Whirring Machines: Capitalism, Christianity, and Subjectivity

“A sum of money is the leading character in this tale about people, just as a sum of honey might properly be a leading character in a tale about bees.”

This is how Kurt Vonnegut’s fifth novel, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, begins. In much of his work, Vonnegut draws the reader’s attention to the painful observation that humans are not much different than machines in the way they interact with the world of the late 20th century. His characters seem to have little control over what happens to them, the victims of immovable forces, as he likes to say. These forces, however, are not simply “forces of nature” as they are for the American nihilists of the late 19th century (Stephen Crane, for example.) Elsewhere in his work, Vonnegut writes of humans as having little motors whirring inside of them as they mindlessly bend toanother force inside of them: the drive to wealth at any cost. Capitalism.

Capitalism is “natural” in the sense that it is the mode of production currently employed at this time in history. This understanding is, of course, what Marx means by historical materialism. Put simply, historical materialism is the claim that history is guided by the human need to produce in order to survive–which is the truly natural piece of capitalism (of any mode of production.) This is coupled with the fact that human beings have the ingenuity to adapt to their situation in order to accomplish this goal; thus the mode of production in use will always be adapted to changing circumstances until a point where it collapses in on itself, giving rise to a new mode. We can see at once that, unlike a hurricane or earthquake, capitalism at least feels like it’s in our control to some degree and probably more so than any other mode of production in the past. We make ourselves. Our success is dependent upon how hard one works, and if one has failed to procure a comfortable lifestyle, one has simply not worked hard enough. What we earn belongs only to us.

But think about what we give up in order to accomplish the goals capitalism sets forth. We become part of the labor force for a capitalist (a CEO or a small business owner–doesn’t matter) and have our subjectivity erased, or we try to control some of the means of production and thus participate in that erasure. Certainly there are more nuanced modes of subsistence (non-profit work, for example), but for the purposes of this illustration, let’s stick with the most common forms of participation in our economy.

When one is hired to work for a corporation at any level, one surrenders one’s subjectivity to that corporation. Let’s say you’re a barista at Starbucks. You probably make an average of 10 beverages an hour during a shift that sell for $3-$5. You see maybe $8 of what is made, a small amount goes back into the corporation to procure more means of production, and the vast majority goes to the people who own the corporation–who own the means of production. Some Starbucks baristas are incredible: they’re creative, friendly, they make your drink quickly and very well. Others are awful (as a recent SNL sketch illustrated.) Both will be paid the same. The amount each is paid is determined by how much wealth the owners of the means of production can amass while ensuring that the corporation will continue to produce as efficiently as possible. That baristas at Starbucks are given health benefits is not a sign of the company doing something “extra” for their employees. It’s a sign that the labor force requires more from the owners of the means of production in order to continue producing at the necessary rate. It’s a way for Starbucks to remain competitive by keeping employees happy (maybe happier than employees elsewhere) and improving its public image.

If you’re an employee and you have a bad day, make a mistake, do something that costs the company money, you’ll most likely be fired. An employee’s personal situation is of absolutely no consequence. The only thing that matters is the accumulation of as much wealth as possible. And if you’re a small business owner with all of your assets on the line, it’s even more important that employees mean nothing to you. How could you fire your own brother? We know that this is how capitalism works–those who accept it unreflectively will readily admit that one has a right to make as much money as he or she possibly can through whatever legal means necessary. This is justified because of the false belief that one of those baristas, if she just works hard enough, can eventually become the CEO. That is the fundamental lie upon which capitalism continues to operate. This is how we see that money cuts two ways in capitalism, which is why the bee metaphor is especially apt. On the one hand, the vast majority of people under the capitalist system are drones, making up a labor force to create wealth to be used by very few. On the other, they are drawn to the wealth they are creating, and those who are more successful than others will do anything to acquire more. In other words, the promise of money (and more money–an infinite potential) traps people in this system under the pretense of a false hope.

Employees are not people. They are whirring machines. They are worker bees. Their story and circumstances do not matter to the people who need what they contribute to the labor force as a whole. And in the process of grabbing more for themselves they perpetuate the erasure of subjectivity. Christianity also erases subjectivity, but in a radically different way. Christ’s call to lay down our lives, to give up all that we have, is a call to forsake our own personal identities and take up a new one as a follower of Christ. That isn’t a new insight–I think Pete Rollins has made the same point. But the Christian relationship to subjectivity doesn’t end there. As we forsake our own subjectivity, we do so in order to help others who have been robbed of theirs through injustices perpetrated against them reclaim it.

It is in this way that we can see a radical break from capitalism in Christian practice. (Matt has described a different way here.) Christianity requires knowing–not in a “God knows me, and I’m special” way–but in a way that calls on us to know people. This is what discipleship is. The Great Commission is a call to make disciples, to draw people close into your circle, which has no borders. This discipleship-making is not first and foremost a task of conversion (a terribly destructive misreading of that passage.) Rather it is a calling of people into our midst–people who have been marginalized, treated as objects, as machines, as filth or garbage, so that their subjectivity may be restored and their lives transformed. Again, this isn’t conversion. A conversion (as a confession of Christ and a commitment to taking seriously what it is to follow him) is a forsaking of subjectivity. In other words, we are making disciples when we help people reclaim their subjectivity so that they can come to realize they should forsake it in order to help others reclaim their subjectivity and thus rehearse the coming of God’s kingdom to earth. That is the gospel message.

Theories of Religion: Immanuel Kant

Immanuel Kant, a late-Enlightenment German philosopher, is most famous for what is known as The Kantian Synthesis which extends through both metaphysics and epistemology. I have made reference to and explained it elsewhere, but in short, Kant’s contribution made it possible for both philosophy and science to proceed beyond the radical empiricism of David Hume. At the same time, however, Kant still upheld the rigorous commitment to reason championed by Hume and other empiricists of the period (Locke for example) who maintained that one’s knowledge was derived empirically through perception and no other way. For Kant, reality is divided into two realms: the phenomenal or sensible world conditioned by the categories of our understanding (i.e. time and space) and the noumenal or things-in-themselves world. There are two important claims here. First is that there really are “things-in-themselves”–things as they really are “behind” what we perceive them to be. This is also called “transcendental idealism” because it claims that Reality consists of ideas that transcend what we can actually have knowledge of. Second is that if we were able to take away the categories of our understanding, we’d be able to come into contact with the noumenal. The purpose of science, for Kant, is to limit the interference of the categories as much as possible in order to get us close to the noumenal. Science is right on edge of the phenomenal.

This worked quite well for everything in Kant’s system that had to do with immanent matters; however, it created a significant complication for the place of religion. Under Kant’s system, any attempt to make a reasonable statement about God must be by definition not reasonable since such statements can only come from phenomenal experience, and God must be, by definition, wholly noumenal. What then constitutes reasonable religious discourse?

Before we can understand Kant’s answer, we must also understand his ethical system as that dovetails with epistemological concerns in his understanding of religion. In Kant’s discourse on practical reason (his ethics), he argues that in order for one to act morally, one must only ever act according to one’s duty in any given situation; thus, the consequences of actions are not what are important in Kant’s system, only the motives behind action. An act driven by pure duty is the highest good–a purely good will. This differs from previous ethical theories, particular Aristotle’s virtue ethics, in that, for Kant, the highest good is something that we already have the capacity for, not a place we are striving to get to. This will be immensely important for Kant’s understanding of religion. The highest good cannot concern things like pleasure, intelligence, happiness, or freedom because these terms are far too relative and cannot be universalized in relation to duty. Someone may find freedom, happiness, or pleasure in the harm of others, which is unacceptable in Kant’s system. Thus, the will itself is the only thing that can be truly good, and its goodness is determined through two conditions known as the categorical imperative:

1. Motives must be able to be generalized into universal law.

2. An action can never use another human being as a means to achieve an end whatever that end may be.

Something like lying can never be ethical because it cannot be universalized–even if it actually results in good. One’s duty is to, through one’s own good will, act according to the categorical imperative at all times. For our purposes here, it’s important to note that this results in a disinterested morality–a morality that does not evaluate the conditions of particular cases.

The question for Kant in relation to religion then becomes what will arise from doing what we ought to? What is the result of the aggregate of dutiful action? The answer is religious life. In other words, morality in itself does not require religion, but acting morally will inevitably lead to religion. In order to trace this out, we have to start at the nature of humanity–Kant’s theological anthropology. As stated above, Kant believes that human beings have the capacity already for the highest good because that good can only be our own good will. Humans are naturally good. This capacity is in the form of our ability to reason. Reason, remember, is central to Kant’s entire philosophical system. For Kant, our reason has not been tainted by sin as earlier theologians had argued. At the same time, however, humans are free to use their reason to follow their duty and the moral law or  to not do that. Sin is not depravity, some universal condition we are all under, nor is it our inability to obey our duty and the highest good; rather, it is our tendency to follow a different law, that of our own self-interest. Each human being incurs what Kant calls radical evil upon him or herself through choosing self-interest. It is a choice, our own responsibility, and we have the responsibility or freeing ourselves from it. In short, if we ought to do something, it means we have the absolute ability to do it.

It is here that we can insert Kant’s flimsy argument for the necessity of God’s existence. Because duty-bound morality must be disinterested, which is plainly against our nature as human beings, there must be an external reason why someone would choose to act according to duty. Kant’s answer is that there must be a reward which could only be conferred by a being who had ordered the world in such a way from the beginning: God. From this, we can see that the role of God is little more than a footnote in Kant’s account, and once we begin to look at how traditional doctrines become articulated, we can see that even more.

Given his “ought” equals “can” position, Kant must reframe the doctrines of atonement and justification in order for his system to work. Christ, for Kant, was a Second Adam but only in that his good example counteracts Adam’s bad one. Atonement is exemplary rather than substitutionary. Jesus shows us what it looks like for the will to act according to duty at all times. There isn’t much room, then, for justification as a work of God within us by grace. Our regeneration is as a new moral person constituted through our ability. We are not in need of divine grace. In fact, if we remember what we laid out in the beginning regarding God and the noumenal world, this precludes any interaction between God and the sensible world. This view contrasts greatly with the theologians of the 16th century Reformation for whom justification by grace alone was immensely important; thus, we can see that everything in Kant’s system must bow to the principle of reason.

Perhaps a better way of saying that, though, is that Kant still maintains religious commitments but they become reframed as the sacralization of the individual. This cuts two ways: The autonomous ability of the individual to realize the highest good is sacred and the highest good (the will for the categorical imperative) only exists in relation to other individuals, who therefore, must have a special status, though Kant is less interested in the latter because ultimately one’s own duty excludes the consideration of another’s well being except where that consideration satisfies the categorical imperative.

Situating this sacralization of the individual in relation to Kant’s notion of sin and evil will help us see how morality inevitably results in religion. Remember that there is no state of total depravity for Kant; the individual has the autonomous ability to overcome self-interest (sin) and choose duty. However, sin still exists beyond the conversion of the individual (Kant calls this persisting of sin “radical evil.”) We can see that this is plainly true, since individuals are constantly falling back to self-interest, have yet to convert themselves to duty, etc. Competition between individuals makes it extremely difficult to act according to duty even though we are naturally good. Thus, in Kant’s view, the only way to eliminate radical evil is for a corporate ethical existence to arise (the ethical commonwealth). This is more than just a group of individuals acting according to duty together, and it is also a different “kingdom” than that of the civil state, echoing Augustinian-Lutheran two kingdom discourse. The ethical commonwealth consists of everyone acting according to the freedom of everyone else, people in relationship with each other and the moral law at the same time.

If this all sounds dangerously like Pelagianism, then you know your early church heresies. However, identifying Kant’s view as heretical only to dismiss it doesn’t do any real work for us in terms of understanding our own position. Rather, what I want to re-emphasize are two points that I’ve already highlighted: The centrality of reason and the sacralization of the individual. The centrality of reason as Kant and the Enlightenment understand it has resulted in some undesirable side-effects, namely the scientism of New Atheism that claims a monopoly on all “real” knowledge as being found (literally) in the sensible world. Paradoxically, this has stuck somewhat in the contemporary religious consciousness even if we dismiss the conclusions about religion to which this led Kant. It isn’t necessarily something that a lay person, for instance, would rely on intentionally in practice; rather, it is a latent effect, a rarely understood or reflected upon claim in the back on one’s mind that may lead a person to holding tightly to particular “foundational” beliefs for fear that letting those go will cause the entire system to dissolve. Or it may lead to one claiming the ability to see all the physical work that God is doing (i.e. a heavy reliance on visions or miracles in order to keep one’s belief afloat.) Now, this isn’t to say that empirical evidence is superficial in religious experience. Indeed, Paul, in 1 Corinthians 15, appeals to first hand accounts–empirical evidence–of the resurrection of Jesus in order to prove to the church at Corinth that there is indeed resurrection from the dead, and Jesus accomplished it. But this is still an experiential proof that already assumes the existence of God a priori as well as the fact that Jesus was the son of God. Paul and the Corinthians agree on that. The resurrection is incredibly important for the viability of Christianity, as Paul says many times elsewhere, but it would not disprove God’s existence for anyone in the ancient world if it turned out it had not happened, even for Paul.

Our core beliefs do not collapse easily. There is a certain amount epistemological resilience that keeps them more or less intact, even if the warrants and claims that support them shift slightly. I’ve written about this sort of epistemological holism here. If we take that to be the case, then there doesn’t seem to be any good reason to hold strongly to the account of reason that Kant gives especially since he’s probably correct in his religious account that follows it. What American Christianity tends to do is exchange Kant’s human reason for “God’s reason” which is still just human reason since even if we believe that God reveals Himself, we certainly can’t contend that such revelation is completely unmediated. This “reason” coupled with the availability of an abundance of “empirical evidence” for God’s existence is what ultimately results in a fundamentalism that necessarily ignores science, even vilifies it, in favor of its own brand of “scientism.”

Thus, it is not enough to simply say that Kant was wrong about religion. His account of religion is accurate, but only if we assume that reason and ethics should operate the way that he claims they do. It’s there that we must begin a new road.

Theories of Religion: A Series

I thought it would be a good idea to begin a series on some important developments in the theory of religion since the Enlightenment given that I’ve been doing quite a bit of reading on the subject lately in my first year of doctoral work. There are a number of reasons why I think it’s important to understand these developments as a Christian. This sort of study reveals the historical development of the challenges contemporary Christianity faces with regard to religious epistemology especially in relation to science and secular reason. The suspicion raised in many of these treatments of religion helps us to see where the historical practice of Christianity has failed miserably in understanding its own epistemological underpinnings. That is, understanding these developments and criticisms can help us see how our current practice or ways of thinking about our practice might be shifted to move us toward a much better account and method and even a richer experience.

This is a broad topic, and there are many places one could begin. The first post of the series will deal with Immanuel Kant’s account of religious experience. The reason why Kant makes for a good starting point is that in contrast to many thinkers of the medieval and early modern periods, the question of the metaphysical reality of God (whether or not there is a God) is not of primary importance. Rather, Kant is interested in the rational viability and function of religious experience and practice in general. In other words, he is asking and seeking to answer this question: Is religious belief reasonable?  In fact, none of the thinkers covered in this series are  necessarily interested in the existence of a transcendent being, though many make the indirect claim that there is no such being. However, they do so on their way to an account of the origin and function of religious experience.

Remember: this series is not evaluative–at least not in the sense of pure refutation of the claims set forth. Rather, the purpose is to extract the salient points and reflect on what these thinkers contribute to our understanding of religion.

For Your Reading Pleasure…

I (Joel) have been invited to participate in a new blogging community called Flux of Thought. There you can find brief discussions on theology, philosophy, political theory among other related things.

You can read here: Flux of Thought

You can follow the blog on Twitter here: @fluxofthought

I’ll still be writing and posting at A Church Unbound as well since FoT is going to be made up of much shorter posts, and I can’t help but be long-winded sometimes.

A Brief Note on the Nature of truth

A friend of mine on Facebook shared this post from Mark Driscoll yesterday:

“In a society where there is no truth, the greatest ‘sin’ is saying someone is wrong.”

Pastor Mark has seen his fair share of beatdown over the last month, so I’m not looking to contribute to that. The post itself, which expresses a sentiment that could belong to any conservative Christian, is what I’m interested in. Normally, I don’t think that such a weak, late 20th century banality would have caught my attention. I’m sure Mark Driscoll is posting this kind of superficial garbage parading as insight multiple times a day, but it appeared just below a post by Bo Sanders of Homebrewed Christianity responding to Roger Olson’s recent blog that has caused a bit of controversy where he describes what he sees as the problem with liberal and progressive theology (two terms that he conflates.)

There are similar sentiments at work in both the Driscoll post and the Olson blog: There is such a thing as Truth, and they have it. Olson makes the following two points (which Bo objects to very nicely in his post) that I find to be completely incoherent:

“I look at their approach to “doing theology.” How do they approach knowing God? Do they begin with and recognize the authority of special revelation? Or do they begin with and give norming authority to human experience, culture, science, philosophy, “the best of contemporary thought?” That is, do they “do” theology “from above” or “from below?” Insofar as they do theology “from below” I tend to think they are liberal theologically.”

and

“If I ever wake up and find that I think like a true theological liberal, I hope I will be honest enough to stop calling myself ‘Christian.’ “

I’ve written many, many posts that deal with the sort of complaint that Olson is raising. In the first point, he’s assuming that there’s no mediation between special revelation and an articulate knowledge or theology–no interpretive work. That is, if one is doing “correct” theology, one is simply the mouthpiece of God. Whereas the theology of the liberal “Christian” is based upon the contingent, immanent, imperfect disciplines he lists, Olson’s theology is somehow not based on anything except the authority of special revelation. His own contingency, personal experiences, education, etc. don’t play into his theology. In the second point, he’s stating explicitly what Driscoll does implicitly: “There is such a thing as Truth, and I have it, so don’t be mad when I tell you you’re wrong (and not a Christian.)” Frankly, I’m just so tired of hearing this sort of arrogance come out of the mouths of people who profess the love of Jesus Christ.

Listen:

Put aside what you think about postmodern notions of truth, whether or not you think any relativity in truth is absolute relativity, etc. for a moment. Christians simply cannot continue to hold the positions that Driscoll and Olson espouse anymore. The history of the church from the very outset is marked with accepting radically different beliefs and practices (or lack of practices) into the church community. That doesn’t mean there should be no attempt to talk about normative practice or belief. But that normative activity is fluid, not solid. It has to be able to flex, to grow in order to account for human history, for new cultural contexts. When Roger Olson or Mark Driscoll place a boundary around what it is to be Christian, around what truth is, they are actually placing limits around what the gospel can do more than what it should be. You, me, Driscoll, and Olson are human beings. We are thrown into a particular time and place from which we must think and write. We may believe that the gospel message transcends that, can speak across history and culture, and that’s great, but don’t for one second believe that you do.

On Recovering Dialectic in Argument

A few years ago, I was teaching college freshmen how to write argumentative research papers: Taking a side of a particular issue and using actual research to make a compelling case for that side. Invariably, I would have a student who was especially passionate about a particular topic: legalizing marijuana, abortion rights, and lowering the drinking age were what drew the most attention. These papers were always well researched; it seemed as though students thought that if they could convince me, they would have an impenetrable case for something that was deeply important to them–a worthwhile endeavor. The most glaring issue with a large number of these papers, however, was that they typically failed to take into account the opposing viewpoint. The university at which I taught even had a database called Opposing Viewpoints as part of its library resources which linked students to a variety of periodical and peer reviewed sources. As a result many of these papers ended up being a victory parade before any challenger was ever faced: a self-congratulatory exercise. The best papers I received always took their opposition seriously and tried their best to meet those challenges head on, whether they were entirely convincing or not. Sometimes engagement with the other side even led a student to change his or her position.

I want to state a case for something very simple that has been important in the philosophical understanding of rhetorical argument but which I very much doubt has ever been a consciously recognized tool in popular argumentation. Dialectic, which I will define in a minute, is a tool as old as Plato that would be immensely helpful if applied publicly. By “publicly,” I don’t mean in the political sphere necessarily (though it certainly couldn’t hurt), or the Media at large (because critical thought is not what they’re in the business of selling), and I’m not really interested in arguing for its importance within the Church as such (then again, a little could go a long way); my aims aren’t that grandiose. I just want my friends to use it, at least think about using it, in social media when they’re arguing about issues like gun control, gay marriage, or any other myriad of hot topics that seems to flood my newsfeed daily.

Argument is a techne, to use Aristotle’s term–an art. It requires finesse, guile, and above all a level head in order to see how one can appeal to those one is attempting to reach. It seems over the last five years or so with the exponential rise Internet message boards and social media comment threads, we’ve been bombarded by voices upon voices screaming their viewpoints at the top of their lungs. At the risk of oversimplifying, there seem to be two options: Ignore those sorts of conversations altogether, or change the disposition with which we enter them in the first place. What I want to propose here is called dialectic, but it doesn’t even need that name. It’s simply taking a viewpoint opposed to yours seriously enough to critically reflect on it and honestly ask yourself if there is something worthwhile there that you may be missing. This isn’t as a hard and fast system of rules by which we must abide; it’s a guide and a means for opening the door to productive discourse in the first place.

Dialectic consists of three parts: Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis. If you ever participated in a “Socratic Seminar” method of classroom discussion in high school or college, then you’ve probably encountered this either explicitly or not. The idea is that one person offers a claim, a thesis statement. This is countered by another statement, the antithesis. The method, recognizing that there is probably value in both statements, seeks to draw out the truth kernel in each and form a synthesis of both, thus creating a new thesis statement. The process then starts over until, as Socrates [Plato] hoped, one arrives at Truth itself where no more antitheses may be offered against the True thesis statement.

The problem with most popular political debates is that they begin from the point of Truth. That is, the first argument offered is itself Truth in the mind of the person offering it. There is nothing more to be said except subpoints which can do nothing but support the initial truth claim. Those themselves are of course true because the initial statement is. This is called circular reasoning. At the risk of being incendiary, take this example:

P1: All marriages are between man and woman.

P2: All homosexual relationships are between man and man or woman and woman

Q: Therefore, all marriages exclude homosexual relationships.

This simple syllogism (a kind of logical philosophical argument) is logically valid but not logically sound. It’s valid because we have two premises and a conclusion drawn from them that doesn’t contradict either. But if we think about the premises, we might see a problem. Both are definitional, but only one is what we would call a tautology: P2. Put simply, a tautology is a statement in which the predicate repeats what the subject is in all possible interpretations. In other words, we define a homosexual relationship as a relationship between two people of the same sex. There is no other way to interpret the term “homosexual relationship.” But consider P1. A person making this argument would probably assume that P1 is also a tautology. But it begs the question: Is it? Is marriage only between man and woman? This is indeed the very crux of the debate itself. P1 is not an agreed-upon definition for marriage; to state it as such is to inevitably draw a fallacious, unsound conclusion. That’s not to say one couldn’t make a case for why P1 should be accepted, and if you’re compelled to quote the Bible or talk about God’s covenant, then I’ve done my job–you realize that further proof is needed for P1.

Dialectic demands two things of us in an argument. First, we are required  not to begin with Truth, but to realize that one’s initial proposition is simply a thesis that one expects to be rebutted with an intelligent antithesis. (The word “intelligent” is problematic, of course, in these sorts of disagreements because the assumption on both sides is almost always that the opposition is not intelligent; for our purposes, however, we will proceed as if the opposition does have some degree of intelligence. We want to be generous dialecticians.) Second, the method forces us to listen to the opposing viewpoint receptively. Dialectic doesn’t work if we’re not actively trying to draw out what might be true in what the other person is saying.

That’s all I’m after here. What would a social media debate look like if two (or more) people engaged in this type of discussion or, at the very least, allowed it to inform how they enter into these sorts of disagreements? I’d like to go one small step further and submit that even if a person on the other side of the fence seems unwilling to engage in this sort of discussion, begins with a mild insult, etc., it is still possible to treat that person’s propositions as theses to be considered and synthesized if for no other reason than to exercise our own critical thought muscles. I want to expand our notion of what is engageable in argument and how we should go about engaging others (to an extent and within one’s own practical limits of course. There are most certainly very serious exceptions where a proposition is simply abusive, offensive, and genuinely offers no usable insight, but at that point, one should feel no guilt about simply exiting the thread.)

With these very basic principles of argument in mind, even engaging someone like this Sam Elliot meme should be possible.

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New Year, New Posts

Friends, 2012 was a HUGE year for me (Joel), and before I knew it, the year had gone by, and only 4 new posts were made to A Church Unbound! For any of you who have been wondering what happened, allow me to briefly recap:

In January, I was accepted to Northwestern University to earn a PhD in Religious Studies. As more responses from other schools came back, it became clear that Northwestern was going to be the place for me. In May, I announced my departure to the church I served for three years while at Fuller Seminary. This summer was packed with full time youth ministry, preparing for my wedding (married August 4), and moving to Chicago. My wife and I left Pasadena on September 1 and have been in Chicago now since September 8.

Between all of that and beginning the program at Northwestern, I’ve been hard pressed to find time to post things here! This blog never been meant to be anything more than a resource for people to stumble upon and hopefully find useful in some way for engaging meaningfully in conversations about the future of the church and faith. I have some ideas in the works for the blog, and 2013 will hopefully prove to be more productive in the way of continuing to provide those resources!

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