God as Figment of Our Imagination

In my last post I introduced Zizek’s radical interpretation of the incarnation. This view could be summarized by saying that the the death of Jesus on the cross represented the death of God as a transcendent other and the event which allowed for the subsequent coming of the Spirit, signaling God’s move to fully empty himself into the world. This emptying of God’s self or kenosis means that now God exists only as a subjective presupposition for those who believe in him and act accordingly. In other words, God has so fully emptied himself into the world that he has no being outside the material world. In a lot of ways I find this reading pretty compelling. Perhaps it’s just the season of life I find myself in, one that’s been characterized by more than enough existential angst and a preoccupation with the fact that I’m going to die and that everything I do in my life will more than likely be forgotten in less than a few generations, but I’ve come to find that God, however we imagine him/her/it, may only exist as a figment of my imagination. However, I want to quickly qualify that statement by saying that I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing.

Think of one of the examples that Zizek gives in the quote from my last post: Nation. The concept of Nation is one that is so deeply ingrained in our imaginations that it’s difficult to imagine what the world would be like without nations. We sing songs about our nations and learn our nation’s history. We vote and take part in other civic duties that insure the maintenance and continued existence of our nations. We enlist and fight in wars to defend our nation’s inviolable borders. Given the way we enact our allegiance to and make sacrifices for the ideological cause of Nation it’s easy to begin to think that we’re dealing withing something eternal or something God-given. But we’re not. The whole idea of the modern nation-state is a product of the Enlightenment. We made it up. Humans developed this idea, this ideological cause of Nation and it has since captured our imaginations. What’s more, what we call a nation is nothing more than an incredibly complex system of organization, a group of people who share a territory and a desire for unity under a government. In other words, “Nation” describes a certain type of behavior, a certain way of living in the world. Without this certain collective behavior, there is no Nation.

But here’s the kicker: just because the concept of Nation is a man made concept, it doesn’t make its effect on our world any less profound.

Could we not, then, imagine God in the same way? What we call “God” has no actual, ontological existence outside the minds of human beings who talk or think about God. God, as the anthropologists tell us, is a human construct, something we have made up. To use’s Zizek’s language, God has become so fully incarnate in the world that he has no substantial existence outside of it. This doesn’t negate, however, the profound ways in which God (that is, the concept of God as it exists in our imagination) affects our world. One doesn’t need to look far to see the important role that religious devotion plays for the majority of humans living in today’s world.

Just as Nation as a concept represents a certain kind of collective behavior in the world, so God is a symbol that represents our deepest desires concerning our world, desires having to do with peace and justice and companionship and love. All of these desires are summed up in the word ‘God’ and to believe in God is then to orient oneself towards the coming of a future in which these values are more imminently present among us. To believe in God is thus a certain mode of being in the world.

I follow Zizek here because it’s difficult for me to imagine what it would mean to say that God exists in some other-worldly reality. I suppose you could say that I’m a materialist who, in the words of John Caputo, believes that the only metaphysics we’re going to get is what physics itself gives us. I don’t think anything exists but material reality so if God exists then he must do so within the matrix of material reality. Zizek’s idea that God exists only as a subjective presupposition in the minds of humans gives us a way to talk about what it might mean for God to “exist” within material reality, a way that helps us avoid having to resort to metaphysical speculation about a divine realm alongside this earthly realm or any other kind of spiritual obscurantism.


The Death of God and the End of The Sacred: Caputo and Zizek on the Event

In premodern Christendom everything was sacred. There was no secular realm, which is to say there was no part of life that was considered outside of God’s ordered world. All of life was endowed with meaning. The world was teeming with divinity. The existence of God, which was taken for granted, served as one’s guarantee that life has meaning.

This changed with advent of modernism in the Enlightenment. The Age of Reason called into question the veracity of the all the religious symbols that premodern Christendom took for granted. The Enlightenment project gave rise to a division between the sacred realm and the secular realm which were now thought to exist in a sort of zero-sum relationship. That is, if one of the two realms increased then the other, by default, decreased. Another way to say this is that as science explained more and more natural phenomena (the secular realm increasing), God began to be seen as obsolete (the sacred decreasing). God, who was the Grand Sustainer of life in the premodern world was no longer needed to explain the workings of our universe. This increase of the secular and decrease of the sacred eventually culminated in the death of the sacred altogether. Nietzsche famously declared in 1882 that “God is dead.” In other words, all of life is utterly profane and there is no God to guarantee the meaningfulness of our existence.

One of the ways theologians responded to this phenomenon was by developing a system of thought that is traditionally called Death of God theology. These thinkers began to understand the death of God as a necessary occurrence,  something that needed to take place in order for a more mature and realistic faith to emerge. The existentialist theologian Paul Tillich, for example, understood that belief in the God of traditional theism was no longer tenable in light of modernism’s most cogent critiques of religion. As the God of supernaturalism–the God who existed as the greatest being in the universe, the first cause, the transcendent ruler of the universe–as this God disappeared in the ashes of doubt, the emergence of what Tillich called the God above God was allowed to take place. Rather than seeing God as being alongside other beings in the universe, Tillich understood the true God, the God above God, to be the Ground of All Being.

We see a similar movement in German pastor and theologian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. For Bonhoeffer the death of God signals the beginning of a season of serious maturation and development for humanity. Christianity after the death of God, Bonhoeffer thought, would be a Christianity without religion, a way of life that fully embraces the world in its brokenness without expecting the God of supernaturalism to intervene and solve all of our problems for us.

Thomas J.J. Altizer developed his own death of God theology. For Altizer, the death of Christ on the cross was the literal death of the transcendent God and the event which allowed God to become fully present in the world. In other words, the death of Christ signals the self-annihilation of the God as he existed in the realm of the sacred which then allows God to be fully present in the secular realm, that is, in the mundane world of day-to-day experience.

All of these thinkers have Hegel as their predecessor, who understood religion to be a contingent rendering of an otherwise Absolute reality. History, for Hegel, is the story of the Absolute making itself known to us by means of contingent, conditioned realities (which are all we have access to as finite creatures anyway). Thus, what is ultimate is not our conditioned rendering of the Absolute but rather the becoming of the Absolute in history which transcends any one rendering by itself.

For each of the thinkers mentioned above this Hegelian concept is visible. While on the surface the death of God seems to be the death of anything we might consider to be ultimate, it is really the latest development in the life of God, the most recent manifestation of the Absolute in history. The death of God is really a deep affirmation of the life of God. God has died, these thinkers would say, but he has died so that he might live!

The Slovenian philosopher and cultural critic Slavoj Zizek understands the death of God differently. For Zizek the death of God serves as a more radical negation of religion and so does not signal the rebirth of God in the world. Quite the contrary. Not only is God actually dead but he never existed in the first place! Caputo explains:

In Hegel the Spirit is not “somebody” (it’s not a finite  being) who “does” things (it’s not a personal agent) but rather an undergirding substance (infinite Being) expressing itself in the subjectivity of human history (becoming accidental of the essential). That much is just good Hegel. But Zizek goes one step further, diving deeper still down the black hole of negation…. The next step he proposes is to realize that there never was what Hegel called the Absolute or what religion calls God. Conflict and contradiction…are not the means the Spirit employs to make its way home; they are the very stuff of the Real where there’s no home to go to. There are only human agents who, at the end of the [psychoanalytical] session, are made to realize that there is no Big Other and that they are on their own. Deal with disenchantment. Deal with the Real. Mutual antagonism is all there is and we are going to have to work through it. The unreconciled is real and the real is unreconciled. The only reconciliation is to reconcile ourselves to the irreconciliable by admitting that there is no reconciliation. (The Insistence of God pg. 137)

The death of Christ is paradigmatic for Zizek but not because it serves as a sort of watershed moment in the life of God but rather because it shows us what has been true all along, namely, that there is no God who will protect us or give our lives meaning or bail us out when life on earth becomes too hard for us to handle. In his own words:

The point [Hegel’s reading] misses is the ultimate lesson to be learned from the divine Incarnation: the finite existence of mortal humans is the only site of the Spirit, the site where Spirit achieves its actuality…. Spirit is a virtual entity in the sense that its status is that of a subjective presupposition: it exists only insofar as subjects act as if it exists. Its status is similar to that of an ideological cause like Communism or Nation: it is the substance of the individuals who recognize themselves in it, the ground of their entire existence, the point of reference which provides the ultimate horizon of meaning to their lives, something for which these individuals are ready to give their lives, yet the only thing that really exists are these individuals and their activity, so this substance is actual only insofar as individuals believe in it and act accordingly. The crucial mistake to be avoided is therefore to grasp the Hegelian Spirit as a kind of meta-Subject, a Mind, much larger than an individual human mind, aware of itself: once we do this, Hegel has to appear as a ridiculous spiritualist obscurantist, claiming that there is a king of mega-Spirit controlling our history…. This holds especially for the Holy Spirit: our awareness, the (self) consciousness of finite humans, is its only actual site…although God is the substance of our (human) entire being, he is impotent without us, he acts only in and through us, he is posited through our activity as its presupposition. (Zizek in From Job to Christ quoted from Caputo pg. 140).

Thus for Zizek all that exists are subjective individuals who draw strength from their shared presuppositions about reality. The key point is that there is nothing above, underneath or behind these shared presuppositions, no “God above God” as it’s phrased in the Tillichian framework. These presuppositions are have their origin and end in the human mind. “God” exists nowhere but in our imaginations. This is the logic of the incarnation taken to its most extreme end: “God” is so fully incarnate that he exists nowhere but in the minds of his creatures. Without us, “God” dies. In Zizek we see the culmination of history’s doing away with the sacred realm; all that’s left are human minds and illusions of meaning therein.

Caputo, however, offers a critique of Zizek worth sharing. In his own words:

Zizek’s view of “virtuality” and hence of the event is too much taken with subjective events, too much trained on subjects and their “belief systems,” and not enough turned to the event itself, what I am calling the insistence of the event that lays claim to us, that evokes a more deep-set “faith” and “responsibility” in the more spectral setting of the “perhaps.” That is, the insistence of God is a call for a response, a call for existence. The event is not the decisiveness of the decision, but the insistence of what calls for existence in a decision, which is the decision of the other in me. The event is not reducible to subjective beliefs, even auto-organizing collectives, sustained by fantasy. “Subjective beliefs” arise in response to events; they give words to events, and are translated into deeds and institutions by believing subjects. The insistence of God translates  into the depths of human responsibility, into responses to the subsistence of the events which precede and provoke them. (The Insistence of God pg. 144)

Whereas for Zizek the event occurs in the act of subjective belief, Caputo sees the event as preceding such beliefs. The event for Caputo is what draws human subjects to belief in the first place. There is something or someone, “God, perhaps,” that is experienced prior to the creation of subjective beliefs and it is this experience, this insistence of “God, perhaps” that leads us to form subjective beliefs at all.

The name (of) “God” arises as a response to events, it gives an image to powers that overtake the subject and lay claim to it. If the “Spirit” is the name of a subjective presupposition, that is only because it is first of all the name of something that substantively prepossesses the subject, something…that poses or puts itself to the subject and calls it forth or as I would say, something insistent by which the subject is solicited and hence constituted in the first place. There is no big Other, but neither are there merely human agents. (The Insistence of God pg. 144)

Was Jesus Faking It?

I think one of the mistakes of popular Christology lies in the idea that Jesus could have, if he really wanted to, displayed his divine omnipotence on the cross by defeating his executioners in a grand display of power and might. Jesus, in this framework, was holding back, as it were, masking his divine power under a shroud of human frailty and weakness in order to accomplish salvation.

What’s not recognized by those who hold this position is that such an articulation bears a striking resemblance to the docetic heresy. Docetism, which was ultimately condemned in 325 CE at the Council of Nicaea, asserts that Jesus merely appeared to be a human, that what was perceived to be a normal human body was in actuality a facade behind which lied Jesus’ true nature, namely, pure divinity. In other words, docetism understands Jesus’ humanity to be an illusion.

Contra docetism and its contemporary derivatives, I would argue that Jesus’ humanity goes all the way down, that there was no hidden divine power underneath the display of weakness on the cross. Jesus couldn’t have gotten himself off the cross even if he wanted to (which, given the excruciating pain and humiliation of crucifixion, he most certainly did). In short, Jesus wasn’t faking it.

Rather than seeing the pitiful display of weakness on the cross as illusory or as a veil covering Jesus’ true nature as an omnipotent super-being, I would argue that the weakness of Jesus on the cross is in actuality the true locus of divinity in this scene. The nature of God in Jesus was not suppressed on the cross but was rather fully displayed. The weakness and frailty wasn’t a show. That’s actually how God is.

Caputo puts it this way:

If we take from this that Jesus could, with the wave of his hand or a wink of his eye, demolish these Roman soldiers but freely chose not to exert his omnipotence because he was on a divine mission, then we would concede that he merely seems, docet, to be a helpless and innocent victim of this power. But that is what he was in truth. The radical uprooting of Docetism demands that we locate the divinity of this scene of misery and defeat, the sacredness of its memory, not in some hidden divine power play or long-term investment in a divine economy of salvation. The sacredness lies in the cries of protest that rise up from the scene. The event to be willed here is the depth of outrage at the injustice of imperial power, of the crushing of the Kingdom by worldly forces. The divinity lies in the identification of the name of God, for Jesus was the eikon of God, not with Roman power but with an innocent victim of that power, not with retribution but with the act of forgiveness that is attributed to Jesus by the evangelists. (After the Death of Godpg. 63).

Jesus was a heretic.

I think it’s easy to forget that Jesus was a heretic. He did theology on the margins. That is, he was someone who did not “conform to the established attitudes, doctrines or principles” of his day. He challenged the religious authorities, those who were the defenders of orthodoxy, reminding them that God is more concerned with justice than the keeping of age old traditions. Jesus protected the down-and-out from the powerful institutions and authority structures that existed in his time. It was precisely this type of provocation that got him killed by these very powers. The orthodox, that is those in positions of authority and influence, cannot stand the threat of heresy. Those who challenge their telling of the story must be done away with lest their position of privilege be undermined. And so Jesus was crucified.

It’s not without some irony, then, that the Church today sees itself as the keeper of orthodoxy. The community that began as a gathering of the meek and meager of society now finds itself in a position of great power and authority, indeed, the position of power and authority if we narrow our focus to America. In order to defend its power the Church remains vigilant against those dissenters who concern themselves with the  propagating of any sort of teaching that threatens the as-is power structure which ensures its current place of privilege. Heretics must be called out and orthodoxy must be protected.

But what we learn from the Jesus story is that sometimes underneath even the most well meaning defense of orthodoxy is a grasping for power by those who are in the driver’s seat.

Thus, to follow Jesus in our own day is to defy our inherited traditions insofar as they are serving as a means of marginalizing the least of these. To follow Jesus is to be a heretic, to do theology on the margins. In order to be faithful to the Jesus tradition we must betray that very tradition (an idea developed by Peter Rollins in his book The Fidelity of Betrayal).

The work of John Caputo is a good example of what a “theology on the margins” might look like. In describing his work, Caputo says this:

I am following the traces of a well-known rogue, a famous outlaw who was turned into the Law itself by the palace theologians, even though my guess is that he would have made them blush with shame, thrown them into a rage, had they met him in the flesh, his flesh. They say his flesh was assumed by an Uber-Being come down to earth for a bit of heavenly business on earth, but I can imagine what they would have called him had they met him in the flesh–a “homosexual,” out to destroy “family values,” a flag-burner, a libertine, a “socialist,” out to raise our taxes–in short, a “curse and an affliction upon the church.” So I gladly take my stand with the outlaw and ask what theology would look like were it written by the outlaws, the outliers, the out of power, the troublemakers, the poor, the rogues. (The Insistence of God pg. 25)


Trayvon Martin and the Event of Justice

In his book The Weakness of God: A Theology of the Event  John Caputo introduces the reader to the idea that words like “hospitality” and “God” contain within them an undeconstrucible event that calls into question the way we regularly use those words. In a discussion about the difference between laws and true, undeconstructible justice he says it like this:

To deconstruct the law means to “negotiate the difference” between the law and justice, where the law is thought to be something finite, and “justice” calls up an uncontainable event, an infinite or unconditional or undeconstructible demand. Deconstruction is…a negotiation undertaken between a conditioned name and an unconditional event. To deconstruct the law is to hold the constructedness of the law plainly and constantly in view so as to subject the law to relentless analysis, revision, and repeal, to rewriting and judicial review, in the light of the unconditional demand of justice (27).

What Caputo is getting at is that the laws of the land, laws that are intended to uphold and defend justice, are actually called into question by the word justice itself. Justice is an uncontainable event, something that can only be dreamed of and when we dream of it we realize that our so-called “just laws” fall short of embodying the true nature of justice. Deconstructing the law in light of the event of justice helps us to critique the status quo and dream of a more just world and as we dream of it we begin to look for ways in which we can make our dream come true.

The disparity between the event of justice and the deconstructible laws of our land is clearly illustrated by the story of Trayvon Martin. The trial of George Zimmerman allowed both sides of the story to be told.  Zimmerman was, it is said, given a “fair” trial. The final verdict of the jury to acquit George Zimmerman was given in the name of “justice.”

But the very word “justice”, as Caputo points out, stands in judgment over our entire judicial process. True justice, the event contained within the word “justice”, does not leave an unarmed black boy dead.

True justice does not lead to rioting in the streets.

The event contained within the word “justice” is not satisfied with a simple verdict that says we can all forget about Trayvon Martin now, that it’s been settled, that Zimmerman killed in self-defense and so we can all relax and go on living our lives in peace knowing that “justice” has been served.

True justice asks why opinions about the Trayvon Martin incident are sharply divided along racial lines.

The undeconstuctible event stirring within the word “justice” calls into question the notion of “Stand Your Ground” and causes us to realize that a world in which excuses are made for people to kill each other, a world in which murder is legalized, is really no just world at all.

May we not confuse our “justice” system, which is really a pseudo-justice system, with the true event of justice.

May we be haunted by the true event of justice, always aware of the fact that what we call “justice” in this nation pales in comparison with what the prophet Amos imagined when he said “Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (5:24) or when Isaiah speaks of “seeking justice, reproving the rulthless, defending the orphan and pleading for the widow” (1:17).

May we never be satisfied with the ruling of a six person jury as if that’s all that’s required by justice.

Justice calls us to go deeper, to dream bigger, to continue questioning the status quo so that our laws may begin to do justice to the event stirring within the word itself.