each other, the last thing we'd want to do would be straight jacket ourselves to an absolute way of thinking (I thought we covered this!—perhaps "there are no absolutes" is not absolute?) and moved into a world of open mindedness.

Thankfully, this is starting to happen in the Church. Of all places it's probably the slowest, but if I can be that lonely hook out on the fringe, pulling forward the rest of the massive beast forward in my own small part, I'll be glad to put in my share of the hard work, however tiring it may be.

After lunch, we broke out into group sessions. I visited the group with Mark Scandrette whose subject was about the Gospel of Surprise, or how to live a spiritual lifestyle that was based around improvising rather giving cookie-cutter answers to individual situations.

It must have been Scandrette's unique style of communication (he's a Life Coach and poet from San Francisco) or the makeup of people in the group, or both, but the session became an intensely personal two hours based around dealing with surprising conflicts in one's life, yet still affirming spiritual belief—and finding those beliefs invigorating by the trials encountered. One man shared how his wife dying of breast cancer at 32 was a big surprise for him (he's 47 now) and that it took a lot of adjustment in order to understand. It was the life-defining moments that people shared and how they exactly coped with these moments, which were often deeply tragic more than ecstatically joyful. This point is one thing that I love about Emergent: people can be honest here. There's no need to hide doubt, dissillusionment, or discomfort. In fact, these things are quickly recognized as being deeply part of the human experience, for good or ill, that need to be affirmed as real and then approached in a healthy way. One man told of how for four years he cared for his comotose mother until she died (when he was nineteen—he started caring for her at fifteen) and how not one person from his church visited him specifically to share his trials in dealing with this. Perhaps the North American cultural fear and blind-eye towards death had gotten the better of a faith community that was supposed to be supportive in a time of need.

But these are all disenfranchised members. I am too. The places and people are different, the methods by which it happened, even, are different, but the main story is the same. Disillusionment or tragedy shakes one's world and then one is forced to rebuild. How is the great question.

It was a wonderful session. It was amazing what great friends I made in two short hours. I, of course, was the youngest—most of the men here (they were mostly men) where in their thirties and forties. They had progressively revealed their ages in accordance with where they were in the trials in their lives. And me, knowing my youth, humorously admitted to it, announcing that I was nineteen (everyone thought I was much older since I had grown my goatee out and tried to act like a thirty year old who knew something). And yet they affirmed the fact that I may have deep trials in my own life, and that age shouldn't water down those trials, and that while I may learn deeply from how these elder men have dealt with their disillusionment, they may also learn from mine (and it was one of them that said this). It was a heart-touching moment.

After this came more networking and dinner. I hung out with more people, met more future friends, and even connected with some people from Baltimore (ironically I met Tim Hartman at this time—only after did we introduce ourselves did we realize we had just accidently met the person we'd been emailing weeks before—each other). I hung around Tim for awhile, conversed some more, and then had lobster ravioli at a wonderful italian restauraunt that a good twenty of the conference-goers went to (including Kearney and Caputo—I sat close to their table while they talked with Tony Jones and a few others—I wish I was closer so I could've listened in).

Then, to close the evening up, the lot of us visited the Gryphon Cafe, where there was a local songwriter who was also a conferencegoer played, and Mark Scandrette (pictured below in his leather cowboy hat) read some beautiful, powerful poetry and story-like excerpts from his new book, Soul Graffiti. Afterwards I shortly discussed with him writing, art, and our various experiences in differing cultures.

One decaf coffee and some sushi later, it's 1:20 in the morning, and I'm sitting here, typing these words. I should be off to bed by now, but I need to make some last, parting thoughts. Needless to say, the conference has already been amazing, and I still have half a day to go. I've learned far too much than what should be learned in such short of a time—yet it is all worth the effort, and this will no doubt have far-reaching effects on my beliefs and how I live out my spiritual life.

What's really exciting for me, I suppose, at least right now, is the notion of deconstruction itself. Not as some dry, philosophical proposition, but as a way of life. In a way, I've been deconstructing things my whole life. Even as a schoolboy I was trying to figure out the social patterns that led to "popularity" among my elementary and junior-high friends. Once I had figured out the structure, and realized popularity was full of hot air, I cut my chains and sought for something better.

Being an artist, I have to constantly deconstruct. That's what my first year at MICA has been, really—deconstructing what I learned in the past to make good ground for the future. Painting is a constant revolution in the hope for a possible future (what Kearney and Caputo would call "the possibility of the impossible")—and that possible future is the next painting.

As a writer, I love this theory because it is based in words. It functions, almost springs forth, from the nature of writing—and if I want to know my medium as a writer, this phenomenon of the ambiguity of meaning is a thing I need to recognize. It is the poet's tool—it's what makes a metaphor work. Deconstruction is not about destroying what meaning there is left, but pulling away the trappings of meaning to find out what the meaning really looks like, face-to-face, in the bare sunlight of reawakened consciousness. Deconstruction is about rebirth in the hope that something better might come.

And, jointly, I find nothing more spiritual than that. A rebirth in the hope that something better might come. The "possibility of the impossible"—that this world isn't just crap, despite that we know that it it; that good may come from tragedy, despite that we know it doesn't. It is a beautiful decentering of one's life so that one may find a truer, better purpose—yet wonderfully, a purpose that isn't new. Just a purpose that was there all along, but was waiting to be discovered.

I want to exist between the cracks. As a spiritual person, I want to exist in the ambiguities of life—in the mysteries, in the plotlines, in the images. In the challenges and the surprises. It is scary and frightening, but for the kind of person that's lost his original home (my parents aside—they are my true home) like me, the expanse that I see before me are the grain fields of memory. In each grain is the seed for a new crop to be planted, and from these new crops new crops can be made, and from all them together bread can be made to feed the hunger. This is what I pray for—a world of surprises, a world of mystery, and a world of wonder. A world that affirms love because that is the only thing left to affirm—not even nihilism could support us (it never could!). We exist as delusional to some, but I see the delusionals rather as those who are haunted—haunted not by what is, but what could be.

The possibility of the impossible.

I wait to see what tomorrow brings.