I embrace my delusions

This is the power of the signifier: that no matter which side I realize that another side thinks I'm stupid, or evil, or bound for hell, or shrugs the judgment of indifference - and that if I took up those opposing causes and became the UberIdealist, the UberFundamentalist, that those same reactions would still obtain. The signifier holds out the promise of being declared righteous which is summarily removed [through sleight of hand] at the same moment as it's position is accepted. 

Someone may say, "you write about this signifier a lot and I don't understand what a signifier is - or I don't see what the big deal is."  I can only remark from my own experience that people live their lives under banners, as it were: as Christians (who only selectively read the Bible and that in a kind of pre-interpreted way); as Patriots (who are anti-government and yet endorse government sponsored violence); as Rebels (who endorse conformity with society and the group); as FreeMarketeers(who endorse socialized arrangements for corporations). These are examples. Lacan says that the signifier swallows up the subject, from the inside out as it were; and you may have noticed this where a person talks about the Government, for instance, in great detail as to its faults, especially in group settings which are wonderfully inflating for the ego (but they cannot talk about themselves with any of the same clarity or objectivity - though, like the Government they also spend too much, abuse those under them, welch on their obligations, and seemingly make up rules arbitrarily to suit their disposition). 

The rule of the signifier is one reason perhaps that Jesus admonished "judge not or you'll be judged" or James in his letter opines "by the same judgment you use, you'll be judged". 

Anyway, I find it difficult to write about myself. To speak about myself. And most people would say the same. Perhaps it is embarrassing. Perhaps it reeks of egoism (though in context only shows how fragile the ego is feared to be). Lacan says that the end  of therapy is when a person can speak about themselves to another person - that is, that I, for instance, could speak about myself owning my own history as a series of choices I made, rather than events that happened to me.  It helps to be able to speak this narrative to someone who can hear it. Sometimes even friends are incapable of hearing this - in so far as they also cannot speak of themselves.

I am trying to find a way to carry on. Jung points out that what we see in our lives, how we judge the world around us, is more the projection of our unconscious desires and conflicts and an accurate assessment of reality. This was brought home to me be an article in the Onion: http://www.theonion.com/articles/father-teaches-son-how-to-fly-into-rage-over-compl,33487/?ref=auto 

Father teaches son how to fly into rage over completely inconseqeuntial bullshit. 

The part I find compelling in this article is the mention of interpreting slow drivers and slow people in the check out line as personal affronts. 

I find this liberating.

My problem is an object relations problem: I want to please people and have them approve of me, even as I want nothing to do with them, as I anticipate their rejection from the get go, as it were. In doing so, I have no idea what I want - I cannot even say and it seems a moral imposition -  there is a bone in my throat at the thought of saying what it is that I want.

I speak and words fall out of my mouth onto the ground

I cry out that I need help

and cannot say what that help might be

Where is your faith, he asked

I had it just a bit ago

Here are some tokens of appreciation though

victory march

flag on a marble arch

I'm exhausted. I enjoy meeting people. I feel out of place. When I was very young, playing musical chairs, I often didn't make it to the chair when the music stopped. I feel that way - that I'm frozen, unable to move. I didn't understand the rules of the game I was compelled to play. I did as I was told. And then I was yelled at for just standing there. Then I was yelled at for being in the way. 

I don't know what chance or opportunity is out there. It's important that I make some money. When I say that people's eyes glaze over. They have no idea. I'm 50 and needing a job, if only to interact socially with people. I used to have this job scoring essays and math tests back in Durham. Its virtue was its intellectual challenge. People say that reading these tests is boring - but I feel the contrary: I find myself connected to these kids - even as they make errors or fail to develop ideas. Sometimes they would show great feeling and ingenuity. Sometimes the test question would be written poorly, so poorly that bizarre alternative answers would be admissible. These questions were usually thrown out when they didn't yield predictable results or were predictably misunderstood.

Atlanta doesn't seem to have work like that.

the signifying chain

more delusional ravings

Three dense drawings these last days. The top is a St John Baptist in the wilderness; the middle is a subterranean kitchen; the bottom is a Jesus in the wilderness. In the last one I've pictured Jesus, having built a lean-to for shelter, holding a long stick. I don't know why - I like the gesture. I like the thought that he may have played around in the wilderness, thrown some stones, chased after some local fauna.

When I titled this post, I thought I had more melancholy meditations on the absurdity of faith and the brevity of life and the necessity of love - but I forgo that. I could say that I wish I'd had more success in my art - in terms of business. I have the experience in my life of being the best read - thinking that that would find approval; I've been the most conservative; the most orthodox; the most charismatic [in terms of that kind of religious fervor]. When I was young, 9 years old, a minister's wife shamed me for my incorrect theology (now imagine that!) - so throughout my life I've done everything theologically correct; I know the venerated book better than the most rabid venerator. And it simply doesn't matter.

I now read Deleuze, Lacan, Zizek etc because they meet a need for my own intellectual and spiritual rest. I woke up one day and discovered that the faith of my youth (even the faith of that correcting minister's wife!) is heretical down to the core. Truly amazing.

What matters, of course, is love. There is a way to respond to the inchoate enthusiasm of a child other than making him or her feel small and stupid. There is a way of faith that exists beyond tendentious creeds and proof texting - and it is a way of seeing the humanity of each person, to get at the core of Christ's peculiar enjoinder to love one's enemies (the golden rule is common, but that statement takes the cake as being his alone).

I know for myself - I can't answer the question what it is I want. My whole life I've been inculcated to have others tell me what that might be. The fact is subtle. Lacan says that the frustration of the ego is that we've constructed it for another, an other that doesn't care - that doesn't exist. That's a lot of frustration isn't it. I may say that this is a product of growing up in a mill town - basically working class, where the attitude that prevails is of being told what to do. In some churches even it's a sin, the height of selfishness to "do just what you want."  And so, when I was asked what it was that I wanted to do in an interview for a chaplain residency I was caught off guard. I responded with some language about being in the team, doing what needed to be done. But I knew and he knew that I had no answer.

And that's what I carry with me each day now. This puzzle. Lacan locates ethics in this discovery of desire and not giving ground relative to it. Mark de Kesel posits that what Lacan's getting at is for the analysand to arrive at the point where she might act, can act, will act.

Deleuze and Guatarri locate the production of desire on a line of flight. A line of flight is a rhizomatic activity. Rhizomatic in that it remains firmly on the surface - giving in neither to the temptation of finding security in a large organizational hierarchy as well as avoiding the temptation of finding meaning bracketed into the certainty of small cells. The line of flight is creative when it seeks connections, fascist when it abhors connection and seeks its own destruction.

I'm sure I've left something out. Feel free to engage me. Perhaps we can help each other discover what our desire is, to find that line of flight.

I'm delusional

In  Ernest Becker's Denial of Death he comes right out and says that we create an illusion of purpose to do anything - that we can only make things and live life by believing that we will not die. Most people will admit that they're going to die - that all die and that they're no different - but their very mode of being denies it. The reality is that we don't believe we're going to die. 

Some days I have to work through this more than others: I need to convince myself that my life has some meaning and purpose.

When I was a child teachers and parents were fond of chanting bromides to the effect of how unique and special I was - as all children are averred to be. Jesus loves the little children. How special that infant bundle seems - even as he grows into that awkward little person: an air of singularity hangs over his head. Certainly some adults take the opposite tack - they feel their job is to take every one down a peg and sometimes they like to start young. For the most part I, and most people I notice who grew up with me are not too different - we grew secure in our possibilities. 

In truth the possibilities hardly meet the challenge of being alive, of justifying existence. 

We are barred subjects trapped on a signifying chain - as Lacan might say: our hopes and dreams are coupled with meeting the demands of The Other. An Other, by the way, who doesn't exist, but demands our castration (figuratively) all the same.

He's paraphrasing Ecclesiastes and St Paul for the un-initiated. (Why shouldn't St Paul be the first preacher of the death of God - when we become dead to the law, we are effectively dead and all obligations with that law's maker are dead too - that is: the Law is dead because the motive force behind it is un-manned, as it were, by Christ's death on the cross; that is: the actual death of the messiah testifies to the impotence of the Law, which is revealed to be a fortiori, an idol; and in so far as an idol, a testimony to its giver's absence.)

Mind you: I believe - and believe more fully than most. A curious trick of mine. I believe because it is absurd. Absurdity recognizes the delusion of life, of the chance occurrence of conscious life on this obscure planet. What is certain is that out of 107.7 billion people who've existed (according to a recent New Scientist where statisticians apparently calculate such things) each of us is a  drop in the bucket - there is no amount of money anyone can accumulate; no amount of celebrity or articles published or success earned that will stand up in the great flood of entropy and nothingness that is life. 

So I believe because it is absurd. Kierkegaard is succinct in Fear and Trembling that one hallmark of faith is that it is unspeakable - it doesn't make sense, and the moment you try to make it make sense, give it some plausibility, it is no longer faith. It is just sad.

Deleuze in Difference and Repetition remarks that each believer contains a  closet atheist and each atheist harbors a secret believer. This is Becker's point: there is no escaping the conundrum - we are delusional in order to live - cold rationalism leaves us with no point in living. We all have faith in order to survive - to continue working and loving and making and planning (perhaps the militant atheist is the strongest believer of all, even though he might deny it; while the militant religious person is the only true atheist - their ardor to act for God simply proves that that God is dead). A god who coerces belief through violence from that god's adherents upon infidels testifies to divine impotence - coercion through force (whether violent language or action) simply indicates the insecurity and impotence of the coercer. The violence may succeed in its coercion, but in doing so the faith of coercer and coerced is unbelief. 

Rene Girard tried to get this point across, as well as Hauerwas in his Peaceable Kingdom. 

I live it out, albeit imperfectly. The god of my own impotence is strong.

Some days I feel it stronger than others: there is no point! My work, my thoughts, my art - are all pointless activities; and so are yours. 

We may either act in love, which is creative, or act out of our anxieties, which is tied to the death drive. That is: we're either connective or disconnective. In connecting there is some small shred of relief from the prison of subjectivity.

a sermon

Our passage in Colossians today is a hymn. Scholars, studying scripture over the centuries have noted how this passage is different from Paul's typical writing - and that it has a particular rhythm, a lot like poetry. It's no surprise that the early Christians had hymns. Paul doesn't however say he's quoting a hymn, perhaps because people hearing this letter would already recognize it.  Paul  includes this affirmation of the Godness and humaness of Christ that was current in the early Church as a reminder for this congregation of who they serve. Throughout his writings Paul says a lot about Christ and God, but here he's using words that are already available and are very familiar. It's a point of connection with this congregation - as it would be with any congregation at the time. These people can't read, but they can hear and they can sing. They may not know Paul, but they know this song.
Now:
I'm going to tell you something, and I ask your forbearance with me: these hymns - the other one we have is in the letter to the Philippians - act like portraits. We may not think of portraits as acting - they usually seem passive sitting there on the walls of banks and schools, but they act on our imaginations. Portraits depict someone who is absent, so they can be remembered or represented in different places. Through time artists have painted portraits as a way for people far apart to meet each other. We have wonderful portraits from the Roman era, but Paul didn't use painted ones- that we know of. What does seem to have been used are these hymns and confessions. "I'd like you to meet Jesus - this is what he looks like." He's the centerpiece of the cosmos - the firstborn of creation - who holds all things together - all rule and authority and power."
I'm an artist and if  Paul came into my studio and said to me, "I want you to paint a picture of Christ." I would have said, "OK, what does he look like?" Expecting to hear some standard description, some stock features: He has curly hair, almond eyes, a swarthy complexion, a dark pointed beard. When Paul starts singing this hymn I'd realize we were in different territory. From the content of the hymn, he's describing a god, Apollo perhaps. That's fine, I can paint that. And then Paul would throw me a curve: "firstborn from the dead, making peace through the blood of his Cross."  Blood of his Cross - well that startles me. Now I don't know what I'm painting. A cross is a form of execution and people executed on a cross, by the state, don't merit commemoration. Portraits are finally about honor. Parents are honored; benefactors are honored; and the emperor is honored - especially on money - which demonstrates imperial ownership of the state.

This portrait of Christ in this hymn directly confronts expectations: Who is honored; What the character of the honoree is.
The portrait of Christ is no ordinary portrait.
The Christ we meet is no ordinary God.
The God we meet is an ordinary / un-ordinary human.

If you accepted an invitation to come to Church back then - early in the morning, the first day of the week, you might have heard and even joined in singing this hymn. Whatever effect it might have on you - you could only notice the effect it had on others in the congregation. Paul's description in Colossians of what you would see - people who were once hostile, engaged in evil - would testify that something of the character of this image had changed these people. I believe that the character of this image - its power for change - is healing. This image is meant to heal humanity. As Jesus says in John's gospel, "I came not to condemn but to heal." What is the content of this healing? The Christ who is at the center of creation, resides there not by force, but, as Paul says elsewhere, in weakness. At the heart of creation we find mercy not punishment; kindness, not blame; understanding, not indifference. In singing this hymn the congregation becomes part of this image. This is what the Church is, a place of healing for souls - souls that feel the burden of anger, the sting of misunderstanding, depression, fear, weakness, guilt.

This portrait is different from portraits seen on the walls of institutions. The images of long passed powerful people, usually white men, are pinned powerless to the walls. When I was in seminary I enjoyed looking at the portraits of presidents and teachers from long ago. The images themselves don't say much about how to live or give much hope. I realize what I'm looking at is what the institution intended me to see. And that may be another feature of this hymn - it presents an image from before an institution existed.  This language about Christ rose spontaneously from among early worshippers. How spontaneous is difficult to say - certainly there was no committee like we know of them; there was no agenda to get the theology right. They just sang it; it was already present. This portrait is a living portrait. We are all part of it. The Church is not separate from this image.

When we gather for worship we create something. We create something and when it is created, we must create again. The process of being this healing image is continuous. The unique power of the church is that it expresses the love and presence of Christ. This love is always there and it is always healing.

I say this aware of problems. The history of the Church in time is rife with suffering and pain inflicted on people high and low. I've been in churches that specialize in saying the right things - and felt wounded and miserable. I've felt alone, broken, unheard in the midst of praise songs and orthodox liturgies. In these churches, Christ may be entombed in the center but he is not alive and ruling the center.  This image of healing prevails, though in spite of this. I believe it is as accessible for us today as it was for these 1st century believers. Our context and circumstances are very different - but the elemental human nature is the same. With the Holy Spirit's help we seek it out and work to create it. Creating this healing image is a struggle. We remark on its confessional truth when we say "Christ is the Center" - the center of our lives, our faith, of creation - but if we are merely content with saying something that is correct - without investing our lives, then we miss the healing in this image.

How do we get at this healing? How do we embody this? How do we create this?

Paul, in this passage attests to how this image is lived out when he remarks that "in his flesh he is completing what is lacking in Christ's afflictions for  Christ's body, the Church." He  is not talking about atonement here - Christ's washing away our sins. Paul is describing how he lives out his faith. Paul's gaze into this portrait of Christ has altered his life - from persecutor to preacher, and this alteration has healed him. Looking at Paul's life, he has changed from a person seeking out people to hurt, carried on by rage, to a person who seeks out hurt people - who wants to bring people in rather than exclude them.

One aspect of creativity is openness, the willingness to make connections rather than to close off. That excites me about Edgewood: the decision to be a More Light congregation. The early Church practiced that kind of openness when it accepted gentiles instead of remaining exclusively Jewish. They endured some criticism and lost people who wanted to remain closed off and exclusive. Embracing change is like that. A church I am part of back in Atlanta, Oakhurst Presbyterian, embraced the changing demographics of the surrounding neighborhood and began to thrive and grow - becoming a racially diverse congregation that works for social justice and racial reconciliation.

When a church is open to change and open to the input of new people healing occurs. People who had been silenced find a voice - that's healing. People who had been excluded are empowered - that's healing. Healing is a creative exercise. Because it is creative it involves our spirits at a deep level. It's in our spirits that crises are easily masked. We can spot a damaged body, but a damaged spirit - that takes some skill to notice - or some surrounding love to talk about. The world exhibits this spiritual damage in its advertising, its inequalities, its consumption - the earth is scarred and peoples are scarred.

What the Church does is limited, perhaps, but still significant. Our worship tells forth the central image of our text today: Christ in the center binds together what is broken, is present with the grief and loss that mark human lives, and creates peace in a broken world. This is an image that invites us all in to feast at the table - a table where the Holy Spirit lifts us up and seats us in a place where the nations are healed.

hats off, part objects, mountain door, starter pistol and sword, o merz

I am fortunate to be in the place I am

charles wright's poetry

rum point series

june posting