Anabaptist ReMix [New ed.] 9781433187926, 9781433187933, 9781433187940, 1433187922

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Anabaptist ReMix: Varieties of Cultural Engagement in North America “ ‘You can take the girl out of the Mennonite church, but you can’t take the Mennonite “ ‘You church out of the girl.’ I have said this many times over the last 45+ 45+​years in explanation of what has shaped my identity, values and ethics, and faith after leaving the Mennonite church as a young adult to become United Methodist, a pastor and ultimately bishop. Issues of religious identity, ethics, especially the role of peacemaking as foundational to discipleship and discipledisciple-​making, making, and specifically how to be religious in a very divergent world are all part of what we as Christians in North America need to address. Kudos to Friesen and Koehn for their ambitious and challenging work!” — —​Bishop Bishop Sally Dyck, Ecumenical Officer for the United Methodist Church “Anabaptist ReMix offers an insightful case study into the impact of a particular religious community as it organically adapts and responds to the complexities of history, location, social evolution, technology, the broader society. Friesen and Koehn have brought together an eclectic set of perspectives that together present the Anabaptist tradition not only as a religious community, but rather through the lens of a social movement. This work is critically important at a time when social movements are reshaping our society. A global pandemic, reckoning with historical legacies of racism and inequality, and a deepening awareness of our impact on the environment and one another are reshaping our daily life. Anabaptist ReMix offers insight into how a movement, developed in a similar time of social conflict, carries a set of commitments, practices, and values across time and space. The editors challenge the narrow view of the Anabaptist tradition as insular and isolated, and instead assemble a group of scholars, artists, and practitioners that demonstrate the rich diversity and contribution of a faith community. How might movements that are taking shape today in this moment of crisis similarly evolve and carry out a vision that is both faithful to its commitments but adaptive throughout generations?” —D David Vasquez-L Levy, —​ avid Vasquez-​ evy, President, Pacific School of Religion “Our country is in urgent need of a publication that provides a framework for understanding the ebb and flow of religious thought through the concepts of ethics, community, faith, culture, and politics. In the edited volume, Anabaptist ReMix, scholars Lauren Friesen and Dennis R. Koehn provide a road map for synthesizing divergent theoretical and practical issues and identifying core values and beliefs for a 21st century Anabaptist vision. This volume will challenge some readers, but the effort will be rewarded with new insights. Essays draw on a wide range of disciplines: the arts, philosophy, theology, and institutional leadership. Topics are intriguing and complex. One big question is left open: what has the melting of Anabaptist and Mennonite history produced that guides religious practices today? Are these traditions evolving in a fruitful ‘ReMix’? Delving into this volume, I came away thinking of dynamics in a host of major institutions: history and diverse thought, both read and improvised, have the potential of a creative impact.” —D Dolores —​ olores Cross, Education Consultant and University President (Retired) “Anabaptist ReMix is an ambitious attempt to tell a more complex story about the diverse ways Mennonites engage with the larger culture. I anticipate that it will generate deep reflection and lively debate among 21st century Anabaptists.” —Dan McKanan, Harvard Divinity School; Author of Prophetic Encounters: Religion and the American Radical Tradition

Anabaptist ReMix

This book is part of the Peter Lang Humanities list. Every volume is peer reviewed and meets the highest quality standards for content and production.

PETER LANG New York • Bern • Berlin Brussels • Vienna • Oxford • Warsaw

Anabaptist ReMix Varieties of Cultural Engagement in North America Lauren Friesen and Dennis R. Koehn, Editors

PETER LANG New York • Bern • Berlin Brussels • Vienna • Oxford • Warsaw

Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Friesen, Lauren, editor. | Koehn, Dennis, editor. Title: Anabaptist remix: varieties of cultural engagement in North America /​ Lauren Friesen and Dennis R. Koehn, editors. Description: New York: Peter Lang, 2022. Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021033581 (print) | LCCN 2021033582 (ebook) ISBN 978-​1- ​4331-​8792- ​6 (hardback) ISBN 978-​1-​4331-​8793-​3 (ebook pdf) | ISBN 978-​1-​4331-​8794-​0 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Anabaptists—​North America. | Christian life—​A nabaptist authors. | Christianity and culture—​North America. Classification: LCC BX4933.N7. F75 2022 (print) | LCC BX4933.N7 (ebook) | DDC 284/​.3—​dc23 LC record available at https://​lccn.loc.gov/​2021033581 LC ebook record available at https://​lccn.loc.gov/​2021033582 DOI 10.3726/​b18329 Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek. Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the “Deutsche Nationalbibliografie”; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://​d nb.d-​nb.de/​.

Cover photos: Pacific Conservatory Theater production of Hamlet. Set design and photographs by Dave Nofsinger (used with permission). The cover images were selected because Mennonites, historically, have stood in the shadows of society but this volume sheds light on our expanding arenas of cultural engagement. Between the cool front image and the warm one in back, we hope the reader will uncover new ways of seeing.

© 2022 Lauren Friesen and Dennis R. Koehn Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., New York 80 Broad Street, 5th floor, New York, NY 10004 www.peterlang.com All rights reserved. Reprint or reproduction, even partially, in all forms such as microfilm, xerography, microfiche, microcard, and offset strictly prohibited.

Improvisation, in jazz, often occurs outside established melodies but within established cord structures. Such improvisation may also be presented outside both established cord structures and melodies. Thus, it embodies a life-​ affirming progress within and outside human traditions while striving for freedom: a sublime striving for freedom that lifts up the new, the always becoming, the audacious hope of a present and future not-​yet-​realized, but here-​now in the perpetual making. —​James Samuel Logan

Table of Contents

List of Abbreviations  xi Part I The Frame Three Angels  3 K eith R atzlaff Preface  5 Introduction  9 Dennis R. Koehn Part II Anabaptism and the Shifting Terrain New Perspectives on Human Nature and Images of the Divine  23 Dennis R. Koehn Secular Mennonite Social Critique: Pluralism, Interdisciplinarity, and Mennonite Studies  49 M axwell K ennel Part III Ethics of Peace and Justice The Convergence of Pacifism and Just War  79 Duane Friesen Interfaith Paths to Peace  105 Doug Hostetter The Ground and Educational Ministry of Ethics: A (Darkly Hued) Anabaptist Perspective  123 James Samuel L ogan

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“Be Just, and Fear Not”: Theater as Restorative Justice  137 L auren Friesen Part IV Race and Identity The Beggars Are Rising, Where Are the Saints?  167 Vincent H arding Connections Past, Present, and Future  171 L awrence H art Hexadecaroon  177 Bryan R afael Falcón Liberating Anabaptist Music  193 K atie Graber Part V Pilgrimage, Trauma, and Renewal Voice of the Residue: The Reckoning of Intergenerational Female Wounding  203 Cameron A ltaras Healing the Wounds of a Violated World  225 Ruth E. K rall I Will Kill Him First!  237 L orin Peters Musings from a Blind Mennonite Misfit: When Disability Theory and Anabaptist Identity Intersect  241 Darla Schumm Anabaptism and Its Agrarian Heritage  253 S. Roy K aufman Part VI Pushing the Boundaries Beauty Happens  275 Charlene Gingerich Mennonite Literature’s Queer Decolonial Anabaptist Vision  287 Daniel Shank Cruz Us and Them  307 A l Schnupp

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Part VII Poetic and Artistic Expression Emblems of the Times  315 Jeff Gundy The Centaur’s Recipe  317 Sofia Samatar Learning from our Ancestors: Listening to the Patterns in our Hands  325 R achel Epp Buller Neighbor : Who  335 Douglas Witmer Slowly Like Snow  337 Diana Zimmerman Part VIII Ethics of Institutional Engagement Applying a Mennonite Theology of Peacebuilding to Mennonite Institutions  341 Lisa Schirch Negotiating the Blade: A Dramatic Reverie on Faith, Institutions, and Theater  369 Julia R eimer Walking a Tightrope Across the University: Following My Ethical Compass and Hacking Higher Education  389 Clayton Funk Ethics, Faith, and Health Care  403 Rudi K auffman Among the Pains: Christianity, Disability, Healing  415 J. A lexander Sider The Church on the Edge of Forever  431 David E. Ortman List of Contributors  463 Index 

469 

List of Abbreviations

A MBS (Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary) TAV (The Anabaptist Vision) CGR (Conrad Grebel Review) CMBC (Canadian Mennonite Bible College) CPT (Christian Peacemaker Teams) ETF (Mennonite Environmental Task Force) I MS (Institute of Mennonite Studies) JMS (Journal of Mennonite Studies) JMW (Journal of Mennonite Writing) MCC (Mennonite Central Committee) MCUSA (Mennonite Church United States of America) MQR (Mennonite Quarterly Review) M WC (Mennonite World Conference) TRAV (The Recovery of the Anabaptist Vision)

Part I  The Frame The broad scope of this volume is illustrated by this section which begins with a poem and ends with chapter summaries. New directions for theology, ethics, the arts, reflections on racial and gender identities, personal pilgrimages, institutional decision-​making, and cultural engagement are introduced in this section. The approach to these topics, as cultural engagement, is a departure from a more traditional, community focused approach to Mennonite studies. This framework is an invitation for the reader to traverse a wide landscape when, as Ratzlaff’s poem signifies, we envision God’s creation as a shoe.

Three Angels after

Paul K lee

K eith R atzlaff

There are not enough shoes in heaven no matter what the song says—​ which means feet will be rationed soon because God says so. It was the curse of Midas to know what happened next, however limited however gold. It was the curse of Jeremiah to prophesy for the Lord and regret it even as he spoke, knowing Damascus would burn then Marathon, Kabul, Jerusalem. Oh God who taketh away the world, who among us could have declined heaven even when we knew? Only the meek are blessed, the sorrowful—​ only the secondary, tertiary, the poor and pocketless

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Thr ee A ngels without laces and aglets, heels and soles, eyelets and tongues. Blessed are those who weep. Blessed the hang dog, the hungry, the angry, the upper and lower, the strapped, the welted. Blessed those who have no feet for they shall see God’s handiwork. Blessed be God for whom the word for world is shoe.

Preface

The practical roots for this book can be traced to many coffee mugs devoured by the editors at the Hyde Park caffeine purveyors known as Bonjour Bakery and Piccolo Mundo. The theoretical roots are deeper and more complex. We were both educated during the era when “The Anabaptist Vision” by Harold S. Bender had considerable influence among Mennonites. He advanced the thesis that the Swiss/​South German Anabaptist Martyrs were the spiritual geniuses of our tradition and that adherence to their primary principles (biblical faith, discipleship, nonresistance, and community) could rescue Mennonite thought from the seductiveness of Fundamentalism and the encroachment of modernism.1 That was then, this is now. The limits of his study became evident as scholars turned their attention to the wider Anabaptist movement. Bender essentially limited his analysis to a five-​year period (1525–​1530) and within that narrow timeframe, apparently further limited his examples to those who were imprisoned or martyred. Early Anabaptism was far more pluralistic than Bender’s thesis implied.2 These essays are an improvisation on familiar themes in North American Mennonite/​A nabaptist studies: ethics, community, faith, and culture. Each contributor explores new, even nontraditional, avenues for action and expressiveness. As editors, we have selected topics in many theoretical and practical areas in order to illustrate the rootedness and expansive attributes of this tradition. We stand amidst these questions: from where have we come, what is our identity, and how will we navigate the future? Can we improvise our 1 C. Norman Krauss. “American Mennonites and the Bible,” in Essays on Biblical Interpretation: Anabaptist-​ Mennonite Perspective (Elkhart, IN: Institute of Mennonite Studies, 1984), 149. 2 C. Arnold Snyder. Later Writings of the Swiss Anabaptists: 1529–​1608 (Walden, NY: Plough Publishing, 2019).

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way with these new chords and harmonies: remix the familiar with the innovative? That is the challenge before us. The contemporary context is distant from the two-​fold challenges that Bender addressed. Mennonites have moved into the professions without adapting fundamentalist hermeneutics or a nihilistic worldview. The essays and creative works in this volume attest to the pliability of Anabaptist/​ Mennonite thought by individuals who have or are excelling, professionally, and able to reflect on their faith traditions. The very idea of traditions, plural, is in contrast with Bender’s thesis because Anabaptism was never a singular orthodoxy; it was pluralistic then and is especially so today. This new understanding of pluralism in theory and praxis is, therefore, a sign of the vitality of this tradition and not a mark of its weakness. The authors have incorporated enduring Anabaptist motifs and blended them with contemporary issues and perspectives. That remix of tradition and innovation thrives within these pages. The challenge that continues, for those who seek a meaningful faith, is the quest for liberation from prior, inadequate paradigms while balancing that investigation with authenticity and renewal. The organization of this volume follows an architectural model. We begin with new directions in theology as the framework for continued reflection. That is followed by the ethics as the stairway to various rooms that need examination. The first of those is the fluid identity of the terms Mennonite and Anabaptist. That is followed examining the landscape upon which we resume the pilgrimage that pushes boundaries toward poetic and artistic expression. Within the community of faith, the arts are the mediators between experience, authenticity, and transcendence. The tension between liberation and responsible renewal creates a liminal space where ambiguity often resides. The essays in this volume often explore those spaces where ambiguity opens the doors to engage culture and society. The editors offer a hearty thank you for the multitude of institutions that have nourished our growth through the years. These include our communities and churches of origin: Bethel College Mennonite Church (Dennis) and Bethesda Mennonite (Lauren). The schools where we received our training: Bethel College and Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary (for both of us), Harvard Divinity School and Chicago Theological Seminary (Dennis), Pacific School of Religion and Graduate Theological Union (Lauren). Our years of employment included church and non-​church institutions: Lauren—​ San Francisco Opera Company, Seattle Mennonite Church, Goshen College, and the University of Michigan. Dennis completed successful careers at Oaklawn Psychiatric Center, Goshen College, Mennonite Mutual Aid, and as a self-​employed management consultant. Many faculty and instructors gave us the research and analytical skills for our academic achievements.

Preface

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For the sake of brevity, I, Lauren, am grateful for the work of these professors: William Gering and Keith Sprunger (Bethel College), Leland Harder, Clarence Bauman (Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary), Doug Adams and Wayne Rood (Pacific School of Religion), Marvin Rosenburg, and Margaret Wilkerson (University of California-​Berkeley), and Mia Mochizuki and James Emperor (Jesuit School of Theology). In addition, the opportunity to lecture on theater and religion at German conferences hosted by Horst Schwebel (Marburg), Klaus Hoffmann, (Hannover), and Ingrid Hentschel (Bielefeld and Hamburg) served as a guide for my thought on the connections between the arts and religion. And I, Dennis, thank my mentors who include Howard Snider, Duane Friesen and William Keeney (Bethel College), Gordon Kaufman and Krister Stendahl (Harvard Divinity School) and Robert Moore (Chicago Theological Seminary). Dennis gained insights into church institutions and leadership through management consulting engagements with the Mennonite Church—​General Conference Mennonite Church merger, Mennonite Central Committee, the Church of the Brethren General Board, and numerous other church agencies and institutions. Numerous libraries and librarians have also aided this venture. John Thiesen (Mennonite Historical Library, Bethel College) and Joseph Sprunger (Mennonite Historical Library, Goshen College) have always been prompt and responsive to our queries. The Regenstein Graduate (University of Chicago), the Chicago Theological Seminary, Graduate Theological Union and the Harold Washington Public Libraries have been an invaluable resource for our research efforts. Mennonite Life, a magazine founded by historian Cornelius Krahn, continues to provide new insights on life among various Mennonite groups. That publication, in one sense, is the foundation for this work which now focuses on the ethical dimensions of this heritage. We have four reprints in this volume, and we are grateful to the authors or the copyright holders for their permission to include their essays. We are including reprints because these essays address timeless issues or those that linger across time and space. Mennonite publications such as Mennonite Life, Journal of Mennonite Writing and its conferences, Conrad Grebel Review, Journal of Mennonite Studies, and Mennonite Quarterly Review have been invaluable guides as we selected topics and identified potential authors. In addition, the Harvard Divinity School and Graduate Theological Union libraries have been a valued resource for this venture. The name of each contributor and their affiliation can be found in the final pages of this volume. The Editors Chicago

Introduction Dennis R. K oehn, MDiv, P h D

The creative clash of tradition and innovation causes most aspects of culture to be in continuous remix. Crucibles of adaptation are present in religion, law, education, science, technology, publishing, arts, media, etc. The present volume on Anabaptist ReMix: Varieties of Cultural Engagement in North America is a case study of one religious tradition—​A nabaptists and Mennonites—​and a few fragments of transformation in the modern and post-​ modern era. Theology is re-​imagined as a conversation about human nature and emergent images of the divine. The arts are re-​framed as a prophetic examination of conflict, catharsis, and justice. Christian pacifism is given new partners and new projects with those in the just-​war tradition. Women find a new voice to tell stories of abuse, oppression, and healing. Native American, Black, and Latinx voices call attention to buried stories calling for resurrection. The power of institutional structures is interrogated and challenged to prophetic missions of equality, healing, and justice. The contributors to this volume answer the question: “What have the ‘inheritors’ of Anabaptism done since the publication of The Recovery of the Anabaptist Vision over 60 years ago?”1 Our thesis is that they have made significant contributions to North American society, directly, and the global community, more indirectly. Currently, Anabaptist/​Mennonite voices are diverse, inclusive, and pluralistic in their views. Diverse in that they represent a large variety of disciplines and methods. Inclusive because they often break down the barriers from inherited views on race, gender, identity, and doctrine. Contributors describe how aspects of the Anabaptist legacy have had an impact on how they engage with the contemporary world. Contributors were selected on the basis of the importance, creativity, and diversity of their work 1

Published in Recovery of The Anabaptist Vision, ed. by Guy F. Hershberger (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1957).

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and life experience. We bring this creative mix of tradition and innovation to curious and adventuresome readers. The original Dutch/​Swiss Anabaptists were among the major sectarian movements of that era, rejecting the dominant narratives of the Protestant and Catholic state churches. This book continues that pioneering work of creating new narratives of understanding, identity, and action in the world. Each generation adapts to newly emerging social, economic, political, and artistic realities. An examination of Anabaptist identity and practice is needed at this time because the inheritors of this tradition are fragmenting and dissipating. The creative vitality of this unique tradition is in question. Old modes of identity, expression, community, and action are irrelevant to many in the millennial generation in the early 21st century. This volume represents a small sample of Anabaptist vitality over the last 60 years. This legacy is now handed on to new generations that will shape the next 60 years of Anabaptist identity and mission. We are no longer farming communities with Dutch and Swiss cultural traits, led by patriarchs. We are rapidly becoming diversified, feminized, urbanized, and professionalized. These are not small changes. They require creative new formulations of identity and mission in the world. For example, we Mennonites have 500 years of experience with male identity without warrior violence (although violence in our families and congregations has continued and those stories have been suppressed). We have 70 years of experience delivering community-​based mental health services (even though some of our practices diminish our mental health). Could we make a unique and creative contribution to reducing male mental health related gun violence in America? Many North American Mennonites have seen their identity over the last seventy years through the prism of the H.S. Bender address on “The Anabaptist Vision,” delivered to the American Society of Church History in 1943. Bender wrote that the Anabaptist conception of the church involved “the insistence on the separation of the church from the world, that is non-​ conformity of the Christian to the worldly way of life.… Conflict with the world was inevitable.”2 The Bender vision did not include a mission to the world, but a vision of church separation from the world. But earlier in the 20th century an alternative vision of Mennonite presence in the North American context was articulated. This alternative vision was “shunned” and refused publication by the Goshen College Mennonite Historical Society and the Mennonite Herald Press in Scottdale, Pennsylvania.3 The author of this alternative Mennonite vision was young 2 3

Ibid., 48. Creative Crusader: Edmund G. Kaufman and Mennonite Community, by James C. Juhnke (North Newton, Kansas: Bethel College, 1994), 126–​27.

Introduction

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Edmond G. Kaufman, writing a 1927 PhD dissertation at the University of Chicago: “The Development of the Missionary and Philanthropic Interest Among the Mennonites of North America.”4 At the end of this dissertation, Kaufman summarized that North American Mennonites were engaged with the larger culture through: “eight publishing houses, eight Mennonite higher educational institutions, twenty-​five Mennonite hospitals, orphanages, and homes for the aged, and over seventy-​five Mennonite city and rural missions.”5 Kaufman also noted hundreds of Mennonites engaged with American Indians and the peoples of India, China, Africa, and South America. This book on Anabaptist ReMix: The Varieties of Cultural Engagement in North America is a continuing celebration of the Kaufman vision of active Mennonite mission and social engagement. One of the most contentious aspects of the Kaufman dissertation was his use of sociological sect-​cycle theory to explain the experience of Anabaptist and Mennonites in their European and North American contexts. A sect initially grows out of a social context in which most people are in a state of fusion with the culture at hand. Then comes a period of crisis, conflict, schism, and isolation, a period of indefinite duration. The initial motivation is likely to be reform rather than separation. Isolation becomes a group ideal and strong internal community norms are developed. “The peculiarities are gradually given divine sanction, are bolstered up by Scriptures, and become cardinal principles, the neglect of which is punished as heresy.”6 Dominant forms of leadership and followership often develop: the people are called to “subordination to a few outstanding leaders, who, not only themselves live in the consciousness of a higher power, but demand allegiance, loyalty, and the sinking of the individual’s wishes in the welfare of the group.”7 Some contributors to this volume are in active rebellion to this “sinking of the individual’s wishes” for the sake of group solidarity under centralized patriarchal leadership. The transition of sects out of isolation often involves generational conflict. The older members of a sect continue to assert the superiority of sectarian styles and norms, while younger members of the sect make: attempts at revision so as more nearly to conform to the standards of the outer community. This often brings on divisions and schisms which generally are a

4 5 6 7

The Development of the Missionary and Philanthropic Interest Among the Mennonites of North America (Berne, Indiana: The Mennonite Book Concern, 1931). Ibid., 311. Ibid., 40. Ibid., 40.

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I ntroduction sign that the period of disintegration has set in.… Sooner or later the world becomes more tolerant and refuses to take the sect seriously.… Gradually the customs, practices, ideals, and doctrines of the two groups [sect and larger culture] more or less conform and the sect is again slowly fused with the larger community by ceasing to exist, or becoming a denomination gradually federating with similar bodies.8

There is a period of declining conflict and the sectarian group tends to return to assimilation within its larger cultural context. This book on Anabaptist ReMix leaves unanswered the question of whether or not some sectarian solidarity will be maintained as current-​day Anabaptists engage freely in nearly all aspects of North American culture. As editors of this volume, we hope that a renewed assertion of Mennonite distinctiveness will emerge. As we survey the contributions of authors in this volume, we see a distinctive integration of nonviolent reverence for life, a zest for authentic personal and community vitality, and struggles for justice and sustainability in the larger human community. These are the unifying themes that hold together this wide-​ranging collection of essays. We also see a weakness in our identity and solidarity in the 21st century North American ethos. Assertive and confident faith communities are needed to balance against the power of big corporations and big government. In the midst of cultural domination by big corporations and big government, we do not see a counter-​force response for building coalition and institutional responses to transform or resist this domination. As we survey the church scene across North America, we see declining congregations in traditional rural Mennonite strongholds and small and barely viable Mennonite fellowship in many urban settings. Acculturation and denominational schisms leave vitality in publishing, education, and outreach in limbo.

The Frame Jesus used metaphors of salt, light, and leaven to signify divine presence in the world: “You are the salt of the earth” and “You are the light of the world”; the Kingdom of God is like the leaven that the woman took…. This book represents the lives of creative and courageous Anabaptists who have been carrying out the Jesus vision of salt, light, and leaven in the world. Some have acted in official church-​sanctioned roles; others have acted as autonomous—​ sometimes renegade—​individuals. While the Anabaptist heritage is often idealized, the Mennonite lived experience of our contributors is both bondage 8

Ibid., 46.

Introduction

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and liberation, both abandonment and responsibility for our larger culture. Common themes of authenticity, honesty, and relevance run through the essays in this volume. I will now examine each chapter.

Anabaptism and the Shifting Terrain In his essay on “New Perspectives on Human Nature and Images of the Divine,” Dennis Koehn offers an analytical template for interpreting Anabaptist liberation, responsibility, and engagement over the last seventy years. He lays out the case for theological anthropology—​explaining human nature—​as the most impactful undertaking in theology. Ancient and modern developmental theorists describe up to eight varieties of human nature, each with its distinctive understanding of reality, the good, what is possible, and the nature of the divine. The prolific Canadian Mennonite writer Maxwell Kennel provides an essay on a “Secular Mennonite Social Critique: Pluralism, Interdisciplinarity, and Mennonite Studies.” He writes: “I study secular, philosophical, political, and literary Mennonite thinkers and topics with the express expectation that values will conflict, and with the further assumption that this conflict of values is preferable to the fantasy that ‘we’ ultimately agree on the important things in our diverse societies.”

Ethics of Peace and Justice Bethel College professor emeritus Duane Friesen writes on “The Convergence of Pacifism and Just War,” and builds a case for Mennonite pacifists to join with just war theorists in minimizing the use of war in international affairs. This 1989 essay includes a 2020 epilogue, which charts the “Doomsday Clock” of the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists and the work of diverse ethicists in recent decades on just peacemaking: ten “practical normative practices of peacemaking that are supported by empirical evidence.” Doug Hostetter writes on “Interfaith Paths to Peace,” first presented to the First International Conference on Peace and Conflict Resolution at the University of Tehran in Iran in 2019. Drawing on experiences from Vietnam and Bosnia during times of war, Hostetter concludes: “The first step in interfaith peace work is the recognition that one’s own faith tradition is not the only way to God, and that other faith traditions and their practitioners must be accepted, respected, and cooperated with, in peacebuilding efforts.” James Samuel Logan provides an essay on “The Ground and Educational Ministry of Ethics: A (Darkly Hued) Anabaptist Perspective,” and describes

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his philosophy and practice of teaching ethics at Earlham College. Logan sees that “teaching is a political activity … teaching is an activity related to the pursuit of power/​influence, status, recognition, belonging, and control.” He addresses distressing realities which call for ethical action, such as incarceration and educational patterns described by James Lanier: “for every black male who graduates from college, one hundred others are in prison or jail.” “ ‘Be Just, and Fear Not’: Theater as Restorative Justice” by Lauren Friesen, identifies justice as the central theme in many enduring theater productions: “Theater lays bare for the world to see how justice and injustice are measured.” Friesen draws on a broad range of western thinkers for an understanding of justice: Aristotle, Kant, and John Rawls—​to name a few. He calls forth Aristotle for a corrective to a typical Mennonite reflex to withdraw from social engagement: “Responsible citizens, Aristotle advises, need to act and not withdraw from society; they cannot excuse themselves from the uncertainties of pursuing justice.” Friesen sees that, “The arts, theater in particular, are that bridge between the individual and society, church and world.”

Race and Identity Next, is a Mennonite World Conference address by Black Mennonite Pastor and American historian Vincent Harding: “The Beggars Are Rising, Where Are the Saints?” which challenges White Mennonites to become engaged in the global struggles for liberation by people of color. Harding presents a demanding reality: “The lame and bruised prey of western exploitation are rising and marching and demanding the right to live as humans. They are rising and are outraged that we have eaten and drunk their sweat.” Cheyenne Peace Chief and Mennonite pastor, Lawrence Hart presented an address “Connections Past, Present, and Future,” in which he described parallel migration patterns of the Cheyenne people and the Mennonite people who both ended up on Great Plains of the North American continent. The Cheyenne have their ancestral roots in Siberia, having migrated to Alaska over ice that once covered the Bering Strait. Centuries later another group left another part of Russia to settle on the plains of Oklahoma and Kansas—​ the Mennonites. Each group carried a tradition of peacemaking and nonviolence and they met on the Great Plains in the late 19th century. In “Hexadecaroon,” Bryan Rafael Falcón describes his attempt to navigate identities inherited from his Puerto Rican father and his Swiss German Mennonite mother. Falcón runs a theater company in Tucson, Arizona. He describes one of his major interests in theater: “Identity is one of the most powerful tools that humanity, a cooperative species by necessity, has ever

Introduction

15

developed. Without story there is no sense of community or people, and without identity there be no sense of self.” Katie Graber provides an essay on “Liberating Anabaptist Music”, in which she describes efforts to bring greater racial/​ethnic diversity into the music and worship of North American Mennonites. Graber is aware of the era of “colonizing mission” in which colonized peoples were expected to adopt Western music and worship expressions; and then more recently the tendency of people with power to appropriate and exploit the musical expressions of indigenous peoples. She writes, “For people from a dominant culture, this work of valuing diversity and finding common ground is something we need to grapple with ourselves.… Engaging other cultures, encountering people who are different (but also the same) is difficult work, but it is important for cultivating respect and enacting justice.”

Pilgrimage, Trauma, and Renewal Cameron Altaras, in her essay “Voice of the Residue: The Reckoning of Intergenerational Female Wounding,” discusses how women become alienated from their true selves in patterns of intergenerational harm, “perpetuated under conditions shaped by patriarchal Anabaptist theology, which undermine a woman’s well-​being and prove inimical to her ability to develop a self with integrity.” In “Healing the Wounds of a Violated World,” Ruth Krall builds on the Apostle Paul’s challenge to be transformed by the renewal of our minds. Krall finds that this renewal is more emotional than cognitive. She urges that one must develop a spirit of compassion toward self and others, which are part of an integrated whole; and “The more fragmented the self, the more unable one becomes to see the suffering of others.” With an autobiographical sketch, Lorin Peters describes experiences of military training at the University of California Berkeley, death threats while in the Peace Corps in Thailand, a dream of walking peacefully with Jesus, being inspired by the nonviolent philosophy of Gandhi, and becoming aware of how dreams arise out of a shared human memory—​t he collective subconscious. He concludes that a dream “very probably saved my life.” With a very personal essay, “Musings from a Blind Mennonite Misfit: When Disability Theory and Anabaptist Identity Intersect,” Darla Schumm writes: “I noticed that many of the challenges posed, lessons learned, and insights gained from being Mennonite and being blind intersect in surprising and often delightful ways.” Schumm builds on the term, “misfitting” as a way of reorienting how we think about disability: “I frequently do not ‘fit’

16

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the situation either because my embodied disabled reality highlights how the material environment is designed for able bodies, or because some of the Mennonite values I inherited and internalized run counter to the dominant culture …. Misfitting is a call to justice. Misfitting is an invitation to create the greatest number of fits for the widest range of bodies.” S. Roy Kauffman calls on the church to remember “Anabaptism and its Agrarian Heritage.” Kauffman charges that, “Mennonite denominations have abandoned their rural, agrarian heritage.” He calls for a revitalization of Mennonite agrarian cultures and challenges that, “the urban church must always remember that the full expression of the church as the harbinger of God’s new creation involves both urban and rural communities living in a healthy symbiosis, theologically, structurally, socially, and materially.”

Pushing the Boundaries In a revelatory essay, “Beauty Happens,” Charlene Gingerich explores the threads that make up our lives—​some with us since birth, others added along the way, some lost and frayed. One thread is experiences in her home Mennonite church: “I have had the most uneasy and uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach.” But the divine has become more real to Nafziger. As a collaborative pianist she has opportunities to “join the Divine in ‘me’ with Divine in the ‘other’—​and together we create. We give birth to something that has never been before and will never be again.” She experiences God as a verb: “creating, evolving, engaging, responding, dancing.” Daniel Shank Cruz’s pivotal work, “Mennonite Literature’s Queer Decolonial Anabaptist Vision,” opens up the vast creative resources of Mennonite poets and writers of speculative fiction and more general fiction. He writes: “As a queer Latinx scholar of queer theory and Mennonite literature who wants the Mennonite community to be more inclusive of voices that aren’t straight, male, and white so that I and others currently excluded by it can feel safe there, I wonder how we can queer efforts like The Anabaptist Vision.” The queering of Mennonite literature involves hybridity in identity, blurring of boundaries, decolonializing theology, and centering everyday bodily experience in community. Al Schnupp in “Us and Them” focuses a fundamental lens of his conservative Mennonite upbringing. “Us—​A nabaptists, embraced. Them—​t he rest of humanity, doomed.” Schnupp describes growing up with a fear-​based theology of remaining separate from the world and always ready for the rapture. Liberation came through studies at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City, where Schnupp found ways to overcome the separation of

17

Introduction

us and them and learned that understanding self and understanding others involves an intimate interdependence.

Poetic and Artistic Expression The poet Jeff Gundy’s “Emblems of the Times,” embodies many images: “icy creek … house empty … shimmery mist … some tunes as old as Jesus … rumor of wings … fully charged … heat lamp pizza.…” In sum, Gundy captures how the comfortable elements of life lead us beyond the familiar: they guide us to “roads out of town.” Sofia Samatar in, “The Centaur’s Recipe,” describes some of her interaction with Goshen College English professor, Nick Lindsay. She summarizes: “But I think now that what Nick was trying to show us, in his fantastic and off-​beat way, is that nature is culture, that all gods are wild ghost-​gods, and that all who would be poets must also be witches. All poets must draw from the garden of symbols: that gap in time where the old gods meet the new.” Samatar values eccentricity, the paradoxical, and “a sense of being out of place.” Rachel Epp Buller, presents a short introduction and a “string of poems” titled: “Learning from our Ancestors: Listening with our Hands.” One poem includes these lines: Beautiful patterns of meaning traverse the borders, Inventing new combinations, Arranging and collating, Constructing authorship differently

The interactive artwork by Douglas Witmer, “Neighbor : Who” challenges the viewer to reflect on primary relationships and their signifiers. He encourages viewers to participate in the creation of his work and thereby place themselves in it and become co-​artists. “Slowly Like Snow,” by Dianna Zimmerman is a grieving rendition with “a carry-​on bag with ashes” and experiencing the “endless Atlantic.” An absent hand could not be held for “it was in tiny pieces in the overhead compartment.” The ashes were carried with instructions: “take me home to the sea.”

Ethics of Institutional Engagement Lisa Schirch, in “Applying a Mennonite Theology of Peacebuilding to Mennonite Institutions,” describes alarming observations: “I see a dwindling

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peace church that becomes ever more fragmented by internal conflicts each decade.” But Schirch still has vision and hope: “I have a dream someday Anabaptists will be known for the wideness of our welcome table, for our practice of love and listening, not for the ways Mennonite institutions punish, coerce and excommunicate people like me.” “Negotiating the Blade: A Dramatic Reverie on Faith, Institutions, and Theater,” by Julia Reimer, describes negotiating the crosscurrents of a theater professor at a Mennonite university and emerges with a deeply felt readiness that she is ready to, “Take time to restock, take stock, regroup, redirect.” A new chapter is opening up to, “Go up into the gaps.” Reimer hears a warning from Annie Dillard: “There is such an enormous temptation in all of life to diddle around making itsy-​bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-​bitsy years on end […] and then to sulk along the rest of your days on the edge of rage. I won’t have it. The world is wider than that in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and brighter.” Clayton Funk’s, “Walking a Tightrope Across the University: Following My Ethical Compass and Hacking Higher Education,” describes ethical and pedagogical struggles teaching in a large public university: “I found myself balancing on a tightrope between my conscience and the culture of university teaching.” Funk helped his art students to see “commercialized banalities” in the American economic marketplace. Following his Anabaptist-​informed conscience led Funk to innovations in teaching, attempting to be relevant within the life experience of his students and build trust in relationships with students. Rudi Kauffman’s “Ethics, Faith, and Health Care,” is an analysis of the American healthcare system, which puts the profits and wealth of a few above the health of the many. He calls for greater involvement of the church in “direct healing missions or the funding of every possible need in the existing system …. Churches might pay for medical school, breaking the debt and entitlement cycle …. Some acceptance of the limitations of medicine would be required so that resources were not lavished on the dying rich while the living poor struggle with untreated disease.” In his essay “Among the Pains: Christianity, Disability, Healing,” J. Alexander Sider describes medical and social models of disability and calls on churches to explore deeper understandings and manifestations of dependence, celebration, and friendship. He reports that, “The most commonly reported desire of parents of children with disabilities is for their child to have a friend.” Sider reminds us that Thomas Aquinas “suggested that we are created for nothing less than to be God’s friends.” Difference in abilities, personalities, and histories is friendship’s generative source and not an obstacle.

Introduction

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David E. Ortman in “The Church on the Edge of Forever,” chronicles Mennonite engagement with environmental issues, beginning with Dutch Mennonite refugees draining the swamps in East Friesland, Schleswig-​ Holstein, and the Vistula Delta. Ortman proposes: “We confess that we have understood stewardship to mean only use of the earth, rather than protection and that we have been active participants in non-​sustainable development.… We call for a new vision of the natural world which accepts the custody of the earth with the responsibility to our fellow creatures and for the maintenance of a habitable planet.” The contributors to this ReMix are actors, artists, and theorists: actors in the world, artists creating liberating narratives and images, and theorists identifying larger patterns and connecting the dots. For the creative leaders of the 21st century, here is a tradition that embodies multiplicity and invites innovation and synergy to meet current and future challenges. We would love to see small study groups emerge across North America, meet regularly, discuss a chapter or two of this book, and probe provocative themes in their own lives and cultural context.

Bibliography Hershberger, Guy, F., ed. TRAV. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1957. Juhnke, James C. Creative Crusader: Edmund G. Kaufman and Mennonite Community. North Newton, Kansas: Bethel College, 1994. Kaufman, Edmund G. The Development of the Missionary and Philanthropic Interest Among the Mennonites of North America. Berne, Indiana: The Mennonite Book Concern, 1931.

Part II  Anabaptism and the Shifting Terrain The essays in this section establish the necessity for new directions in Mennonite studies. Mennonites in North American have shifted from a sectarian withdrawal from the world toward a more active engagement with culture. This change in orientation needs a theology that looks outward instead of examining the doctrines of withdrawn communities. With that preamble in mind, both authors in this section outline a new methodology for Mennonite studies. With his study that links theology with the psychology of faith development, Koehn proposes a new foundation for that shift. Kennel outlines the Dutch legacy of cultural engagement and how it serves as a template for examining contemporary, North American Mennonite theology and culture. Koehn and Kennel demonstrate how dialog and engagement with culture suggests new opportunities for Mennonite studies.

Chapter 1  New Perspectives on Human Nature and Images of the Divine Dennis R. K oehn

One of the primary functions of theology is to mediate the clashing tension between tradition and innovation. Religious believers often need to feel that they can “change” and “not change” at the same time. Theology often softens the trauma of change by reshaping continuities with the past. This essay is offered as a template for analyzing and understanding the changes in Anabaptist theology and cultural engagement over the last 70 years, since the formulation of “The Anabaptist Vision” by H. S. Bender in the mid-​20th century. It is also a template for interpreting essays in this volume. Many of the authors in this volume describe personal journeys from rather closed hierarchical Mennonite communities to a more open and creative engagement in the larger culture, while retaining some basic Anabaptist and Mennonite values. This often involves moving away from value systems that are anchored in absolute order, conventional faith, and institutional authority toward value systems that express enterprising creativity, egalitarian and communal authority, skeptical individual initiative, and integrative systems thinking. In addition to mediating the clash between tradition and innovation, I am framing the larger work of theology as feeling, thinking, and conversing about what is real (epistemology), what is good (ethics), and what is possible (teleology). Theology is, for me, not a sector or slice of life; it is the task and the place of holding all of life together in personal and communal integration and harmony. Some of this theological work can be done by solitary individuals, but most integration and harmony-​building happen in conversation, relationships, and community.

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This essay is interdisciplinary in scope and content. The primary foundation is psychology of religion, taking inspiration from the 19th century German philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach and three 20th century theorists in developmental psychology. I studied psychology of religion with William Rogers at Harvard Divinity School in 1976 and with Laleen Rector at Garrett-​Evangelical Theological Seminary in 2008. I also draw from the field of philosophical theology. In 1977 I took a class with Marlin Miller at the Associated Mennonite Biblical Seminary on “Philosophical Theology.” I was also exposed to philosophical theology in courses with Mennonite theological Gordon Kaufman and R. Richard Niebuhr at Harvard Divinity School in the 1970s. In recent years I have read works by Mennonite philosophical theologian J. Lawrence Burkholder.1 I expect Mennonite theology to address philosophical and psychological issues and questions. In this essay I also draw on ideas from ancient Greek Philosophy. I value thinking and work that is multi-​d isciplinary. I invite conversation, dialog, and debate. The theological work of understanding reality, what is good, and what is possible, is carried out in three broad areas: (1) What are the capacities and limitations of human nature? (2) What is real in the world—​both the realms of nature and culture? And (3) What is beyond our senses and our empirical knowledge (in traditional language: what is God like)? This three-​part focus was articulated by Jewish theologian Franz Rosenzweig2 and Mennonite theologian Gordon Kaufman.3 This essay will focus on the first of these broad themes: the capacities and limitations of human nature and its relationship with the way we picture the divine. My primary focus is theological anthropology—​exploring various ways of understanding human nature.

Human Nature I agree with Mennonite theologian Gordon Kaufman, when he writes: “There actually are, then, we might say, many different sorts of human nature, as diverse and variegated as the plurality of human cultures and subcultures.”4 Kaufman sees that the possibility of human life emerged through billions of years of evolution on planet earth. He notes that humans have experienced extremely varied living conditions, developed distinctive languages and social institutions, and sharply contrasting religious beliefs and practices, as they 1 2 3 4

Mennonite Ethics: From Isolation to Engagement (Victoria, BC: Friesen Press, 2018). The Star of Redemption (Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 2005). An Essay on Theological Method (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995). Gordon D Kaufman, God, Mystery, Diversity: Christian Theology in a Pluralistic World (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1996), 74.

New Perspectives on Human Nature and Images of Divine

25

adapted to diverse climatic and social conditions.5 This essay is a continuation of Kaufman’s work in examining the diverse manifestations of human nature and how that diversity leads to a variety of ways of understanding the divine. I also build on Kaufman’s understanding that all religious ideas are constructions of human imagination.6 The traditional Anabaptist focus on discipleship pushes us to look at the human from Nazareth as a reflection of ultimate divine reality within the human community. We imagine God to take on human traits that we see in the person of Jesus. As I study history, philosophy, theology, and psychology, I see a variety of ways to understand human nature. I have found models from modern developmental psychology to be the most illuminating and useful tools for understanding human nature. I am adding in this essay a little bit of ancient wisdom from Plato to buttress 20th century theories from developmental psychology. Plato had a five-​level understanding of human character and the resulting governing philosophies for the polis or state. He saw a strong relationship between the character of individuals and the nature of the polis/​state they create. I will present the case that our understanding of human nature has a strong relationship with how we understand the divine. Sometimes when I push an innovative idea, a conversation partner will respond, “That is just not realistic, considering human nature.” I have found that the most influential ideas in theology concern the capacities and limitations of human nature. Are humans deficient sinners or responsible beings created in the image of a loving God? My thesis in this essay is that our understanding of human nature is the most powerful shaping force for all theology. I will be describing human development models from four 20th century theorists and one from classical Greece. Although these theorists use slightly different language and categories, they emerge with very similar insights. I use the Clare W. Graves model as the basic outline because his theory has the most detail and nuance.7 I am building the case for seeing eight different versions of human nature in an evolutionary sequence, each with distinct understandings of what is real,

5 6 7

Ibid. 75. See his Essay on Theological Method. Clare W. Graves, The Never-​Ending Quest, ed. Christopher C. Cowan and Natasha Todorovic (Santa Barbara: ECLET Publishing, 2005). Over his career Graves used several labeling systems to designate his eight-​level model of human development. I am using what I find to be the most descriptive labels, which are drawn from training materials: “Spiral Dynamics: Applying Dr. Clare W. Graves Emergent, Cyclical, Levels of Existence Theory” (Santa Barbara: The National Values Center, 2001).

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what is good, and what is possible; and each with its distinctive ways of viewing the divine. Each level of development has its own integrity, logic, and legitimacy. Distinct understandings of realty, the good, and the possible are evident; as are images of the divine. Each level involves a congruent perception of reality, followed by appropriate human understanding (theology) and behavior. As the needs and challenges of each developmental level are met, there is a surplus of mental energy and capacity that leads to the ability to see and work with new levels of complexity. This is the variable that drives this evolutionary process—​t he ability to see and work with ever-​increasing complexity, which is probably a never-​ending developmental process. Clare W. Graves looked at how developmental levels actually function in the thinking of individuals. He found that about 40% of a typical individual’s thinking can be explained by a dominant developmental level. This is accompanied by thinking 20% drawn from the neighboring level of less complexity and also 20% from the neighboring level of greater complexity. The remaining 10% drawing on other developmental levels. Let’s take an orthodox Mennonite Christian as an example: 40% of thinking drawing on the level of Absolute Order (level 4), 20% from Powerful Self (level 3), 20% from Enterprising Self (level 4), and 10% perhaps from Egalitarian Order (level 6). Here we see that it is not possible to label anyone in an absolute fashion; there is usually some complexity and flexibility for the thinking of any individual.

Eight Developmental Levels Level One In the initial and most primitive stage of human evolution, Survival, our human nature is very close to the nature of evolutionary primates, the gorillas and chimpanzees. We eat, sleep, and procreate in order to survive. Our first step into a differentiated human existence was probably the development of primitive wooden and stone tools and our first steps toward a human spirituality were probably the development of burial rituals. The unifying theme here is a sense that reality is a whole, undifferentiated. Clare W. Graves identifies Survival as the earliest stage of human development, where humans function largely based on reflex and instinct. Bringing in a second theorist, the James Fowler stages of faith model refers to Undifferentiated Faith of Infancy as a pre-​stage.8 Young children develop 8 James W. Fowler, Stages of Faith: The Psychology of Human Development and the Quest for Meaning (San Francisco: Harper & Row Publishers, 1981).

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along the themes of trust, courage, agency, hope, and loving attachment. Chaos and abandonment are major threats to wellbeing.

Level Two The second level in human development, Tribal for Graves and Renee Moorefield,9 correlates with two stages Fowler associated with preliterate societies: Intuitive-​ Projective Faith and Mythic-​ Literal Faith. Graves and Moorefield see that the Tribal stage involves a mystical and magical sense of nature. Humans find identity in being part of a Tribe, which lives out the traditions of its ancestors. Reality, the good, and human possibilities are specified in tribal traditions; nothing else is real. Intuitive-​Projected Faith for Fowler involves the birth of imagination and the ability to develop a unified grasp of the world in images and stories. The next stage of Mythic-​Literal Faith involves the development of stories which provide a sense of belonging in a community. The stories are interpreted as literal and concrete history. Story, drama, and myth give coherence to experience. Fowler sees that preliterate societies often have a faith development at the levels of Intuitive-​ Projective or Mythic-​Literal Faith. Table 1.1  Four Developmental Models Level

Graves and Moorefield

One

Survival

Two

Tribal

Three

Powerful Self

Four

Absolute Order

Five

Enterprising Self

Six

Egalitarian Order

Seven Eight

Integrating Being Intuitive Existence

Fowler

Peck

Plato

Undifferentiated Faith Intuitive-​Projected Faith Mythic-​Literal Faith Chaotic/​ Antisocial Synthetic-​Conventional Formal/​ Faith Institutional Individuative-R ​ eflective Skeptical/​ Faith Individual Conjunctive Faith Mystical/​ Communal

Tyranny Democracy Oligarchy

Universalizing Faith

Aristocracy

Timocracy

9 Renee Moorefield, An Innovative Look at Spirituality and Personality (PhD diss., Greenwich University, 2002).

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I am particularly drawn to the word “Intuitive” in the label used by Fowler. Graves uses this word to describe the most complex (eighth) stage of human nature: “Intuitive Existence,” which he sees as having parallel characteristics with this second stage of Tribal identity. Thus, we will see that “intuitive” is a link between the second and the eighth levels of human development. Today, in the 21st century, there is considerable interest in recapturing the wisdom of indigenous and Tribal cultures, especially in human relationships with nature. The word “Mythic” is also of interest, because Scott Peck uses a similar word, “Mystical,” to identify his highest level of spiritual maturity: “Mystical/​ Communal.”10 A third word deserves our attention: “Projected.” The basic psychological thesis of this essay is that at every level of human nature, humans project their understanding of human nature onto a divine reality. Theology thus has its source material in anthropology and is shaped and constrained by understandings of human nature. The most consequential source of theology is not divine revelation, but human experience. My conviction is that the Bible is 90% human experience and human imagination, and only about 10% wisdom and revelation from beyond human experience. This assertion will be heresy for some; I am open to research, dialog, and debate. At this second level of human nature, we find mother and father gods as well as spirits that inhabit and animate diverse aspects of nature. Memory of storm gods are evident in Deuteronomy 33:26: “There is none like the god of Jeshurun, who rides the heavens mightily, who gloriously rides the clouds.” Additional memories of nature gods are evident in 2 Samuel 22:8–​9: “The earth quaked and shook. The foundations of the mountains shuddered; they quaked when his wrath waxed hot. Smoke rose from his nostrils, and fire from his mouth devoured; coals flamed from him.”11 Human perception of nature and imagination of the divine have immediacy and intimacy. Humans are a part of nature; there is an undifferentiated wholeness. Our theorists gave the elementary levels of human development labels such as: Survival, Tribal, Undifferentiated Faith, and Intuitive-​ Projected Faith. Moorefield finds that: “Tribal spirituality often involves clear mother and father figures and polytheistic constructions of the divine. Rites, rituals, totems, taboos, and signs ward off evil spirits and invite good spirits.”

10 M. Scott Peck, Further Along the Road Less Traveled: The Unending Journey Toward Spiritual Growth (New York: Touchstone, 1993). 11 Frank Moore Cross, “Storm Theophany in the Bible,” in Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1973), 157.

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Fowler touches on the key function of religion and spirituality: “The gift or emergent strength of this state [Intuitive-​Projective] is the birth of imagination, the ability to unify and grasp the experience-​world in powerful images and as presented in stories …” All human religion, spirituality, and theology involve human imagination that is put to work in order to construct a unified sense of reality and represent the totality of reality in powerful images and stories. The task of theology into the 21st century is to construct a unified sense of reality and represent the totality of reality in powerful images and stories. What is real, good, and possible? Fowler writes that religious images and stories “register the child’s intuitive understandings and feelings toward the ultimate conditions of existence.” I want to emphasize “understandings and feelings.” The feeling dimension of religious experience is often critiqued or ignored by theology that places high value on logical and rational coherence. A new appreciation of emotion is needed in our time. The Graves developmental model has a comprehensive and compelling depiction of the roles of rationality and emotion in human nature. He found that an emphasis on rationality or emotion alternate as we move through the eight stages of human development. Rationality and logic predominate in the odd-​numbered stages: Survival, Powerful Self, Entrepreneurial Self, and Integrating Being. These stages also emphasize an expressive self, assertively molding and shaping its environment. My observation is that the Dutch Anabaptist tradition has had more room for the assertive and creative self, for both men and women. Emotions and human relations are more dominant in the even-​numbered levels: Tribal, Absolute Order, Egalitarian Order, and Intuitive Existence. In these stages we see a sacrificing self, accommodating to the needs of the group, and fitting into and adapting to an existing environment. Again, an observation: the Swiss Anabaptist tradition has put more emphasis on the self conforming to community norms, including submission by women. In some circles, psychologists debate what is most influential: thought or emotion?12 As I have pondered this question out of my own experience and studying psychological theories, I have concluded that around 60% of our decisions and behavior are pushed forward primarily by emotions, and the remaining 40% by thinking and reasoning. I find (along with Aristotle and Thomas Hobbs) that one of the most powerful emotions is fear; and it can lead to anger, hate, aggression (passive or active), and destruction. This 12 See Jonathan Haidt, The Righteous Mind: Why Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion (New York: Pantheon Books, 2012).

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power of fear is most evident in levels three and four, to be described shortly. On the other side of the ledger, the most powerful contrasting emotion is empathy, which can lead to curiosity, dialog, constructive problem-​solving, and mutual trust.13 This emotional component is most evident in levels six, seven and eight, which will be described later in this essay. So, when we talk about human nature, we need to consider the impact of both emotions and reasoning. Understanding ourselves through personal introspection is crucial, so that internal emotional tensions are not projected out onto others. Jesus, too, was concerned that his listeners have an accurate perception of reality, not distorted by enmity nor animosity; he warned: “You see the sliver in your friend’s eye, but you don’t see the timber in your own eye. When you take the timber out of your own eye, then you will see well enough to remove the sliver from your friend’s eye.” (Gospel of Thomas 26:1–​2).

Level Three The third stage in the Graves developmental model is Powerful Self, which involves greater self-​consciousness, an individual apart from tribal or kinship groups. The ability to feel shame emerges as well as attempts to exert control over the environment to enhance personal survival. Strong feelings emerge; inwardly they are a cauldron of strong negative emotions such as shame, rage,14 hate, disgust, and grief. One of the most interesting aspects of human existence at this third level is that there is no guilt. Moorefield sees at this level: “Spirituality depends on man’s relationship with all-​powerful gods who control man’s existence. Gods are most often typified as avenging, demanding rulers in an antagonistic bond with human beings. Autocratic spiritual systems are common, as are epic stories of heroes and heroines leading conquests for the sake of spiritual gain.” Socrates and Plato sought to supplant the Homeric warrior heroes (level three) with a new style of hero—​t he philosopher (level seven or eight). The Deuteronomistic historian depicts Joshua as a divine warrior hero in Joshua 10:24–​26: “When they brought the [five] kings out [of the cave] to Joshua, Joshua summoned all the Israelites, and said to the chiefs of the warriors who had gone with him, ‘Come near, put your feet on the necks of these kings.’ ”

13 See works on emotional intelligence by Daniel Goleman, such as Primal Leadership: Learning to Lead with Emotional Intelligence (Boston: Harvard Business School Press, 2002). 14 As I am working on this essay in September 2020, a book about the Donald Trump’s administration with the title, Rage, by Bob Woodward, has just been published.

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Psychiatrist M. Scott Peck, another 20th century psychological theorists and practitioner, created a four-​level model of human development through several decades of clinical practice. The most basic level in his model he labeled as Chaotic/​antisocial, which he saw as accurately describing about 20% of the US population. It is characterized as: unprincipled, lack of spirituality, relationships are self-​serving, pretending to love others, un-​harnessed will, discipled in the service of ambition, and some sudden and dramatic conversions to the next stage. This description gives insights into the behavior of part of the American citizenry as we go to press in 2021. Fowler does not have a stage that is analogous to this level of human development. This human sees his/​her gods as similar to his/​her own human impulses: avenging, demanding rulers in antagonistic bonds with others, expressed in epic stories of conquests for spiritual gain. I want to bring in an important perspective from the history of philosophy. For Plato, the most primitive stage of human nature is that of tyranny (Iron), where the use of power inflicts chaos.15 The tyrant is always stirring up some war or other, in order that the people may require a leader. He gets rid of all those who are valiant, high-​minded, wise and wealthy; they are labeled as enemies. The tyrant portrays the state as being in purgation and he will use his power to cleanse and purify society. He takes detestable actions and requires more and more blind devotion. He creates chaos and uncertainty. Leaders cut each other down through impeachments, judgments, and trials. The tyrant, pretending to be a protector, has a mob at his disposal and sheds blood to get what he wants. He uses false accusations to bring adversaries into court and murders them. He sees that he must perish or remain in power and continue to rule as a tyrant. Opposition parties conspire to assassinate the tyrant. All of this results in the worst disorder of the state.16 The next step up in human nature, according to Plato, is a kind of free-​ wheeling and chaotic Democracy (brass), in which there are a great variety of human natures. The liberty of individuals leads to an assortment of constitutions and philosophies of governance. This way of life can momentarily appear to be supremely delightful and quite charming. The Democrat values

15 Plato, Republic (New York: Barnes & Nobel Classics, 2004). 16 The Donald Trump presidency in the early 21st century sparked renewed interest in Tyranny, as indicated by popular books such as On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century (2017), by Timothy Snyder; Fascism: A Warning (2018), by Madeleine Albright; Can It Happen Here: Authoritarianism in America (2018), ed. by Cass R. Sunstein; and Authoritarian Nightmare: Trump and His Followers (2020), by John W. Dean and Bob Altemeyer.

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liberty and equality. This philosophy arises when those who have lost their property begin to hate the wealthy elites and are eager for revolution. The poor organize and conquer their opponents, slaughtering some and banishing others. There is danger that individuals become slaves to unnecessary desires and lose all sense of law and order. The unequal are treated as being equal; the polis is likely to be dominated by unproductive drones. The call for more and more liberty leads to anarchy. Individuals follow whims of the moment: at various times pursuing the life of the philosopher, the politician, the warrior, or the man of business. The Democrats are given to useless and unnecessary pleasures, but with the advancing of age, they may balance their pleasures and live in a sort of equilibrium. Or they may live day to day indulging the appetite of the hour. Insatiable desire and the neglect of other things brings the demand for the order of Tyranny.17 Plato’s two most disruptive levels of development, Tyranny and Democracy, have some of these level three traits: chaos, anti-​social, human desires out of control, etc. Empires and tyrants emerged on the stage of history; cities and armies were assembled. Plato saw that unrestrained democratic mobs were nearly as destructive as Tyrants. Vicious human violence was seen as justified to preserve the interests of the Tyrant and the empire. Gods as depicted in the Homeric epics were equally competitive, deceptive, violent, and vindictive.

Level Four At the fourth level of development, we see persuasive correlations across our theorists: Formal/​Institutional for Peck, Synthetic-​Conventional for Fowler, and Absolute Order for Graves and Moorefield. Peck saw this as the home-​ base for the majority of American Christians, so we are now arriving in this developmental journey at a place of great relevance for the modern era. He saw persons at this level as dependent on institutions for self-​governance; they submit to authority. People find liberation from personal chaos by fitting into the form and format of religion. God is seen as a male external being, a giant benevolent cop who has the power to reward and punish. 17 One of the foundational institutions in American democracy is the Republican Party. Several commentators in the early 21st century build cases for a deterioration of the Republican Party into a kind of democratic mob: Republican Gomorrah: Inside the Movement That Shattered the Party (2009), by Max Blumenthal; How the Right Lost Its Mind (2017), by Charles J. Sykes; American Carnage: On the Front Lines of the Republican Civil War and the Rise of President Trump (2019), by Tim Alberta; The Impostors: How Republicans Quit Governing and Seized American Politics (2020), by Steve Benen; and It Was All A Lie: How the Republican Party Became Donald Trump (2020), by Stuart Stevens.

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Fowler sees that the Synthetic-​Conventional Faith level of development is the permanent place of equilibrium for many adults. This is a conformist stage where people seek to meet the expectations of those in authority. Persons are not sure of their own identity and are thus not ready to risk articulating an independent perspective. People are likely to have a strongly held political ideology, but this is unconscious, an assumption of reality that is not open for examination or debate. Graves emphasizes obedience to legitimate authority at this level of Absolute Order. Persons experience intense guilt and are expected to sacrifice their desires for eternal rewards. The importance of guilt and punishment are seen in parenting practices and institutions such as criminal justice. Persons often repress a wide range of frightening emotions and seek safety and comfort through submission to authority and the one absolute way to believe and live. God is seen as the designer and judge of each human life. Faith is monotheistic and tightly regulated in bureaucratic structures; people obey standards and rules. Religion, politics, and family life are structured in a chain of command, which provides comforting order in the face of chaos. In the monotheistic religions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, God is distinct from creation and humans. God embodies absolute truth and issues laws that are absolutely valid and shape religious institutions, that are given authority to enforce laws and distribute punishments. Mennonite sociologists, J. Howard Kauffman and Leo Driedger found in 1991 that 46% of American Mennonites were Republican Party conservatives and 9% were Democratic Party liberals; a ratio of 5–​1. In terms of theology, they found: “Our study shows that there are few Mennonite liberals.”18 The next step up in human nature for Plato is that of Oligarchy (silver), which is focused on the accumulation of wealth, where rich men are made rulers. These are lovers of trade and money, where only the wealthy qualify for the status of citizen (as in early United States of America). The rich have power and the poor are deprived of power. The Oligarchs gain wealth by taking interest from the poor and buying up their property on foreclosure. The Oligarch has the habit of acting dishonestly and he will not experience the true virtue of a unanimous and harmonious soul. Society has only two classes: the rulers and the paupers, who spawn criminals and rogues. When ship pilots are chosen because of their wealth, shipwrecks will occur. The country is not united and not able to sustain unity in times of war. Changes in the constitution are made by force of arms and intimidation. The Oligarch 18 J. Howard Kauffman and Leo Driedger, The Mennonite Mosaic: Identity and Modernization (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1991).

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is a spender but not a producer. Because of a lack of education and cultivation, he will have the drone-​like desires of a pauper and rogue, which can be hidden by his wealth. (Reminds me of a major leader on the American political stage in 2020.)19 In Plato’s third level of development, Oligarchy, rich men become the rulers and make the rules, maintained within a tight hierarchy. The wealthy have great power over the poor. In Plato’s lifetime he saw a series of battles between the Democrats and the Oligarchs; he saw both as instituting chaos. On an emotional level, Plato saw that Oligarchs do not experience a “unanimous and harmonious soul.” This is similar to Graves observation that humans at the level of Absolute Order are “frightened by an influx of inner and outer stimulation which is not comprehended or controlled.”20

Level Five In historical terms a fifth level of human development emerged prominently in the modern era: enlightenment, science, industrialization, global navigation, the nation-​state, etc. Our theorists apply labels such as: Skeptical/​Individual, Entrepreneurial Self, and Individuative-​Reflective. This is the modern ethos that is currently the largest force shaping culture in America. Conservative Christians ridicule this faith-​questioning stage as “secular humanism.” In this stage of human development god-​talk is either ignored or invoked to sanction prosperity and wealth. Nearly every American politician feels obligated to end his/​her speech with, “and may God bless America.” This brand of Christianity is sometimes called the “prosperity gospel.” This value system propels corporations to deploy scientific technology and strategic planning to dominate markets and exploit global resources. At this fifth level of human development (following the Graves model) we, again, see strong similarities among our ancient and modern theorists. For Peck, this is his third level of Skeptical/​Individual, where individuals are likely to be more oriented to science than religion. These folks are likely to be doubters, skeptics, and agnostics, but still interested in searching for truth. For Fowler, we come to his level of Individuated-​Reflective, where persons 19 American interest in analyzing oligarchy has waxed and waned. A classic study was published in 1956 by C. Wright Mills: The Power Elite. More recently we see: Oligarchy (2011), by Jeffrey A. Winters; American Oligarchy: The Permanent Political Class (2017), by Ron Formisano; Kochland: The Secret History of Koch Industries and Corporate Power in America (2019), by Christopher Leonard; and American Oligarchs: The Kushners, the Trumps, and the Marriage of Money and Power (2020), by Andrea Bernstein. 20 Graves, 253.

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become individuated from the groups and institutions they inhabit, and personal judgment and responsibility become more important. The myths of religious traditions are subjected to the critical analysis of demythologizing, and larger conceptual themes become more important: wisdom, health, justice, order, liberation, compassion, etc. Life is guided by principles that are to be interpreted, rather than rules that are to be followed. The Peck theme of skepticism surfaces as Fowler sees persons wrestling with tensions such as: individual verses group identity, subjective feelings verses claims of absolute objective reality, self-​fulfillment verses making sacrifices for others, and being satisfied with confidence in relative assertions as opposed to needing absolute certainty. In the Graves model, this is the level of the Enterprising Self, emphasizing the individual and being autonomous. Graves saw in this stage a “will to power,” and an eagerness for rivalry and competition. Moorefield sees at this level a kind of spiritual materialism, where God blesses people with wealth and health. She sees that belief in a deity is not essential and that people can be agnostic. Moorefield sees that spirituality may be ethnocentric, where religious structures accentuate specific ethnicities to gain adherents. Consider the presence of white supremacy within American Christianity and the insistence that Israel is a Jewish state. In this level five we have a direct parallel between the third stage of Peck, Individual/​Skeptical, and the fourth stage in the Fowler model: Individuative-​ Reflective, where the individual becomes reflective, differentiated, and responsible. This is the demythologizing stage, where stories and symbols are translated into conceptual meanings, e.g., the Hebrew story of the Exodus is subsumed in the concept of liberation. The mythic story of bodily resurrection is reframed as a philosophical validation of the wisdom of Jesus. Fowler points out some limitations at this stage: “An excessive confidence in the conscious mind and in critical thought and a kind of second narcissism in which the new clearly bounded, reflective self over-​assimilates ‘reality’ and the perspectives of others into its own world view.”21 Critical rationality is utilized beyond its realistic scope and capacity. Grandiosity and narcissism are lurking at the door. Fowler identifies a number of intriguing tensions that need to be worked on in this stage of development: “individuality versus being defined by a group or group membership; subjectivity and the power of one’s strongly felt but unexamined feelings versus objectivity and the requirement of critical reflection; self-​f ulfillment or self-​actualization as a primary concern versus service to and being for others; the question of being committed to 21 Fowler, 182–​83.

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the relative versus struggle with the possibility of an absolute.” In the next level in the Graves model (level six) we see the prominence of emotion over rationality and service to others over self-​expression. As we move up Plato’s scale of human development, we come to Timocracy (gold and silver), where we find brave men who are a combination of good and evil. Bravery, power, honor, and glory are highly valued. A spirit of contention and ambition predominate. There are attempts to reclaim an ancient order—​a golden age. Obedience to authority is demanded. Attention is paid to gymnastics [athletics] and military training. These folks are lovers of athletic contests and the [fox] chase. Personal character is fitted for war rather than peace, with an expectation of waging everlasting wars. Timocrats invent illegal modes of expenditure, not caring about the law. Rivalry and love of money grow, although they are not publicly interested in money; there is a secret longing after gold and silver. They are happy to spend money on the military security of castles and on adorning their wives. They neglect the true muse [wisdom] of reason and philosophy. They are rough with slaves and subordinates. They become arrogant and ambitious, in reaction to fathers who are seen to be too easy-​going.22 Plato’s fourth level of human development, the Timocratic man, is a strong correlation with this fifth level of human development: bravery, power, honor, and glory are highly valued. However, Mennonites with a critique of individualism and an exaltation of community are probably less engaged in the developmental level of Enterprising Self, Individuated-​Reflective Faith, and an Individual/​Skeptical stance in the world; or else Mennonites with this value system are pushed to the margins and excluded.

Level Six Graves referred to the sixth level of human development as Egalitarian Order and this is a fairly close match with the final stage of Mystical/​Communal in 22 The ambition of the American military and economic empire has been the focus of research and analysis in the early 21st century: The Sorrows of Empire: Militarism, Secrecy, and the End of the Republic (2004), by Chalmers Johnson; The Secret History of the American Empire: The Truth About Economic Hit Men, Jackals, and How to Change the World (2007), by John Perkins; Legacy of Ashes: The History of the CIA (2007), by Tim Weiner; The Secret Team: The CIA and Its Allies in Control of the United States and the World (2011), by L. Fletcher Proudy; The Brothers: John Foster Dulles, Allen Dulles, and Their Secret World War (2013), by Stephen Kinzer; Who Rules the World? (2016), by Noam Chomsky; The Doomsday Machine: Confessions of a Nuclear War Planner (2017), by Daniel Ellsberg; and How to Hide an Empire: A History of the Greater United States (2019), by Daniel Immerwahr.

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the Peck model and Conjunctive Faith in the Fowler model. From Peck we pick up on the theme of “mystical”: persons are intuitive and see interconnected patterns below the surface of reality. There is even a zest for mystery and deepening commitments to peace and justice. He also sees these folks as less individualistic and more communally oriented. Fowler brings in the theme of a conjunction of the power of symbols and concepts of meaning. This involves more rigorous reflection and introspection. An example is probing the levels of power and meaning in the assertion that all men and women are created equal and endowed by their creator with rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. In 2020 we saw this being expressed on the streets of America in response to police killings of Black citizens. For Fowler, Conjunction involves a higher level of personal integration; more pieces of life brought together in meaningful patterns. Egalitarian Order, for Graves, involves greater subjective exploration and a greater attention to the thoughts and emotions of other subjects; persons are found to be much more than objects. Communal interests are magnified, and groups work at consensus decision-​making. Empathy and harmony become very important and violence toward others and the use of war is rejected. We have here a developmental pacifism. Cooperation is valued over competition and interpersonal warmth is valued over material production. All spiritualities and all understandings of God are seen as equally valid; tolerance and inclusion are paramount values—​ making sure everyone has a seat at the table. God might be a distinct being, a force in nature, simply a way of talking, or a foundational value such as love. Energies are devoted to communities, networks, and social action projects. The spiritual wellbeing of everyone is equally important: no spiritual system is better or worse. This is the foundation of a good deal of thinking in progressive American religion and politics in the early 21st century. The sixth level in our analysis of human development has several descriptive labels: Egalitarian Order, Mystical/​Communal, and Conjunctive Faith. A deeper self is discovered for investigation; inherited stories, myths, ideal images and prejudices buried deep within personal identity are now consciously identified and are open for critique, evaluation, and modification. A broad curiosity and tolerance emerge in relation to diverse cultures, nations, and religions. All religions and gods are seen to be valid in their own cultural and religious context. Diversity is good in people and in gods. We begin to hear voices such as Martin Luther King, Jr.: “A genuine revolution of values means in the final analysis that our loyalties must become ecumenical rather than sectional. Every nation must now develop an overriding loyalty to mankind as a whole in order to preserve the best in their individual societies.”

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Level Seven The seventh level of human development, Integrating Being, embodies the largest leap forward in the evolution of human nature, as uncovered in the research of Graves. At this level all human fears and compulsions are managed and overcome. New mental energies are available for the first time for analyzing and solving complex problems. Seeing, analyzing, and constructing complex systems become more common: ecological systems, economic systems, religious systems, linguistic systems, family systems, etc. Spirituality is no longer tied to belief in a divine being, but is seen as a personal journey of exploration and integration. Many efforts and movements aim at helping individuals, groups, and societies toward healthy evolution. We see movements around “Black Lives Matter” and concern for the destructive trends of climate change. Graves identified his seventh level of human development as Integrating Being and this has some overlap with Fowler’s stage of Conjunctive Faith. “Integrating” and “Conjunctive” both have the sense of seeing and bringing together a myriad of life dimensions into a unified and harmonious whole: cognition and emotion; objective and subjective; individual and communal; particular and universal; male and female; power and weakness; equality and freedom; individual rights and government regulations; etc. Interdependence emerges as a foundational value; systems thinking and analysis become essential tools for managing and solving complex problems such as climate change and global pandemics. Not all spiritual paths are equal; the best paths are integrative, inclusive, functional, and life affirming of every developmental level. Earlier developmental levels have a kind of monolithic chauvinism: my way is the best and only way to live. Here at the level of Integrating Being we see recognition that each level has authenticity and legitimacy. Spirituality is seen as a journey of exploration, embracing all of reality and not necessarily a belief in a distinct divine being.

Level Eight Graves’ final level of human development, Intuitive Existence, is a close parallel with Fowler’s final stage of Universalizing Faith. Graves sees these folks as using “mystical conceptions.” This brings us close to Peck’s description of his final stage of development: Mystical/​Communal. One line in particular from Moorefield catches my attention: “While individual life is considered sacred, it is also believed to be relatively unimportant on the cosmic scale of evolution.” This theme has an interesting parallel in Fowler’s description of Universalizing Faith:

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Their heedlessness to self-​preservation and the vividness of their taste and feel for transcendent moral and religious actuality give their actions and words an extraordinary and often unpredictable quality. In their devotion to universalizing compassion they may offend our parochial perceptions of justice. In their penetration through the obsession with survival, security, and significance they threaten our measured standards of righteousness and goodness and prudence.23

In both Moorefield and Fowler, I sense that life itself is held lightly at this highest level of human development; risking life and security for larger causes is common. Sacrifice for a larger good becomes a signifying value. The human mind at this eighth level of existence adjusts “to the reality of existence, which is that you can only be, you can never really know.” This is a rather striking contention for those of us who spend time in the halls of academia, where the end and purpose of our endeavors is to “know.” We may find some day that our “sacred cow” has been slaughtered. Our knowledge has not yielded the fullness of life that we had been seeking. A person at this level of Intuitive Existence “values wonder, awe, reverence, humility, fusion, integration, unity, simplicity, the poetic perception of reality—​non-​interfering perception versus active controlling perception, enlarging consciousness, and the ineffable experience.” This person “does not value adjusting to the world as authority says it is; nor does he value the imposition of his self upon the world. What he values is adjusting to the world as he senses it to be.” There is more of a sense of graciously adapting to the realities of one’s environment. Moorefield’s final summary is that: Spirituality is conceived as transcending all human barriers, and it values simplicity, contemplative life, and a deep wisdom to support the health of the cosmos. Spiritual systems are exhibited as cooperative efforts on a worldwide scale, held together by physical and metaphysical bonds as well as an intimate knowing that everything connects to everything else.24

Fowler’s final level and his normative endpoint for human faith development is Universalizing Faith, where individuals overcome the tension between the comfort of self-​preservation and the need to sacrifice for the sake of justice. Universalizers are often experienced as subversive of the structures (including religious structures) by which we sustain our individual and corporate survival, security, and significance. Two ancient sages are good examples. Buddha said, “Hatreds do not ever cease in this world by hating, but by love; this is an eternal truth.… Overcome anger by love, overcome evil with good. Overcome the miser by 23 Fowler, 200. 24 Moorefield.

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giving, overcome the liar by truth.” Several centuries later, Jesus echoed Buddha’s wisdom: “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. From anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even our shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again.”25 Fowler sees that many persons in this stage die at the hands of those whom they hope to change. The night before he was assassinated, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. addressed an audience of supporters in Memphis. Early in his address, he said that they were assembled to address an issue: “The issue is injustice.” At the end of his speech, he declared: “Well, I don’t know what will happen now. We have some difficult days ahead. But it does not matter with me now. Because I have been to the mountaintop. And I do not mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now.” The highest level of human development for Plato is Aristocracy (gold), where we find lovers of wisdom and reason. In the perfect state the best philosophers and the bravest warriors are to be kings. Again, there can be efforts to reclaim an ancient order—​a golden age. Aristocrats pay attention to the cultivation of virtue. This is government by the best and the most competent. They have no interest in money. The best guardians of virtue and philosophy are tempered with music; this is the only savior of virtue.26 Plato, too, saw a “heedlessness” in the highest stages of human development: Aristocrats, the philosopher king. These people have no interest in the security of wealth and possessions; they hold wives, children, and property in common. Their highest aims are the cultivation of virtue and wisdom. They are the most competent leaders of the polis/​state. A philosopher king is a savior of virtue. They are kind and gentle with slaves and subordinates. They focus on harmonious balance within the polis and not on their personal welfare and interests. 25 See Marcus Borg, ed., Jesus and Buddha: The Parallel Sayings (Berkeley: Seastone, 1997), 18–​19. 26 Many people will debate who the philosophical and governmental leaders are in the late 20th century and the early 21st century. I want to highlight two presidents and several public intellectuals: The Audacity of Hope: Thoughts on Reclaiming the American Dream (2006), by Barack Obama; Our Endangered Values: America’s Moral Crisis (2005), by Jimmy Carter; Prophetic Fragments: Illuminations of the Crisis in American Religion & Culture (1988), by Cornel West; This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. The Climate (2014), by Naomi Klein; The Radical King (2015), works by Martin Luther King, Jr., ed. by Cornel West; America: The Farewell Tour (2018), by Chris Hedges; Enlightenment Now: The Case for Reason, Science, Humanism, and Progress (2018), by Steven Pinker.

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The eighth and final (so far) level of human development is referred to as: Intuitive Existence and Universalizing Faith. We are at the cutting edge of human nature and human capacities to adapt to changing conditions in nature and culture. While the stages of our various theorists have high levels of correlation, here I sense and interesting tension. The Fowler description of Universalizing Faith has a strongly cognitive and rational flavor. While Graves’ description of Intuitive Existence has a strongly emotional tone and plays down the importance of rational knowledge. Perhaps we are finding here the greatest integration and harmony between the rational and emotional human faculties. Here we have people who can draw on the deepest capacities of human reason and the powerful driving forces of human emotion. This work moves us toward that personal and communal integration and harmony, which is the goal and purpose of theology.

God and Salvation At this most complex level of human development, I propose that we can construct new theological understandings for guiding human understanding and action into an open future. God can be seen as a metaphor for all life enhancing forces in nature and culture. God is not a distinct being, but rather an integrative and unifying metaphor, giving us a sense of wholeness and comfort in a sometimes fragmented and conflicted world. This is akin to the ancient Taoist notions of Yin and Yang finding a unified harmony in the Tao. If I declare that “God loves me,” the larger meaning of my words is that I am supported and nurtured by the innumerable forces in nature (land, water, air, sun) and the many and varied dimensions of culture (language, tradition, religion, family, science, art, literature, cinema, technology, education, etc.). Salvation also takes on a new and universal meaning: being at peace with life. This is not a life without tensions and contradictions; but rather a life that finds a larger coherence and harmony among the various challenges and threats. The most complex half of our developmental scheme, levels five through eight, gain momentum for engagement with the wide ranges of human experience and knowledge. Religion and science are brought into fruitful dialog. Wisdom from ancient sages are interrogated and unifying themes can be identified in the thought of Lao-​Tzu, Confucius, Buddha, Moses, Jesus, Mohamed, etc. This is not a utopian dream. I experienced this kind of dialog and integration at meetings of the Parliament of the World’s Religions in Cape Town, South Africa in 1999 and in Salt Lake City, Utah in 2015.

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Reflections Scott Peck developed his model of spiritual stages only after seeing rather confusing patterns in the patients he worked with in therapy. He writes: After I had been practicing psychotherapy for some years, a strange pattern began to emerge. If religious people came to see me because they were in pain and trouble and difficulty, and they really got involved in therapy, then—​more often than not—​they would leave therapy as questioners, doubters, skeptics, agnostics, possibly even atheists. But if atheists or agnostics or skeptics came to me in pain, trouble, and difficulty and they really got involved in therapy, then—​more often than not—​they would leave therapy having become deeply religious or spiritually concerned people.27

It was out of these seemingly contradictory observations that he developed his four-​stage model of spiritual development: Chaotic/​A nti-​social; Formal/​ Institutional; Individual/​Skeptical; and Mystical/​Communal. Peck offers explanations for some of the threats and tensions he observed: We are often threatened by people in the stage we just left because new identity is not secure. We are most often threatened by persons in the stage ahead of us. Stage two persons (Formal/​institutional) are threatened by the skeptics of stage three and by stage four persons (Mystical/​communal), “who seem to believe in the same things they believe in and yet believe them with a kind of freedom they find absolutely terrifying.” The 21st century schism of Mennonite Church USA can be explained by the Formal/​ Institutional Mennonites finding the Mystical/​Communal Mennonites (who welcome LGBTQ persons) to be “absolutely terrifying.” Renee Moorefield summarizes her analysis of spirituality through the lens of the Graves developmental model: Interestingly, the spiritual sensibilities of each meme [value system] are not bound by geography, race, national culture, or gender, but evolve based on what’s required to productively survive given the life conditions at each level. Consequently, not only is spirituality an unmistakable aspect of human development in this schema, its growth actually occurs in response to the external and internal circumstances the individual or group perceives to be in.28

Perception of problems and challenges in the natural and cultural world is decisive in activating cognitive capacity to manage and solve those problems. Spirituality is a response to the conditions, circumstances, challenges, problems, and crises that individuals and groups perceive. Each developmental 27 Peck, 124. 28 Moorefield.

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level has a coherent sense of reality, logic, and legitimacy. The driving force through these eight levels of development is the ability to perceive and work with ever increasing complexity. This cognitive ability leads to increasingly creative ways to manage and resolve problems. Our developmental theorists, ancient and modern, illustrate that there is no one absolute and final human nature. Depending upon the theorist, there are between four and eight basic human natures. Human nature grows, changes, and adapts to changes in the human’s environment. Each transition from a simpler level of existence to one that is more complex, is seen as liberation and offers new arenas of engagement and responsibility. These are major themes in this book on Anabaptism in the 21st century. Our human nature and religious beliefs change and evolve … and yes, probably regresses at times of severe hardship. I like the way Fowler described some of the dynamics as we move into the more complex stages of human development. Voices from a deeper self become louder: “This involves a critical recognition of one’s social unconscious—​the myths, ideal images and prejudices built deeply into the self-​ system by virtue of one’s nurture within a particular social class, religious tradition, and ethnic group.” He continues: Alive to paradox and truth in apparent contradictions, this stage [Conjunctive Faith] strives to unify opposites in mind and experience. It generates and maintains vulnerability to the strange truths of those who are ‘other’.… This stage’s commitment to justice is freed from the confines of tribe, class, religious community, or nation.… The new strength of this stage comes in the rise of ironic imagination—​a capacity to see and be in one’s or one’s group’s most powerful meanings, while simultaneously recognizing that they are relative, partial and inevitably distorting apprehensions of transcendent reality.29

The mental work of “unifying opposites” involves Mennonites in the Anabaptist tradition in a particular agenda: unifying church and world; unifying self and community; unifying resistance and non-​resistance; unifying assertion and submission; unifying suffering and fullness of life: unifying emotion and cognition; unifying love and justice; unifying tradition and innovation; unifying male and female; etc. In the narrative and dialogs of The Republic, Plato demonstrates how individuals dialog, grow, and mature through various levels of human development, and also how a polis can degenerate through these steps in a downward spiral. While we modern democrats in the 21st century may find it repugnant that Plato places the Aristocrat at the pinnacle of human development, we 29 Fowler, 198.

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should recognize that his vision is enshrined in the United States Supreme Court, where nine persons with life-​t ime appointments wield the greatest of all powers to shape American society and polity. The institutions and polities that we create, likewise have the potential to grow, mature, and become more responsible and just. Applying this understanding, I know myself to be a Mennonite Christian with historic roots in the Dutch Anabaptist movement. But I know that the identity and understandings I claim are partial and involve distortions. This leaves me with confidence in who I am and what I know, but not able to make absolute claims for knowledge, truth, or values. I remain somewhat open, vulnerable, and humble—​open to “the other” who might be Black, Asian, or Arab, Marxist, capitalist, Muslim, or anarchist. I am content to build my life on confidence rather than certainty. Human nature and self-​understanding evolved through centuries of existence on planet earth. Diverse human natures have often been projected onto external divine beings, who look, think, and feel a lot like us.30 Interesting. In the midst of vicissitudes, we humans (especially in Western cultures) appear to have a need for divine companionship. The non-​ t heistic traditions of Taoism, Confucianism, and Buddhism offer a sharp contrast, where attention to human and cultural identity seem to be adequate for supporting healthy and meaningful life. These Eastern traditions do provide an integrated and unified view of life in this world. As I talk with Christians and listen to Christian sermons, I have the impression that most Christians see prayer, worship, and Bible study as a kind of window through which to see divine reality, to know and experience God. Through reading and studying the Bible, they know God to be creator (Genesis), liberator (Exodus), judge (Job), comforter (Psalms), source of wisdom (Proverbs), prophet (Isaiah, Jeremiah, etc.) healer (Gospels), savior (letters of Paul), etc. But as I study the Bible and its thirty centuries of interpretation and reflect on prayer and worship, I find these resources to be more of a mirror, rather than a window. It is like the primitive mirror that the Apostle Paul mentions, in which we see dim reflections, reflections of ourselves rather than seeing a God, who is separate from humanity. Through gazing into this Christian mirror, we have imaginatively constructed images of God which reflect myriad aspects of humanity. In our 30 The earliest formulation of this framework of analysis I have found in the Western intellectual tradition is two books by Ludwig Feuerbach, The Essence of Christianity (New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1957; originally published in Germany in 1841); and The Essence of Religion (Amherst, New York: Prometheus Books, 2004; originally published in Germany in 1851).

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stories about God, we see our highest human values such as justice and compassion. We see our deepest human longings for liberation and salvation. We see deep human emotions of joy and grief. We see the frightening emotions of fear, anger, resentment, and retaliation. We see our favorite defense mechanisms of rejection and demonization of outsiders who are not like “us.” As we gaze into this mirror through conversation, worship, prayer, Bible study and an awareness of history, philosophy, and psychology, what do we see in the road ahead? What kind of human future lies ahead for North American Mennonites in the Anabaptist tradition? I see a dynamic future with Mennonites moving among seven of the levels of human nature: from the Tribal (Level Two) to an Intuitive Existence (Level Eight). I expect to hear many more women’s voices emerging from the submission of Absolute Order into the free self-​expression of Enterprising Self and Egalitarian Order. I expect to see progressive/​ activist Mennonites becoming more fatigued with the burdens of including and caring for everyone, out of the values of Egalitarian Order, and moving toward systematic analysis and strategic engagement that emerge from the level of Integrating Being. I expect to see periodic schisms and realignments as Mennonites in closed Absolute Order (Level Four) theologies find that they cannot understand and accept the more open and exploratory theologies of levels five through eight. As more Mennonites move out of the focus on tradition in Absolute Order, they will focus more on contemporary human experience, sometimes couched in the language of “the movement of the Holy Spirit.” This interest in contemporary human experience will impact understandings of the historical experience of biblical persons, especially Jesus, whose words will take on new meanings as we understand more of his Jewish experience under oppressive Roman imperialism and Hellenistic cultural hegemony. As I study 2000 years of Christian theology and biblical interpretation, I find that theology is often a projection of human values and longings onto a divine being, usually a patriarchal father, lord, and king. I often think of theological writings as autobiography.31 Nearly all of our thoughts and words about God are projections of our thoughts about human beings—​about human nature. Thus, our understandings of human nature are inherently and intimately linked to our understandings of the divine. Many Christians rely on the biblical dictum that humans were created in the image of God, when the more truthful and useful understanding historically is that we create God

31 Some of this intuition is explored by James Wm. McClendon, Jr. in Biography as Theology (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1974).

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in the image of the human. The essays in this volume also reflect a continuation of that long quest for truth and justice. I am ending this essay with the metaphor of a window for peering into the divine realm that actually turns out to be a primitive mirror in which we are actually perceiving fuzzy images of ourselves. I want to add a new wrinkle to this metaphor—​a crack, a chip. In one small corner of the mirror is a crack and a chip of the mirror fell away. We sense that there is some reality beyond the mirror—​out there in the intuitive mystery. We have hunches, but not tangible evidence. We are left with human imagination fumbling around, trying to put together some description of the realm beyond the mirror. Some new insight may emerge through this small chip. Better retain some human openness, vulnerability, and humility … also curiosity, creativity, and humor. We can all be artists and theologians adapting to a changing world.

Bibliography Beck, Don Edward. “Spiral Dynamics: Applying Dr. Clare W. Graves Emergent, Cyclical, Levels of Existence Theory.” Santa Barbara: The National Values Center, 2001. Borg, Marcus, ed. Jesus and Buddha: The Parallel Sayings. Berkeley: Seastone, 1997. Burkholder, J. Lawrence. Mennonite Ethics: From Isolation to Engagement. Victoria, B.C.: Friesen Press, 2018. Cross, Frank Moore. Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1973. Feuerbach, Ludwig. The Essence of Christianity. New York: Harper Torch Books, 1957; originally published in Germany in 1841. —​—​—​. The Essence of Religion. Amherst, New York: Prometheus Books, 2004; originally published in Germany in 1851. Fowler, James W. Stages of Faith: The Psychology of Human Development and the Quest for Meaning. San Francisco: Harper & Row Publishers, 1981. Goleman, Daniel. Primal Leadership: Learning to Lead with Emotional Intelligence. Boston: Harvard Business School Press, 2002. Graves, Clare W. The Never-​Ending Quest, edited by Christopher C. Cowan and Natasha Todorovic. Santa Barbara: ECLET Publishing, 2005. Haidt, Jonathan. The Righteous Mind: Why Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion. New York: Pantheon Books, 2012. Kauffman, J. Howard and Deo Driedger. The Mennonite Mosaic: Identity and Modernization. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1991. Kaufman, Gordon. An Essay on Theological Method, 3rd edn. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995. —​—​—​. God, Mystery, Diversity: Christian Theology in a Pluralistic World. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1996.

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McClendon, James Wm., Jr. Biography as Theology. Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1974. Moorefield, Renee. An Innovative Look at Spirituality and Personality. PhD dissertation, Greenwich University, Australia, 2002. Peck, M. Scott. Further Along the Road Less Traveled: The Unending Journey Toward Spiritual Growth. New York: Touchstone, 1993. Plato. Republic. New York: Barnes & Nobel Classics, 2004. Ray, Paul H. The Culture Creatives: How 50 Million People Are Changing the World. New York: Harmony Books, 2000. Rosenzweig, Franz. The Star of Redemption. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 2005. Originally published in 1920.

Chapter 2  Secular Mennonite Social Critique: Pluralism, Interdisciplinarity, and Mennonite Studies1 M a x well K ennel

This chapter consolidates and extends my research to date in the area of Mennonite studies. I use the term “Mennonite Studies” to characterize my approach because I want to leave open a set of plural possibilities for interactions between disciplines and discourses that include secular, philosophical, political, literary, and feminist Mennonite voices from both the past and the present. In this programmatic chapter, and in my work more broadly, I am interested in moving beyond or apart from the dominant notion that the baseline ways to study Mennonite thought must be theological, historical, or some combination of the two. The study of Mennonites has long labored within boundaries and social bonds established by theologians and historians. But the hold that theological and historical thinking has had on Mennonite thought has undergone some recent and significant shifts that I am interested in tracking and critiquing in the survey below, the most significant of which is the withdrawal from the normative project of cultivating a distinctive Mennonite identity. In recent decades, several major theologians and historians who hold positions in Mennonite institutions have moved away from situating themselves 1 An earlier version of this chapter was presented as “Secular Mennonite Social Critique” at a scholar’s forum at the Toronto Mennonite Theological Centre. Toronto, ON. January 8, 2020. I am grateful to Kyle Gingerich Hiebert for his organizational efforts and to Alison Murray for her thoughtful questions and suggestions following the presentation.

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as representatives of a distinctly Mennonite theological identity. For example, J. Alexander Sider rejects the notion that ethics done by Mennonites ought to focus on distinctive aspects of Mennonite identity. He instead suggests that Mennonite ethics should be about “cultivating self-​k nowledge in the space created by acknowledging ourselves and others as victims, victimizers, and survivors.”2 Sider goes on to say that “The valorization of Mennonite distinctives has characterized a brand of white hetero-​patriarchal Mennonite theology and ethics that I hope is in rapid and irrecoverable decline” and he argues further that the desire for distinctives “disguises a much deeper problem of exclusion and methodological violence, namely that Mennonite-​d istinctives-​ language is a privilege engine.” For Sider, Mennonite distinctives necessarily lead to the marginalization of certain Mennonite identities and create a space for “privileged squabbling about the right way to state whatever normative version of Mennonitism is under consideration (pacifism or nonresistance in the 1940s, nonviolent atonement or not in the 2000s).”3 I do not accept this critique of Mennonite distinctives, and my reason for rejecting it is not that I oppose the very admirable values that underpin it. Introspective reflection on complex relations of victimhood and victimization, critique of heteropatriarchy and methodological violence, and opposition to marginalization are very important projects. The reason that I challenge this critique of Mennonite distinctives is because I see nothing in the desire for a distinctive and distinguishing identity that will necessarily lead to the bad outcomes that Sider lists. Rather than locating the problem in distinction and its judgments, I think that the problem is with how identities are distinguished, configured, and mediated. There is nothing essential about speaking of Mennonite distinctives that will lead to social exclusion or tired ideological debates about the “real” or “good” versions of favorite doctrines. The problem with both the Mennonite distinctives that Sider critiques and Sider’s critique itself is a deeper methodological issue that is rooted in the assumption that distinctive or disjunctive claims will necessarily displace other identities. Surely there are many discourses in which distinctive identity claims are asserted at the expense of others, generating the “privilege engine” that Sider is very rightly concerned about, but just as surely this violent ontology of displacement is not a structural given in all distinctive identities. Holding and presenting distinctive identities need not entail the production 2 3

J. Alexander Sider, “Self and/​as Victim: A Reflection on ‘Mennonite’ Ethics,” CGR 35, no.1 (Winter 2017): 27. Ibid., 27-​28.

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of one identity at the expense of others. The delicate balance between recognizing when identities are distinguished in ways that displace others, and when this displacement is a projection or assumption, requires attention to mediation and “how” questions of mediation rather than “whether-​or-​not” questions that allow binary oppositions to recur within critiques of their results. Here at the outset, I want to highlight this problematic assumption at the root of both the retreat from normative Mennonite identity and the desire to secure that identity at all costs. In recent years it seems that Mennonite scholars have taken one of these two paths: the reassertion of a distinctive Mennonite identity that tries to establish its superiority, or the withdrawal from the project of a distinctive Mennonite identity for fear that distinctives are inherently exclusive. I see these fears reflected in recent theological and historical approaches to Mennonite identity. Rather than self-​identifying primarily as “Mennonite Theologians” or “Mennonite Historians,” many influential Mennonite scholars now avoid positioning themselves as speaking on behalf of something called “Mennonite Theology” or “Anabaptist History” and are moving instead toward the major trends in their academic disciplines. In Mennonite theology this disciplinary movement has taken several forms, some of the most interesting of which are Jeremy Bergen’s argument for “The Ecumenical Vocation of Anabaptist Theology,”4 and Chris Huebner’s critique of the establishment of Mennonite Theology.5 In very different ways, both Bergen and Huebner move away from the project of building up a distinctive Mennonite theological identity, and toward the Christian theological priorities of ecumenism (Bergen) and virtuous vulnerability (Huebner). While their critiques of the establishment of a distinctive Mennonite theological identity have much to offer, their movement away from a distinctive Mennonite identity in the name of Christian identity leaves much to be desired by those who hold a Mennonite identity that cannot

4 See Jeremy Bergen, “The Ecumenical Vocation of Anabaptist Theology,” in Recovering from The Anabaptist Vision: New Essays in Anabaptist Identity and Theological Method, ed. Laura Schmidt Roberts, Paul Martens, Myron A. Penner (London: T&T Clark, 2020). 5 See Chris Huebner, “Mennonitische Theologie: Die Zeit bedenken, oder Was von den Toten lernen müssen.” [Mennonite Theology as Dwelling in Time: What We Have to Learn From the Dead] Translated into German by Hans-​ Jürgen Goertz. Mennonitische Geschichtsblätter 66 (2009): 147–​59. See also his A Precarious Peace: Yoderian Explorations on Theology, Knowledge, and Identity (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 2006).

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be solely expressed in ecclesial and theological categories (such as secular Mennonites). Whereas Bergen submits Anabaptist identity to Christian ecclesial iden6 tity, understanding the former to be fulfilled in the latter, Huebner prioritizes Christian vulnerability over the cultivation of a distinctly Mennonite identity.7 I contend that a major limitation of much normative theological work done by Mennonites today comes from the subordination of Mennonite identity to Christian identity. One way that Christian theology disciplines those who work within its bounds is by contributing to the assumption that Mennonite identity is or ought to be strictly Christian, at the expense of more complex secular, philosophical, literary, and political identifications. This is one major way that a disciplinary structure can limit our thinking about what it means to be a Mennonite and what it means to engage in Mennonite Studies. In Mennonite history a parallel disciplinary movement has resulted in a turn toward the norms of social history. Following the movement away from confessional historiography during the debates about monogenesis and polygenesis that dominated the field in decades past, historians of the Anabaptists and Mennonites who happen to identify with the tradition (whether privately or institutionally) now seek to satisfy the demands of the historian’s profession rather than engaging in the normative preservation or advancement of Mennonite identity. This disciplinary movement has also taken several different forms, but two examples that stand out are Troy Osborne’s work on Dutch Mennonite identity and discipline, and the work of Benjamin Goossen on Mennonites and Nazism. In very different ways, both Osborne and Goossen avoid speaking on behalf of a distinctive and normative scholarly Mennonite identity in favor of speaking within the disciplinary constraints of contemporary historical methodology.

6

7

Bergen writes “The Anabaptist tradition ought to be regarded as a reforming movement within, and for the sake of, the (capital-​C) Church identified by the Nicene-​ Constantinopolitan creed as one, holy, catholic, and apostolic. Several implications follow from this claim. Anabaptism ought to seek not its preservation or advancement per se, nor that of particular denominations, but Christ and the faithfulness of Christ’s church, a body in perpetual need of reform and renewal,” in “Ecumenical Vocation,” 103. Huebner writes “I understand myself as a Mennonite theologian whose work is not informed by the assumption that my task is first and foremost to defend something called ‘Mennonite theology’ but rather to explore what it means to dwell faithfully in the world as a member of the vulnerable body of Christ,” in “Mennonitische Theologie.”

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For Osborne this is evident in the avoidance of normative assertions in his work on identity and discipline. For example, at no point in his 2016 Eby Lectures does he suggest what his historical investigations ought to entail for contemporary Mennonites who are concerned with the problems of violence or discipline.8 The absence of prescriptive assertion in Osborne’s work is in keeping with the norms of the historian’s discipline which now more than ever sets itself apart from theology and the project of advancing or promoting specific religious identities. For Goossen, the determining use of historical method is exemplified by the fact that his book Chosen Nation: Mennonites and Germany in a Global Era presents a history of Mennonite entanglement with German nationalism in a way that is very rightly critical of fascism, but does not advance this critique from the pacifist standpoint of a Mennonite identity, but instead from his position as an historian.9 Although I do not advocate for a return to a naive historiography that would instrumentalize the past for narrow confessional purposes, I notice that a major limitation of much descriptive historical work done by Mennonite historians is found in the prohibition on making historically-​founded social critiques rooted in a distinctive Mennonite identity. These two parallel turns away from the normative and prescriptive work of refining Mennonite identity within the academy are patterns that I want to challenge, but not in a simple way that would seek to reassert either a distillation of Mennonite theological identity into a set of naked essentials, or an instrumental and anachronistic use of Anabaptist history for present Mennonite purposes. Neither a strong normative theological vision that would assert the superiority of a specific Mennonite theology, nor a disestablishing or ecumenically bound Mennonite theology are adequate to the historical breadth and depth of Mennonite identity and its current critical potential. So too with history. Neither a cleanly descriptive and neutral Mennonite history that refuses all usability, nor an anachronistic Mennonite history that projects its values back onto the sixteenth century are adequate to the richness of the Mennonite tradition and the possibilities of its renewal. 8 9

See Troy Osborne, “The Bottle, the Dagger, and the Ring: Church Discipline and Dutch Mennonite Identity in the Seventeenth Century,” CGR 35, no. 2 (Spring 2017): 114–​50. See Benjamin W. Goossen Chosen Nation: Mennonites and Germany in a Global Era (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2017). Although Goossen situates himself as a professional within his discipline (referring to himself a historian) he writes in a more personal Mennonite voice in publications like “Sermons I Never Heard,” The Mennonite, March 28, 2018, and “Mennonite Privilege,” The Mennonite, February 1, 2017.

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Instead of these limited and disciplining options, I want to resist the notion that Mennonite identity and Mennonite Studies should be subordinated to the strictures of theological or historical methodologies and their respective desires to serve the church and preserve a history. I observe that both impulses are fundamentally conservative, simply in the sense that they seek to conserve the integrity of certain theological and ecclesial terms (for theologians who happen to be Mennonite) and conserve the irreducibility of history by avoiding normativity (for historians of the Anabaptist movements). But what would it mean to think about Mennonite identity and Mennonite Studies without the desires to make sure that the church is served and history remains untouched by contemporary use? Although there is much that one can productively do within the disciplinary bounds of theology or history—​often in very liberal and liberating ways—​these disciplines ultimately do discipline those under them, and this means that there are some places one simply cannot go while under their auspices and while using their terms. However much it may be flexible and complex, contemporary Christian theology ultimately remains accountable to the church and the Christian framework. Operating outside of reference to Jesus Christ and ecclesial accountability is not something that many Christian theologians seek to do. As well, however much they may provide nuanced and subtle accounts of the past, many contemporary historians of Anabaptist and Mennonite traditions remain beholden to the norms of their discipline in ways that limit social critique, especially in their attempts to avoid making use of the histories they report. Desiring to overcome these limitations, I take up an interdisciplinary and pluralistic approach to Mennonite Studies that does not seek refuge in either normativity or description and does not seek refuge from either normativity or description. This means that my work attempts to avoid both the theologian’s desire to preserve the integrity of Christianity (which often takes refuge in normativity by dealing in ideal-​t ypes, and often takes refuge from uncomfortable historical descriptions that challenge the purity of theological terms or ecclesial institutions), and the historian’s desire to preserve the integrity of the past from reductive and instrumental use in the present (which often takes refuge from normativity by refusing to use the past for present purposes). Whether my work achieves these aims is something that I hope can remain open to debate, but even if I fail to achieve the goals outlined above in a meaningful way, my priority is to work through these difficult dilemmas by turning toward them rather than avoiding them out of worry that disciplinary boundaries will be crossed.

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I want to work with different paradigms than those currently available in the field, and I want to study Mennonite thought with more freedom than is usually found the need to remain solely accountable to Christian identity or the historian’s method. Therefore, I study Mennonite identities and thinkers who work outside, against, or surreptitiously within capture by theological and historical methodologies. In my dissertation, recent book, and research articles, I have followed secular, philosophical, political, literary, and feminist Mennonites, not from the detached standpoint implied by the word “study,” but from a pluralistic standpoint within the discipline of Religious Studies—​a standpoint that neither assumes value-​neutrality nor seeks to conserve religious values, but instead proceeds from the assumption that values are always already in conflict. Surely Religious Studies is a discipline that disciplines, but I have been fortunate enough to study in a pluralistic and interdisciplinary department at McMaster University in which the measure of good work is not whether certain institutions or objects of study are conserved or preserved, but that both method and object of study are opened to critique from a wide variety of perspectives. This means that when I refer to “pluralism” in the title of this chapter I am not referring to the assertion that really, at base, we all can agree, do agree, or should agree on basic values and norms. Instead of this idea of “moral abstinence” I study secular, philosophical, political, literary, and feminist Mennonite thinkers and topics with the express expectation that values will conflict, and with the further assumption that this the conflict of values is preferable to the fantasy that “we” ultimately agree on the important things in our diverse societies.10 I call this pluralistic and interdisciplinary approach to Mennonite Studies “Secular Mennonite Social Critique”: secular in the broad sense of being oriented toward the world, Mennonite in the broad sense of being in affinity with Mennonite values, identities, and communities, social in its concern for how we ought to live well together in multicultural societies and western democracies, and critical in the sense of being discontented with the current state of affairs. This means that when I refer to a Secular Mennonite Social Critique, I am not referring to the “secular” in a strictly atheistic sense, to “Mennonite” in the “ethnic” or “confessional” senses, to “social” in the restrictive sociological sense, or to “critique” in a purely negative sense. Instead, I see great possibilities for expanding the field of Mennonite Studies toward new secular, literary, philosophical, political, and feminist 10 For two very different voices opposing value-​ neutrality and ethical abstinence see Chantal Mouffe, “For an Agonistic Pluralism,” in The Return of the Political (London: Verso, 1993) and Rahel Jaeggi, Critique of Forms of Life, trans. Ciaran Cronin (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2018).

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horizons in which: “secularity” points to a vast world of voices and sources, “Mennonite” is an identity that anyone can claim for themselves without fear of identity-​policing, “social” names a shared world of contradicting values, and “critique” names a paradigmatic confluence of positive sympathy and negative suspicion. And so, in order to survey these complex and entangled Mennonite identities (secular, literary, philosophical, political, feminist) from the perspective of Secular Mennonite Social Critique, I want to sketch a brief history of the discourse before suggesting alternative sources for the future of Mennonite Studies.

An Alternate History of Secular, Philosophical, Political, and Literary Mennonites Readers may be familiar with the history of Mennonite thought that begins with the non-​resistance of the sixteenth century Anabaptists who refused to take up the sword, then moves quickly to the pacifism of North American Mennonites expressed in The Anabaptist Vision (TAV) of Harold S. Bender, and then concludes with the notion that Jesus is a political figure. This established history of Mennonite thinking very often begins with the Schleitheim Confession and its calls to adult baptism and the rejection of the sword, the world, and the oath.11 Following this confession, it is common to skip to twentieth century Mennonite theology and history, as exemplified by Harold S. Bender’s pamphlet TAV, in which faithful Mennonite life is expressed by taking up the discipleship, brotherhood, and nonresistance of the Anabaptists.12 The story continues on after Bender’s vision, and often culminates with John Howard Yoder’s The Politics of Jesus, which influentially interpreted Jesus Christ as a political figure.13 Although this story is familiar, it is obviously a victor’s history—​one that has been told and retold for many years in popular and academic settings, and one that has become influential despite the many important figures who have been placed outside of its distillation of Mennonite identity (what Paul Martens calls the “distillation trajectory” in Mennonite Theology).14

11 The Schleitheim Confession, trans. John Howard Yoder (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1977). 12 Harold S. Bender, TAV (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1944). 13 John Howard Yoder, The Politics of Jesus: Vicit Agnus Noster, 2nd edn. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1994). 14 Paul Martens, “How Mennonite Theology Became Superfluous in Three Easy Steps: Bender, Yoder, Weaver,” JMS 33 (2015): 149–​66.

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In recent decades each of these three Mennonite identity documents have been called into question, causing some Mennonites to double down and entrench their commitment to this history, and causing others to enter a period of reckoning and revision. The idea that the Schleitheim Confession and Swiss Anabaptism are the true beginning of the Anabaptist movement has been rejected, and now historians of the Radical Reformation not only understand the Anabaptist movement to have many origins and no essential character, but also question the historiographical usefulness of the category of the Radical Reformation.15 TAV is no longer considered to be an authoritative Mennonite identity document because of its anachronistic projection of Mennonite values onto the sixteenth century context, and lastly—​most importantly—​John Howard Yoder’s writings have become nearly unusable in light of the fact that he engaged in a sustained pattern of sexual abuse which he sought to theologically justify.16 As the Mennonite theological and historical establishment wrestles with the instability of three of its founding documents and figures, some have attempted to define Mennonite identity using stable terms, and others have questioned whether the Mennonite identity is still worth holding in normative ways. But for my part, I think that a Mennonite identity can still be held in quite scholarly ways if we attend to the problems identified above, and then look to other voices connected to the Mennonite tradition who are not confined to this victor’s history. There are many Mennonite-​related thinkers who have been placed outside of the bounds of this history, but who still consider Mennonite identity to be important, even if it is not expressed in theological or ecclesial forms. Instead, these marginal and secular Mennonites bear witness to a kind of double dissent, not only identifying with Anabaptist radicalism and Mennonite pacifism, but also resisting the established narratives of Mennonite theology and Anabaptist history.17

15 See Michael Driedger, “Against ‘the Radical Reformation’: On the Continuity between Early Modern Heresy-​Making and Modern Historiography,” Radicalism and Dissent in the World of Protestant Reform, ed. Bridget Heal and Anorthe Kremers (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2017), 139–​- ​61. 16 See Rachel Waltner Goossen “ ‘Defanging the Beast’ Mennonite Responses to John Howard Yoder’s Sexual Abuse,” MQR 89 (January 2015): 7–​80. and Isaac Samuel Villegas, “The Ecclesial Ethics of John Howard Yoder’s Abuse” Modern Theology (online-​2020). 17 For two examples see the exploration of fringe Mennonites and queer Mennonites in Janis Thiessen, “ ‘It’s a hard thing to talk about’: ‘Fringe’ Mennonite Religious Beliefs and Experiences,” JMS 33 (2015): 213–​33 and Alicia Dueck-​Read, “Breaking the Binary: Queering Mennonite Identity” JMS 33 (2015): 115–​33.

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Below I provide some examples of Mennonite figures who challenge the dominant narrative in order to develop the kind of pluralistic interdisciplinarity that I mentioned above. To survey these complex and entangled Mennonite identities I ask and give some answers to five questions: “Who are secular Mennonites?” “Who are philosophical Mennonites?,” “Who are political Mennonites?,” “Who are literary Mennonites?,” and “Who are feminist Mennonites?”

Who are Secular Mennonites? I use the term “secular” here to refer to the broad and undefined category of the world that exists apart from the bounds of Christian theology, its church, and the category of religion in general. As is indicated by the ancient root word saeculum, secularity need not solely refer to militant atheisms or even to solely areligious concepts. Indeed, there are many scholars in Religious Studies and Political Theology work to trace complex processes of secularization in ways that do not cleanly divide the world using categories of sacred and secular. I use the term “secular Mennonite” to refer to anyone who considers themselves to be a Mennonite (by identifying with the name) but does not necessarily see Christian theology or assent to doctrinal truth-​claims as the primary determiner of their Mennonite identity. This secular Mennonite identity is present in several discourses, especially the conversation on Mennonite/​s Writing outlined later in this chapter, but here I will briefly survey three intersections between secularity and historically Anabaptist ideas and groups: the work of Hans-​Jürgen Goertz, the Anabaptist idea of the Gospel of All Creatures, and the seventeenth century Dutch Collegiant groups. Hans-​Jürgen Goertz One example of a contemporary Mennonite figure who is deeply informed by secular sensibilities is historian Hans-​Jürgen Goertz. In his work, Goertz looks back on the history of the Anabaptists and suggests that their dissent and non-​conformity might inspire present-​day social critique. The final lines of his social history of the Anabaptists makes this connection between the past and the present: The doctrines of the Anabaptists were as much of their age as the theology of those who persecuted them as heretics. This does not mean that impulses from the alternative movements of the sixteenth century cannot be taken up today, wherever, in their religious or social [kirchlichen und gesellschaftlichen] experience, people perceive the oppression which obscures a still-​awaited ‘new heaven

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and new earth,’ and wherever they are able to grasp small opportunities to gain freedom.18

In this quotation Goertz makes an interesting suggestion that goes against the grain of contemporary Mennonite thinking about both theology and history when he suggests that historical political theologies can be used for emancipatory purposes in the present.19 Goertz’s suggestion is neither restrictively theological nor restrictively historical, but instead he seems to proceed from a humanistic commitment to mobilize the desire for freedom found in revolutionary and reforming movements. Goertz’s work challenges the recent transformations of Mennonite history and theology that I critiqued above. Rather than using Anabaptist history in a reductive and anachronistic way by projecting his values back onto the sixteenth century radicals, and rather than refusing to carry forward Anabaptist history for Mennonite identity formation for fear of anachronism, Goertz suggests that although the Anabaptists were “of their day” their impulses can nonetheless be taken up today for the purposes of social critique. As well, Goertz has identified himself as a Mennonite in a complex and ambiguous way, and it seems to me that his Mennonite identity remains about something more or other than belonging to a church and accepting certain articles of faith.20 In an autobiographical contribution from the 1980s Goertz reflects on the problems of recognition and heresy-​making that he encountered as he reckoned with his Mennonite identity: We matured without Mennonite fathers, and were suspected of heresy. But these bitter discussions had a good side. They were a field on which we measured our strength while keeping in touch with our congregations –​as unloved but not as lost sons … I was threatened with censorship so early in my career that I was not able to contemplate a change of course. As far as I was concerned, it was a principle 18 Hans-​Jürgen Goertz, The Anabaptists, trans. Trevor Johnson (London: Routledge, 1996), 135. Hans-​Jürgen Goertz Die Täufer: Geschichte und Deutung (München: Beck, 1980), 164. 19 See the analysis of this aspect of Goertz’s work in my “Müntzer, Taubes, and the Anabaptists: Emancipatory History and Political Theology,” Political Theology 20, no. 3 (2019): 191–​206. 20 See Hans-​Jürgen Goertz, Umwege Zwischen Kanzel und Katheder: Autobiographische Fragmente (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2018). Joel Driedger’s assessment of the book suggests that Goertz’s autobiography is about the place of nonconformity between the church and the university, communicated in fragments (as the title suggests) and exemplified by the closing quotation from 1 Corinthians 13:12. Joel Driedger, Review of Goertz, Umwege Zwischen Kanzel Und Katheder. MQR 93, no. 2 (April 2019): 287–​89.

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M a x well K ennel question of freedom of thought and expression. I didn’t want to recognize that a small religious community which had suffered the intolerance of the established churches for centuries would now turn the same intolerance against itself and would be unwilling to tolerate self-​criticism.21

In his scholarly work and the clues he gives to his biography, Goertz is one example of a Mennonite whose work is deeply concerned with secular matters and social critique in ways that are not reflected in the victors’ history that runs from the Schleitheim Confession to TAV to The Politics of Jesus. The Gospel of All Creatures Another interesting example of how secularity—​broadly defined by its orientation toward the world outside of Christian anxiety and theological capture—​runs through the history of Anabaptist and Mennonite thinking is found in the early Anabaptist idea of the “Gospel of All Creatures.” Hans Hut, Pilgram Marpeck, and Hans Schlaffer each developed the idea that the gospel was something present in creation and all its creatures, and by implication not solely in the institutional church. Mennonite theologians like A. James Reimer and Trevor Bechtel have found in this early Anabaptist idea something that resembles a natural theology. As an historical idea taken up for contemporary use, the Gospel of All Creatures offers an Anabaptist perspective that does not restrict the good news (evangelion) to the church, but instead suggests that the gospel is already present in the world in mystical and political ways.22 Although to call these early Anabaptist proponents of the Gospel of All Creatures “secular” is in some ways anachronistic, it is also meaningful to consider the ways that this mystical and political idea refuses to be captured by contemporary theological desires. The Collegiants Others throughout the history of the Anabaptist and Mennonite traditions have also considered the immanent, material, “secular” world to have intrinsic value and have rejected the idea that the church must exist in hard distinction against the so-​called secular world. The seventeenth century Collegiants were a set of connected groups who met together for discussion and worship in the major cities of the Dutch Republic. These groups—​called “colleges”—​held

21 Hans-​Jürgen Goertz, “From the Cloakroom to the Lecture Hall,” trans. Victor G. Doerksen, in Why I am a Mennonite: Essays on Mennonite Identity, ed. Harry Loewen (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1988), 110–​-​13. 22 See my “The Gospel of All Creatures: An Anabaptist Natural Theology for Mennonite Political Theology,” JMS 37 (2019): 353–​68.

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meetings that included Mennonites, Remonstrants, Socinians, Quakers, Reformed, and free thinkers.23 Meeting on a floor without raised podiums, and therefore without spatial structures of hierarchy, in principle everyone was free to speak in their meetings in accordance with the principle of “free prophecy” (vrij spreken), and there were no formal ministers. The Collegiant groups were radically anticonfessional, anticlerical, antipapal, and egalitarian, both rejecting the notion that there is one true church and affirming Spiritualist and Rationalist values in different proportions at different stages in their development. Early Collegiant thinking was influenced by Reformation Spiritualism, and later Collegiant thinking was more influenced by the Early-​Enlightenment Rationalism of Descartes and Spinoza, but the group’s history is more complex than a linear movement of secularization, and their many combinations of “secular” and “religious” ideas make them uniquely resonant with contemporary post secular thinking about the entanglements of Christianity, religion, and secularity.24 The secular Mennonite experiences and ideas found in Goertz’s contemporary social critique, the sixteenth century notion of the Gospel of All Creatures, and the seventeenth century Collegiant groups are all very different, but in each case there is a measure of secularity (something not reducible to the enclosures of the church or Christianity), a measure of Anabaptist or Mennonite identity (but not reducible to confessions or institutions), a measure of sociality (in Goertz’s social history, in the divine order of the creatures, and in Collegiant practices of free prophecy), and a measure of critique (Goertz’s desire for emancipation, the critique of political power in the Gospel of All Creatures, and the anticlericalism and antitrinitarianism of the Collegiants). 23 For details on the suspicions that confessionalist Mennonites had of the Collegiants and those Mennonites who were part of Collegiant meetings, see Michael Driedger, Obedient Heretics: Mennonite Identities in Lutheran Hamburg and Altona During the Confessional Age (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), 49–​ 59. For an older account of Mennonite-​ Collegiant relations see Samme Zijlstra, Om de ware gemeente en de oude gronden. Geschiedenis van de dopersen in de Nederlanden 1531–​1675 (Hilversum: Uitgeverei, 2000), 406–​10. I am grateful to Iris Speckman for providing me with a translation of this section of the book for my research. 24 See my “Postsecular History: Contemporary Continental Philosophy of Religion and the Seventeenth Century Dutch Collegiant Movement,” Studies in Religion/​ Sciences Religieuses 46, no. 3 (September 2017): 406–​32. and my earlier study “We Have Never Been Secular: The Concept of the Secular and the Dutch Collegiants in the Radical Enlightenment.” Master’s Thesis. University of Waterloo and Conrad Grebel University College (2015).

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Each of these three moments in Anabaptist Mennonite history can contribute to a Secular Mennonite Social Critique because they challenge linear and unified visions of Anabaptist history and Mennonite theology. Against any prohibition on the use of Anabaptist history and against the notion that Mennonite identity must be subservient to Christian theological identity, the approach that I am calling “Secular Mennonite Social Critique” understands distinctions between church and world to be profoundly troubled and often artificial (something made, not given). This broad notion of secularity and its relationship with ways of thinking that are apart from religion leads toward our second question.

Who are Philosophical Mennonites? Throughout the history of Mennonite thought, from the time of Bender’s Anabaptist Vision to the present day, there have been few Mennonite figures whose secular sensibilities have caused them to look outside of the sources often used by theologians, and instead toward philosophical writers who do not attempt to defend, define, condemn, or preserve Christian faith.25 In 1943 Ralph C. Kauffman stated that there was a contradiction between being philosophical and being Mennonite, but since then many thinkers in the Mennonite tradition have proven this statement to be descriptively false.26 Robert Friedmann One example of the philosophical strain in Mennonite thought is found in the work of Robert Friedmann, who influenced TAV but was more philosophically inclined than Bender.27 During his time at Western Michigan University Friedmann wrote a manuscript called Design for Living, in which he defended a humanist, philosophical, and secular way of life based on four key principles: regard, concern, service, and love.28 This book is exceptional 25 See my entry on “Philosophy” in the Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online. Update to the original 1989 entry by J. Lawrence Burkholder (https://​ gameo.org/​index.php?title=​Phi​loso​phy) (April 2020). 26 See my “Mennonite Metaphysics? Exploring the Philosophical Aspects of Mennonite Theology from Pacifist Epistemology to Ontological Peace,” MQR 91, no. 3 (July 2017): 403–​21. 27 Friedmann resonated more with Clarence Bauman, who also embodied a kind of Mennonite humanism that this section points toward. See Herb Klassen, “Bauman, Clarence (1928–​1995).” Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online. https://​ gameo.org/​index.php?title=​Bau​man,_​Cl​a ren​ce_​​(1928-​1995) (November 2005). 28 See my preface “Discovering the Other Friedmann,” in Robert Friedmann, Design for Living: Regard, Concern, Service, and Love, ed. Maxwell Kennel (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2017) and my more recent biographical work on Friedmann, “The Philosophical Legacy of Robert Friedmann” Anabaptist Historians blog

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in the history of Mennonite thinking because of Friedmann’s use of philosophical materials including works by Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Ovid, and Confucius. More attention to the complexity of Friedmann’s identity and biography may reveal some of the philosophical influences that are covered over in the dominant narrative of Mennonite theology and history. Like that of Goertz, Friedmann’s identity is complex and cannot be solely captured by the Mennonite name. In a footnote to his work on Hans Denck, Clarence Bauman makes an intriguing suggestion: Robert Friedmann, more than any other Anabaptist scholar, recognized in his own educated heart [a reference to the first chapter of Design for Living, which Bauman read] the implicit Jewishness of Anabaptist spirituality, though in his writings he himself hardly dared to make this connection explicit –​possibly for personal reasons—​a nd, instead, identified the genius of Anabaptist ‘existential Christianity.’29

Throughout his career Friedmann’s identity shifted and changed. He identified as a “Jew who sides with Christ” in the 1930s, he situated himself between religious socialists and Anabaptists in the 1950s, and he regularly attended a Quaker meeting in his late life.30 It is not out of the question, then, to consider Bauman’s suggestion that Friedmann’s identity may have been more than just primarily Mennonite, but also may have been akin to the Jewish Marrano phenomenon. Complex and ambiguous identities like these must be considered within the scope of Mennonite Studies, both because they challenge the dominant narrative of Mennonite identity from within and because they show profound overlap between philosophical and secular sensibilities and Mennonite figures. Pacifist Epistemology and Ontological Peace As Friedmann’s Design for Living suggests, there are Mennonites whose secularity and philosophical interests overlap. But at the same time Mennonite theologians over the past twenty years have sought to use philosophy to better understand how to be followers of Jesus Christ within the bounds of Christian faithfulness. Recently in the work of Chris Huebner and Peter (July 2020). https://​anabaptisthistorians.org/​2020/​07/​27/​the-​philosophical-​legacyof-​robert-​friedmann/​ 29 Clarence Bauman, “Denck’s Spirituality,” in The Spiritual Legacy of Hans Denck: Interpretation and Translation of Key Texts (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 44, note 139. I am grateful to Jamie Pitts for bring this to my attention. 30 Astrid von Schlachta, “Robert Friedmann—​Searching for the Meaning of Faith for the World,” in Robert Friedmann, Hutterite Studies, ed. Harold S. Bender, 2nd edn (MacGregor, Manitoba: Hutterian Brethren Book Centre, 2010).

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Blum, the Mennonite peace witness has taken on a new form.31 For some contemporary Mennonite theologians, the peace witness is not only important because pacifism opposes the idea that we should physically harm others or participate in war, but it is also important for how we think and hold knowledge. This is called “pacifist epistemology” and its main contention is that if Mennonites are to follow the peaceful witness of Jesus Christ then this must entail the rejection of coercive, dominating, and abusive ways of conversing with others. To be a pacifist in one’s way of thinking and speaking means rejecting imperialistic or colonial ways of engaging with others. Rather than gaining satisfaction from winning arguments or setting out to demolish or destroy the position of the other person, certain philosophical Mennonite theologians suggest that there are more peaceful ways of engaging in rhetoric and persuasion. A similar point is made by feminist philosopher of religion Grace M. Jantzen, who writes that phrases we commonly use to characterize our discourse like “advance,” “defend,” and “position” are in fact military terms.32 If Mennonites or those who feel an affinity with Mennonite identities want to be distinctive critics of violence, then we must resist the slow creep of imperialistic and colonial thinking into not only our ways of holding knowledge and communicating is, but also into our ontologies and metaphysics.33 The implicit ways that we understand our world to be structured are always political, even when we would prefer to think in neutral ways. Even the most abstract categories for understanding the human relationship with the world rest on visions of how human beings ought to live together in that world. This is why attention to secularity and philosophical thinking cannot afford to be without politically engaged social critique, for our categories are never neutral.

31 See Peter Blum, “Two Cheers for an Ontology of Violence,” in For a Church to Come: Experiments in Postmodern Theory and Anabaptist Thought (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 2013) and Chris Huebner, “Globalization, Theory, and Dialogical Vulnerability,” in A Precarious Peace: Yoderian Explorations on Theology, Knowledge, And Identity (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 2006). For a fascinating precursor to these twenty-​fi rst century applications of pacifism to epistemology see Edgar Metzler, Let’s Talk About Extremism. Focal Pamphlet Series No. 12 (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1968). See also the online version, Anabaptist Historians (January 2021). 32 Grace Jantzen, Foundations of Violence (London: Routledge, 2004), 15. 33 See my “Critique of Metaphysical Violence,” Dialogue: Canadian Philosophical Review/​Revue canadienne de philosophie 58, no. 1 (March 2019): 125–​62.

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Who are Political Mennonites? So far, I have argued that secular and philosophical Mennonites have been on the fringe of Mennonite thinking, often exiled from its history, or ignored by its disciplinary and disciplining establishment. Although being political has been a part of the mainstream Mennonite story for some time, when I refer to “political Mennonites” I am thinking of politically engaged Mennonites who enter civil and public entanglement and contestation, rather than Mennonites who seek to withdraw from the state and build up the church as a counter-​ political body. J. Lawrence Burkholder One major example of a Mennonite figure who was engaged and entangled with broader secular, philosophical, and political worlds, is J. Lawrence Burkholder. Considering his recent autobiography and the new edition of his dissertation, the present image of Burkholder is not only of a Mennonite who volunteered with the MCC and was president of Goshen College late in his career, but also of a Mennonite who was deeply troubled by the moral ambiguities of power that he encountered while flying refugees out of Beijing.34 Burkholder was a Mennonite who was confronted with difficult decisions between life and death during his MCC term in China, and these confrontations demonstrated to him the inadequacy of traditional Mennonite ethics. This turn toward “realism” is reflected in an oft-​quoted line from the preface to the late publication of his dissertation: What impressed me most was the ambiguity of power. Without power nothing could be accomplished but when power was exercised, invariably some people were helped and others were either deprived or hurt.35

Burkholder engaged in secular politics during the civil rights movement, put philosophy on the agenda when he moved from Harvard University to Goshen College, and advocated for engagement rather than isolation from political and state matters. Rather than withdraw from the life of the surrounding culture (which is still one kind of political move), Burkholder resisted the established Mennonite norms of his day and rejected the idea 34 J. Lawrence Burkholder, “Autobiographical Reflections” in The Limits of Perfection: A Conversation with J. Lawrence Burkholder, ed. Rodney J. Sawatsky and Scott Holland (Kitchener, ON: Pandora, 1993), 12. 35 J. Lawrence Burkholder, Mennonite Ethics: From Isolation to Engagement, ed. Lauren Friesen (Victoria, BC: Friesen Press, 2018), 200. See also J. Lawrence Burkholder, Recollections of a Sectarian Realist: A Mennonite Life in the Twentieth Century, ed. Myrna Burkholder (Elkhart, IN: IMS, 2016), iv.

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that moral purity is superior to compromise. Given his participation in secular social movements and institutions, his use of philosophy, and his political engagement, Burkholder is an important resource for any counter-​history of Mennonite thinking. New Mennonite Political Theologies Other Mennonite thinkers have also challenged traditional Mennonite separatist political theology by working in between and apart from the categories of theology, philosophy, secularity, and politics. For example, Mennonite political theologian A. James Reimer sought to help Mennonites become more honest about the fact that entanglement with civil and public life is unavoidable, making theological separation not only impossible but dishonest. Mennonite theologian Lydia Neufeld Harder has also found engagement with political and philosophical matters to be important and has engaged in dialog with feminist theologies, attempting to help Mennonites mediate between a hermeneutic of suspicion and obedience to community. More recently still, Travis Kroeker and Kyle Gingerich Hiebert have articulated political theologies that are deeply influenced by Mennonite thinking, but are not reducible to that designation.36 These Mennonite-​related political theologies, which follow the broader trend in political theology of complicating both political and theological normativity, present us with ways in which Mennonite identity can be held amidst complex relations with theological and ecclesial institutions of commitment and non-​commitment, proximity and distance, trust and distrust.37

Who are Literary Mennonites? The aforementioned ambiguities of identity and affiliation are even more richly represented in our fourth movement in this counter-​history of fringe Mennonites. The idea that one can have a complex and uneven relationship with established Mennonite theologies and institutions is most starkly illustrated by the long-​standing discourse on Mennonite/​s writing. Mennonite affiliated writers of literature and poetry like Patrick Friesen or Miriam Toews are not defined by theological or church structures, but instead create works 36 See the survey of Reimer, Neufeld Harder, Kroeker, and Gingerich Hiebert in my “Mennonite Political Theology and Feminist Critique,” MQR 93, no. 3 (July 2019): 393–​412. 37 Recent expressions of Mennonite Political Theology range from Christian theological visions to feminist critiques, to secular and queer literary explorations. See my edited special issue of Political Theology on Mennonite Political Theology (forthcoming March 2021).

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of literary art that are very connected to their Mennonite communities in ways that are both challenging and appreciative.38 Those who participate in the current conversation on Mennonite literary art tend not to police their borders by trying to ensure that those who write within its bounds give assent to one confession or creed, and many who work in the field of Mennonite/​ s writing consider themselves to be near-​Mennonites, ex-​Mennonites, non-​ Mennonites, and “Menno-​ nots” (to reflect the theme of the 2015 issue of the JMS and the name of the now defunct Mennonite literary magazine Mennonot). This literary Mennonite conversation has developed under quite different conditions than the discourse on Mennonite theology and history, and it has fostered a sense of openness and welcome despite very deep differences. Below I will briefly survey recent work by one Mennonite literary critic (Daniel Shank Cruz) and one secular Mennonite literary figure (Miriam Toews). Mennonite Literary Criticism Daniel Shank Cruz’s recent book, Queering Mennonite Literature: Archives, Activism, and the Search for Community performs something very similar to what I am attempting to do when I knit my work around the heading “Secular Mennonite Social Critique.” Cruz begins by conjugating the two identities of his title, giving an expansive and generous account of Mennonite and Queer identity.39 For Cruz, and others, queerness is not reducible to sexuality, for the act of queering something can refer to any number of ways that one might challenge simplistic and rigid black-​and-​white distinctions. Cruz reflects the broader discourse on literary Mennonite thought when he allows the name “Mennonite” to apply to anyone who chooses to identify themselves as such. This openness stands in stark contrast with ways of defining identity that attempt to police its uses. Cruz’s book avoids such identity-​ policing, preferring instead to allow both Mennonite and queer identities to mutually open discussions about community, activism, mutual aid, and the pursuit of peace. Cruz points out how Mennonites are already quite queer in their rejection of capture by Protestantism and Catholicism, and in the values of activism and the search for a better world.

38 See my analysis of Friesen’s work in “Violence and the Romance of Community: Darkness and Enlightenment in Patrick Friesen’s The Shunning,” Literature & Theology 33, no. 4 (December 2019): 394–​413. 39 Daniel Shank Cruz, Queering Mennonite Literature: Archives, Activism, and the Search for Community (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2019).

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The discourse on Mennonite identity comes alive in literary-​ critical works like Cruz’s in part because of his refusal to position himself as the final arbiter over the faithful uses of the name “Mennonite,” alongside his equally important assertion that Mennonites have a distinctive identity and contribution to make by virtue of their values of peace and justice. Cruz makes clear and distinctive statements about Mennonite identity that have historical and theological resonances, but which move beyond the disciplining powers of church and university, and toward a Mennonite identity that is more plural and generous, while nonetheless being normative and critical. Appropriately, this kind of pluralistic yet critical Mennonite identity resonates well with the literary works of secular Mennonites. Miriam Toews’ Women Talking In late February 2020, the Canadian novelist Miriam Toews came to McMaster University to be interviewed by Grace Kehler and Travis Kroeker about her book Women Talking. Toews novel dramatizes and responds to a crisis of sexual violence in a Bolivian Mennonite colony that occurred between 2005 and 2009 when men committed acts of sexual violence on colony women (some were subsequently tried and convicted in court in 2013). Her introductory note to the novel clarifies, however, that abuses may continue in this colony and others.40 Understanding that the women who experienced these rapes were accused of fabricating the events out of “wild female imagination,” Toews decided to write a novel about these violent events because she wanted to respond to them with her own “act of female imagination.” The theological resonances of Toews work have been developed in several articles by Kehler and Kroeker, the most recent of which is Kehler’s “A Parable of Becoming Divine Women: Miriam Toews’ Women Talking.” 41 Women Talking is all about whether the women of the colony will decide to “do nothing,” “stay and fight,” or “leave.” Deliberating between these three options, the women—​led by Ona—​enlist the help of a colony man named August. The novel is a parable meant to instruct its readers in thinking more deeply about not only sexual violence, but also about how we make systems of authority and power that contain people within cycles of abuse. Women Talking asks its readers to join with the colony women and consider the stakes and the problems of these three responses to abuse: do nothing (and perhaps forgive the men), stay in the colony and fight back (perhaps breaking the rule of nonresistance), or leave (into a world they do not know). Each 40 Miriam Toews, Women Talking (Toronto: Knopf, 2018), note. 41 Grace Kehler, “Becoming Divine Women: Miriam Toews’ Women Talking as Parable,” Literature & Theology 34, no. 4 (December 2020): 408–​29.

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option has consequences and risks, and the women must reach an agreement among themselves in only two days, before the men return from the trial. During the event at McMaster, Grace Kehler asked Miriam Toews about how she sees violence haunting communities that say they are pacifist. Toews responded, saying that although she considers herself to be a secular Mennonite—​having left a repressive Mennonite community—​she still considers herself to be a pacifist who desires a more complicated kind of peace. Rather than policing the use of the term Mennonite, Toews spoke of herself as a secular Mennonite and expressed her frustration with those who would say that she is not a Mennonite.42 With this critique of Mennonite identity policing in mind, let the reader also notice that the framing of the novel was based on a very particular act of love that also refuses to police certain boundaries while nonetheless drawing other boundaries. During the McMaster event a student in the audience asked Toews why, in a book called Women Talking that is about women’s decision to overcome rule by men, did she decide that the narrator should be a man? Toews responded by first saying that, within the world of the novel, it would not make sense for a woman to be the narrator because women in these colonies are usually illiterate (which is another part of patriarchy). But beyond this practical reason, Toews suggested that there was a deeper reason that she decided the narrator should be a man. The narrator of the novel, August, is not well. He struggles deeply with his mental health, and there is evidence in the novel that he may be suicidal. August is not very connected to the other men in the colony. He is different, more educated, and not very agriculturally inclined like the other men are. He also has a complicated past that continues to haunt him, but he has a friendship with Ona—​a leader of the women who the novel focuses on. Toews explained that in the story, part of the reason that August Epp is the narrator is because Ona saw that he was not well and decided to give him a job to keep him busy, and more importantly, to keep him safe for those hours that they were talking together. Toews pointed out that the women in the story are illiterate, and therefore have no use for a transcript of their meetings, so why would they ask the colony schoolteacher to write everything down for them? They are never going to use it. They cannot read. Later the transcript is used to pack their food as they strike out from the colony into the unknown. 42 For more on “secular Mennonite” identities see my “Secular Mennonites and the Violence of Pacifism: Miriam Toews at McMaster,” Hamilton Arts and Letters 13, no. 2 (Fall 2020). Special Issue on Mennonites, ed. Grace Kehler.

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The purpose of having a male narrator is complicated, but much of it has to do with Ona’s care for this man who does not fit in, this man who is not well, and perhaps is at risk of suicide. This means that the entire framing of the novel—​t he way that it reaches the reader through the text—​is based on an act of generosity, love, and charity by one of the colony women toward a man. It is difficult to overstate how powerful and vulnerable this is, given traumatic sexual violence that the men of the colony have inflicted upon the women. But Ona still invites August into their circle of trust and asks him to help them do something that they do not really need to have done. Although we ought not universalize it or make it compulsory, this is one of the most inspiring aspects of Miriam Toews parable, for it embodies a kind of vulnerable love that cannot be expressed in concepts and cannot be possessed by Mennonite identity, but is nonetheless a distinctive secular expression of it that resonates with new Mennonite feminisms.

Who Are Feminist Mennonites?43 One further tradition in Mennonite thought that has been uniquely and severely suppressed by the victors’ history outlined above is Mennonite feminism. Below I engage with the work of one exemplary Mennonite feminist theologian whose work resonates with the secular Mennonite feminism outlined above, and with the broader contours of this alternate history of secular, philosophical, political, and literary Mennonites. Malinda Berry’s work on Mennonite Political Theology proceeds under the banner of a “Shalom Political Theology.”44 As I have become more familiar with Berry’s work, and as I have considered why her political theology has not yet had the hearing it deserves, I have been drawn toward the ways that she resists different forms of dissociation. The word “dissociation” initially says nothing about what exactly is being prevented from associating, and it is also a term that has a very specialized use in the field of counseling and psychotherapy where it refers to an escape from or defense against experiences that are overwhelming (symptoms of which range from “checking out” of a stressful conversation to more severe flashbacks and memory gaps, which are often symptoms of trauma and/​or PTSD).

43 This section summarizes my “Political Theology and Dissociation: A Response to Malinda Berry.” Theology and Peacebuilding Consultation. Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary, March 2020. 44 Malinda Elizabeth Berry, “Shalom Political Theology: A New Type of Mennonite Peace Theology for a New Era of Discipleship,” CGR 34, no. 1 (Winter 2016): 49–​73.

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I think that a major reason why Mennonite feminist theologies continue to be ignored is that they challenge patriarchal dissociations that separate everyday life from scholarly work. Berry’s Mennonite feminist approach to Political Theology refuses to dissociate theological and academic work from her subject position and the social problems of everyday life. This became evident over the course of our conversations preceding the colloquium that occasioned an earlier form of this section. Instead of exchanging papers and reading them in the detached and distancing way that our shared discourse often encourages, we talked “face to face” for a few hours over two video calls, where our discussions strayed from and returned to the task at hand, where we were embedded in everyday problems of household management. By resisting the dissociation of work and life, Berry’s embodied and published work both assume that the personal is already political. In her contribution to the 30th Anniversary Edition of Living More With Less Berry reflects on oikonomia.45 But rather than dissociate and abstract the term from the realm of life into the realm of scholarly work, she tells stories and draws the attention of the reader to the theologies of cooking and homemaking. The dissociative desire for theology and academic study to be safely separate from biography is something that Berry’s work fundamentally resists, and I want to extend her resistance of dissociation by suggesting that the first steps toward its remediation must be to admit that there is a fundamental connection between work and life, and then to seek out ways of being faithful to our autobiographies. This does not mean giving up abstraction entirely and taking refuge in particularity or narrative, for that will not save us either. What it means is giving up the notion that there is no relation between work and life and then attending to how we abstract and how we connect with others. Under the regime of dissociative desire, we want to keep separate our personal interests and cares from the abstract representations that we deal in, but ultimately, we cannot. Our personal stories and investment in our abstract academic work continue to be re-​inscribed within our work, regardless of our attempts to dissociate from it. I draw attention to Berry’s work here at the conclusion of this survey because I want to highlight that dissociative desire lies at the base of the victors’ history outlined at the beginning of this chapter, and it is a commonly used strategy in the identity policing critiqued by Sider and others.

45 Malinda Elizabeth Berry, “The Five Life Standards: Theology and Household Code,” in Doris Janzen Longacre, Living More With Less. 30th Anniversary Edition (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 2010), 35–​37.

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Conclusion Let us notice in conclusion that the problem that underpins the victors’ history that this chapter seeks to challenge, is the problem of a dissociative gaze that turns away from Mennonite identities that do not conform to pre-​decided standards or measures. There would be no need for a corrective vision of the history of Mennonite identities if Mennonites had consistently recognized (seen, validated, affirmed, dignified, both personally and politically) those who claimed the Mennonite name from unconventional subject positions.46 The Secular Mennonite Social Critique that I trace above calls for broader, more pluralistic, and more interdisciplinary approaches to Mennonite Studies that do not turn away from the difficult conflicts of values that define us. Therefore, I have not attempted to linearize the alternate history I present, nor have I attempted to reconcile contradictions between the figures who I survey. Instead, I point to several overlapping traditions within the tradition and give voice to some Mennonite identities who have not yet received attention comparable to those within the victor’s history. The very idea of a victor’s history is premised upon a relationship with time and history that takes up the past and future and uses these terms to authorize powerful assertions in the present through a kind of theopolitical periodization.47 However, I am not suggesting that we must replace the victors’ history outlined above by forcibly reasserting the importance of secular, philosophical, political, literary, and feminist Mennonite figures. That would be to fall back into the ontological violence of assuming that identities will necessarily displace each other in relations of antagonism and dominance, and the problem of allowing this assumption to determine our discourse rather than contribute to a critique of power.48 Instead of suggesting that we must replace dominant Mennonites with marginal ones or invert a power relation between them, I am suggesting that the needed remediation for the problems addressed above is the rejection of our dissociative desire which causes us to turn away from identities and ideas that make us uncomfortable. Instead, in the interest of opening up 46 On the politics of recognition see Alexander Garcia Düttmann, Between Cultures: Tensions in the Struggle for Recognition, trans. Kenneth B. Woodgate (London: Verso, 2000). 47 See my Postsecular History: Political Theology and the Politics of Time. Radical Theologies and Philosophies (London: Palgrave MacMillan, 2022). 48 For more on this point see my dissertation, “Ontologies of Violence: Jacques Derrida, Mennonite Pacifist Epistemology, and Grace M. Jantzen’s Death and the Displacement of Beauty.” (McMaster University, 2021).

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Mennonite identity to those who have been excluded from its grand narrative, and opening Mennonite Studies toward a broader future, while refusing to withdraw from the project of articulating a distinctive Mennonite identity, in conclusion I call for the cultivation of a much richer and more interdisciplinary politics of mutual recognition whereby we turn toward the aforementioned Mennonite identities by beginning with affirmation rather than protective or dissociative gestures of turning away. Following the thread of secular Mennonite social critique that runs through the voices surveyed above is one such approach to this broader form of recognition, and surely there must be others.

Bibliography Bauman, Clarence. “Denck’s Spirituality.” In The Spiritual Legacy of Hans Denck: Interpretation and Translation of Key Texts. Translated and edited by Clarence Bauman. Leiden: Brill, 1991. Bender, Harold S. TAV. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1944. Bergen, Jeremy Bergen. “The Ecumenical Vocation of Anabaptist Theology.” In Recovering from TAV: New Essays in Anabaptist Identity and Theological Method, edited by Laura Schmidt Roberts, Paul Martens, Myron A. Penner. London: T&T Clark, 2020. Berry, Malinda Elizabeth. “Shalom Political Theology: A New Type of Mennonite Peace Theology for a New Era of Discipleship,” CGR 34.1 (Winter 2016): 49–​73. —​——​. “The Five Life Standards: Theology and Household Code.” In Living More With Less, edited by Doris Janzen Longacre, 35–​37. 30th Anniversary Edition. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 2010. Blum, Peter. “Two Cheers for an Ontology of Violence.” In Peter C. Blum, For a Church to Come: Experiments in Postmodern Theory and Anabaptist Thought. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 2013. Burkholder, J. Lawrence. “Autobiographical Reflections.” In The Limits of Perfection: A Conversation with J. Lawrence Burkholder, edited by Rodney J. Sawatsky and Scott Holland. Kitchener, ON: Pandora, 1993. —​——​. Mennonite Ethics: From Isolation to Engagement, edited by Lauren Friesen. Victoria, BC: Friesen Press, 2018. —​—​—​. Recollections of a Sectarian Realist: A Mennonite Life in the Twentieth Century, Edited by Myrna Burkholder. Elkhart, IN: IMS, 2016. Cruz, Daniel Shank. Queering Mennonite Literature: Archives, Activism, and the Search for Community. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2019. Driedger, Michael. “Against ‘the Radical Reformation’: On the Continuity between Early Modern Heresy-​Making and Modern Historiography.” Radicalism and Dissent in

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the World of Protestant Reform, edited by Bridget Heal and Anorthe Kremers, 139–​ 161. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2017. Driedger, Michael. Obedient Heretics: Mennonite Identities in Lutheran Hamburg and Altona During the Confessional Age, 49–​59. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002. Düttmann, Alexander Garcia. Between Cultures: Tensions in the Struggle for Recognition, translated by Kenneth B. Woodgate. London: Verso, 2000. Goertz, Hans-​ Jürgen. Goertz, Hans-​ Jürgen. Die Täufer: Geschichte und Deutung. München: Beck, 1980. —​—​—​. “From the Cloakroom to the Lecture Hall,” translated by Victor G. Doerksen. In Why I am a Mennonite: Essays on Mennonite Identity, edited by Harry Loewen, 110–​113. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1988. —​——​. The Anabaptists, translated by Trevor Johnson. London: Routledge, 1996. —​——​. Umwege Zwischen Kanzel und Katheder: Autobiographische Fragmente. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2018. Goossen, Benjamin W. “ ‘Defanging the Beast’ Mennonite Responses to John Howard Yoder’s Sexual Abuse.” MQR 89 (January 2015): 7–​80. —​——​. Chosen Nation: Mennonites and Germany in a Global Era. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2017. —​—​—​. “Sermons I Never Heard,” The Mennonite (March 28, 2018). —​——​. “Mennonite Privilege,” The Mennonite (March 9, 2018). Huebner, Chris. “Globalization, Theory, and Dialogical Vulnerability.” In A Precarious Peace: Yoderian Explorations on Theology, Knowledge, And Identity. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 2006. Huebner, Chris. “Mennonitische Theologie: Die Zeit bedenken, oder Was von den Toten lernen müssen.” [Mennonite Theology as Dwelling in Time: What We Have to Learn From the Dead]. Translated into German by Hans-​Jürgen Goertz. Mennonitische Geschichts blätter 66 (2009): 147–​159. Jaeggi, Rahel. Critique of Forms of Life, translated by Ciaran Cronin. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2018. Jantzen, Grace. Foundations of Violence. London: Routledge, 2004. Kehler, Grace. “A Parable of Becoming Divine Women: Miriam Toews’ Women Talking” Literature & Theology (forthcoming). Kennel, Maxwell. “We Have Never Been Secular: The Concept of the Secular and the Dutch Collegiants in the Radical Enlightenment.” Master’s Thesis. University of Waterloo and Conrad Grebel University College (2015). —​—​—​. “Discovering the Other Friedmann.” In Design for Living: Regard, Concern, Service, and Love, edited by Maxwell Kennel and Robert Friedmann. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2017a. —​—​—​. “Mennonite Metaphysics? Exploring the Philosophical Aspects of Mennonite Theology from Pacifist Epistemology to Ontological Peace” MQR 91, no. 3 (July 2017b): 403–​21.

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—​——​. “Postsecular History: Contemporary Continental Philosophy of Religion and the Seventeenth Century Dutch Collegiant Movement,” Studies in Religion/​Sciences Religieuses 46, no. 3 (September 2017c): 406–​32, and my earlier study. —​—​—​. “Critique of Metaphysical Violence.” Dialogue: Canadian Philosophical Review/​ Revue canadienne de philosophie 58, no. 1 (March 2019a): 125–​62. —​——​. “The Gospel of All Creatures: An Anabaptist Natural Theology for Mennonite Political Theology,” JMS 37 (2019b): 353–​68. —​——​. “Müntzer, Taubes, and the Anabaptists: Emancipatory History and Political Theology.” Political Theology 20, no. 3 (2019c): 191–​206. —​ —​ —​ . “Violence and the Romance of Community: Darkness and Enlightenment in Patrick Friesen’s The Shunning.” Literature & Theology 33, no. 4 (December 2019d): 394–​413. —​—​—​. “Philosophy” in the Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online. Update to the original 1989 entry by J. Lawrence Burkholder (https://​gameo.org/​index. php? title=​Philosophy) (April 2020a). —​ —​ —​ . “The Philosophical Legacy of Robert Friedmann” Anabaptist Historians blog (July 2020b). https://​a nabaptisthistorians.org/​2020/​07/​27/​ the-​philosophical-​legacy-​of-​robert-​friedmann/​ Klassen, Herb. “Bauman, Clarence (1928–​ 1995).” Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online. (https://​gameo.org/​index.php?title=​Bau​man,_​Cl​a ren​ce_​​ (1928-​1995)) (November 2005). Martens, Paul. “How Mennonite Theology Became Superfluous in Three Easy Steps: Bender, Yoder, Weaver.” JMS 33 (2015): 149–​166. Metzler, Edgar. Let’s Talk About Extremism. Focal Pamphlet Series No. 12. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1968. Mouffee, Chantal. “For an Agonistic Pluralism.” In The Return of the Political. London: Verso, 1993. Osborne, Troy. “The Bottle, the Dagger, and the Ring: Church Discipline and Dutch Mennonite Identity in the Seventeenth Century.” CGR 35, no. 2 (Spring 2017): 114–​50. Schlachta, Astrid von. “Robert Friedmann—​Searching for the Meaning of Faith for the World.” In Hutterite Studies, Edited by Harold S. Bender and Robert Friedmann, 2nd edn. MacGregor. Manitoba: Hutterian Brethren Book Centre, 2010. Sider, J. Alexander. “Self and/​as Victim: A Reflection on ‘Mennonite’ Ethics.” CGR 35, no. 1 (Winter 2017): 27–​39. The Schleitheim Confession, translated by John Howard Yoder. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1977. Thiessen, Janis. “ ‘It’s a hard thing to talk about’: ‘Fringe’ Mennonite Religious Beliefs and Experiences.” JMS 33 (2015): 213–​33. Toews, Miriam Toews. Women Talking. Toronto: Knopf, 2018. Villegas, Isaac Samuel Villegas. “The Ecclesial Ethics of John Howard Yoder’s Abuse.” Modern Theology (online-​2020).

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Yoder, John Howard Yoder. The Politics of Jesus: Vicit Agnus Noster. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1994. Zijlstra, Samme. Om de ware gemeente en de oude gronden. Geschiedenis van de dopersen in de Nederlanden 1531–​1675. Hilversum: Uitgeverei, 2000.

Part III  Ethics of Peace and Justice Ethics has been at the core of the Anabaptist witness and Mennonite life and therefore served as the litmus test for religious life. Nonresistance is often held as the core principle for ethical living. Duane Friesen expands upon the heritage of pacifism to identity bridges between this principle and just war theologies. Hostetter reflects on human suffering, spirituality, and violence while contemplating his encounters with world religions. James Logan addresses the issue of race and its significance for ethics and education in the Anabaptist tradition. Lauren Friesen explains how theater, from the Ancient Greeks until now, has been a voice for restorative justice. All four authors maintain that engagement with culture should and can be done while remaining consistent with being Mennonite.

Chapter 3  The Convergence of Pacifism and Just War1 Duane F r iesen

The discipline of Christian ethics has inherited a time-​honored tradition of categories for interpreting the differences between pacifism and just war from Ernst Troeltsch, the Niebuhrs, Roland Bainton, and others. These traditional typologies of sect-​church and pacifism—​just war impose themselves upon the debate as categories highlighting the polarities or tensions between the two traditions. James Johnson, in his recent book The Quest for Peace, continues this mode of thinking in summarizing the three positions explored in his book: Each of these perspectives generates its own myth of war, and each has its own concept of peace. Thus, not only do we find three traditions of the quest for peace flowing from these perspectives, we actually have three different goals that are all called by the same name: “peace.” The peace of the sectarian community is the result of God’s love, lived out in the common life by those who have received it. For those outside that love, there is no peace. The peace of the just war tradition is the restraint of evil, which can never be completely stamped out but always threatens to break out anew. It is an interim state of life, hard won and precious to possess, but all too easy to see vanish again. The peace of the utopian tradition is the realization in human history of a moral ideal, the new political order of the community of mankind, in which justice will be done and violence and war will wither to nothingness. Absent the causes of war in disorder and injustice, there will be no war. Peace, then, is no more than not having war: it is the final ideal that results from the prior achievement of two other ideals, right order, and justice.2 1

War and Christian Ethics: Classic and Contemporary Readings on the Morality of War, 2nd edn, ed. Arthur F. Holmes (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academy, 2005), 352–​72. Reprint with a new epilogue. 2 James Turner Johnson, The Quest for Peace: Three Moral Traditions in Western Cultural History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), 282–​83.

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Johnson’s own stance is that each of these positions as part of a larger whole. While each can draw something from the other, they simply view the world differently, and that each can learn from the other is that “one’s own way of thinking is not the only possible one.” My thesis is that a new way of thinking about war and peace is emerging which is bringing about a convergence between the just war and pacifist positions. I shall refer to a number of recent statements by church leaders and scholars that make the claim that a new paradigm for thinking about war and peace is emerging. But before I proceed in my analysis, I would like to clarify what I mean by convergence. Webster’s Third New International Dictionary says that the word convergence means “to tend toward one point: approach nearer together.” The word convergence means the “tendency to move toward union or uniformity.” To converge does not mean that all differences have been removed. Significant differences remain between pacifism and just war. However, I will argue that the two positions are growing alike. Both positions approach issues of war and peace in a similar way despite their significant differences. These tendencies, I believe, are so significant you can begin to talk about an emerging new paradigm for thinking about issues of war and peace. The typological method, which has been the dominant methodology used by Christian ethicists for analyzing the ethical issues of war and peace, has several significant limitations preventing us from noticing areas of convergence.

1. It tends to rigidify the terms of the debate between positions, not sufficiently recognizing changes and movements in positions, or subtle differences within a particular position. 2. It tends to emphasize differences or oppositions between positions, not sufficiently recognizing points of commonality or convergence between positions. 3. Descriptive typologies often implicitly involve normative arguments, without this fact being made explicit by the persons using the typology.3 3

Typologies function both as descriptive models to illuminate the past and as prescriptions about how to conceive of the contemporary options confronting Christians. I have shown elsewhere how Troeltsch is not interested only in descriptive sociology (and this distinguishes his use of typology from Max Weber’s). His historical and sociological analysis is also intended to help solve the normative problem in the modern world. Troeltsch hopes to draw conclusions about what “ought to be” from his description of what is happening in history (See my dissertation, “The Relationship Between Ernst Troeltsch’s Theory of Religion and His Typology of

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4. Typologies necessarily highlight the “essential” or central characteristics of a position. While this highlighting involves a tentative historical judgment subject to change, typologies tend to take on a permanence as if the categories of opposition between positions were metaphysically or eternally grounded.4

Religious Association,” Harvard University, 1972; and my essay entitled “A Critical Analysis of Troeltsch’s Typology of Religious Association,” to appear in a collection of essays on Troeltsch published by Andrew Mellon Press.) Typologies are not value neutral, but they usually reflect the connection being made between the past and the present, what can be learned from the past to give guidance in the future. Troeltsch’s Social Teachings, while a description of options in church history, is also implicitly an argument for the church type. H. R. Niebuhr’s Christ and Culture is not a neutral description of five types but is implicitly an argument why the fifth type, Christ the transformer of culture, is more adequate than other types. In this sense the typology serves to describe that history with which the historian identifies and which he believes should be sustained and that type which is flawed in the past and should be rejected in the present. The weight of these typologies continues, thus, to shape the logic of ethical debate in the present. 4 Typologies are imaginative constructions by the modern historian which seek to illuminate the past by highlighting the options available to the actors. This means that these constructions are subject to revision, for they do not exist in immediately obvious form in the documents themselves. The modern historian must make a judgment about what the central categories are which distinguish a position. The historian also must judge which documents to select as “typifying” a particular position. For example, Johnson selects the Anabaptist Schleitheim Confession of Faith as typifying sectarian pacifism, a position which reinforces the Troeltschian characterization of the sect-​t ype as withdrawal from the world. I am quite convinced, for example, that the portrayal of the sixteenth-​century pacifist ethic of the Anabaptists as withdrawal from the world is fundamentally mistaken. Though I cannot engage in that historical analysis here, a fully developed position would draw upon modern historiography, which has recognized that the Anabaptist movement is diverse with respect to political involvement and that Schleitheim is only one option among several and does not describe the essence of the movement more than others. For example, Menno Simons gave ethical admonition to magistrates. The original vision of the followers of Zwingli in Zurich involved a call for total social transformation. Withdrawal came only after persecution. Pilgrim Marpeck worked as a city engineer in Strasbourg and elsewhere and did not rule out political involvement by Christians. Some Anabaptists were clearly influenced by the general concern for social justice that was part of the peasant’s revolution of the sixteenth century. Others even tried to set up a new utopian society (i.e., Münster). Thus, when the traditional typology portrays the two positions of just war and pacifism as political involvement vs. withdrawal, the point of divergence between the two positions is fundamentally distorted, areas of commonality between the two positions are obscured, and the real differences between pacifism and just war are not illuminated. For the recent changes in historiography on the Anabaptist movement, see James Stayer, “The Anabaptists,” in Steven Ozment, ed., Reformation Europe: A Guide to Research (St. Louis: Center for

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In this essay I will explore the fruitfulness of a methodology which seeks to identify commonly shared views between the two traditions of pacifism and just war. I will focus upon the ethical category of “peacemaking” as a central concept in both pacifist and just-​war traditions to illuminate the convergence or significant shared commonality between the two traditions.5 Both traditions share the deep concern about the potential threat of nuclear war to life as we know it. That concern alone has not brought about a significant change in the way just-​war advocates and pacifists think theologically and ethically about war and peace. What that concern has done, however, is to shift the central question from whether or under what conditions the use of lethal force is legitimate to the question of how one prevents conflicts from breaking out and how peace can be made between parties in conflict with each other. Using just-​ war categories of thinking, many have concluded that a nuclear war cannot be justified under any circumstances. Francis X. Meehan’s commentary upon the U.S. Catholic bishops’ pastoral letter The Challenge of Peace is typical of this reasoning: The Church is moving and, I believe, must move to such a realistic evaluation of modern war that for all practical purposes it will become a Church of nonviolence.… Thus, the just-​war principles themselves, especially those of discriminancy and proportion, if we look at them closely and concretely, may help us to move to the necessity of a total rejection of war, and thus to a moral posture of nonviolence.6

The reasoning moves out of the categories of just-​war thinking, but arrives at a position of practical pacifism that requires that the church’s thinking be redirected to how to prevent war and make peace and away from the predominant question of the previous centuries: Under what conditions is war justified? Reformation Research, 1982), 135–​160; and Abraham Friesen, “Social Revolution or Religious Reform? Some Salient Aspects of Anabaptist Historiography,” in Hans-​ Jurgen Goertz, ed., Umstrittenes Taufertum 1525–​1975 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1975). 5 Richard Mouw, for example after describing areas where pacifists and just-​ war defenders disagree, goes on to identify peacemaking and the development of a peace theology as areas of common commitment shared by pacifists and just-​war theorists. Mouw, “Christianity and Pacifism,” Faith and Philosophy 2, no. 2 (April 1985), 105–​11. 6 Francis X. Meehan, “Nonviolence and the Bishops’ Pastoral: A Case for the Development of Doctrine,” in The Catholic Bishops and Nuclear War, ed. Judith A Dwyer (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 1984).

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Here some might object that the just-​war criterion of right intention has always had the pursuit of peace as its objective. That criterion, however, has been submerged in the tradition within the framework of the dominant question of the conditions under which war may be justified. The new emphasis turns the question upon its head: How can peace be made without resort to war? The new situation focuses our attention on the nonviolent means of conflict resolution, rather than directing our primary attention to the careful ethical discrimination which would justify the resort to war. A shift in thinking has also occurred among pacifists that has led toward identification with some of the concerns that have been central in the just-​ war tradition. However, before I can identify those changes, I need to clarify which kind of pacifism I am talking about. One of the reasons for confusion in the current debate about war and peace is that persons are using the traditional categories of just war and pacifism without being clear how these terms are understood. I think the confusion is due particularly to the fact that very different understandings of pacifism are being used. Thus, a discussion of commonalities or convergences between the two traditions cannot proceed without a definition of pacifism that I will be comparing with the just-​war tradition. In his book Nevertheless John Howard Yoder has identified over twenty different types of pacifism. For purposes of this essay, I will analyze the relationship between just-​war theory and one type of pacifism that I will label “evangelical pacifism.” Though there are clearly other kinds of pacifism, I think it justified to select this type because it comes from a relatively coherent intellectual tradition currently focused on the writings of a number of persons within the academic community and the Society of Christian Ethics, the major professional society of Christian theological ethicists in North America. I refer to the work of Yoder, Stanley Hauerwas, Dale Brown, Ronald Sider, and others. I would place my own book Christian Peacemaking and International Conflict within this same tradition. I think these same emphases are found in groups like the Sojourner Community, or in the New Call to Peacemaking of the Historic Peace Churches. Evangelical pacifism has the following central characteristics: It draws its fundamental definition from the Bible. This essentially means that the biblical concept of shalom (wholeness in all spheres of life) serves as an integrating concept both to describe God’s redemptive activity in history and to describe the witness and mission of the church. Jesus Christ serves as the fundamental norm both for reflecting the nature of God and God’s activity in history and for providing the model or norm for what it means to be fully human.

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Peacemaking is not an isolated or optional part of the Christian Gospel but is integral and central to Christian theological understanding. The meaning of history for the Christian finds its locus in a new society—​ the church. Evangelical pacifism views the church as the primary locus where the reality of peacemaking must first of all find expression. The evangelical pacifist acknowledges a fundamental tension between the church, which seeks to embody the kingdom ethic of peacemaking in its life and practice, and the institutional structures of society, which are shaped primarily by the “realistic,” by what is possible in a sinful world. Nevertheless, the evangelical pacifist rejects withdrawal from the world. The church, both corporately and through individuals, is active in the world in giving witness to the possibility of shalom. It works actively to see shalom more adequately embodied in human social, political, and economic structures. This specifically means that the church is active in seeking to bring about justice for human social institutions and seeking to bring about nonviolent means of achieving justice both through the more normal processes of political and legal methods of nonviolent conflict resolution and through participating in the waging of nonviolent struggles for social change (in the Gandhi and Martin Luther King traditions). The activity of the church is carried out in the world in a broad arena of activity, such as helping give shape to the ethos of society, demonstrating justice and nonviolence through example, serving by organizing institutions to meet human need, seeking to influence and shape public policy, and working through vocations in public settings to foster shalom in all spheres of life. While continuing to reason from a tradition of evangelical pacifism, persons within this stream of thought have begun to shift their attention from almost exclusive preoccupation with the theological basis for pacifism and its resultant ethical claim, the rejection of all violence, to concern with the question, how can justice be done and peacemaking be accomplished in a sinful world so that violence can be prevented? As in the case with just-​war thinking, the central question is not whether violence is ever justified, but how peace can be preserved and how peace can be made when there is injustice and violence. To put it another way, the negative preoccupation of both just war and pacifism, whether violence can be justified, has shifted to a positive moral obligation, how peace can be made and preserved. The Methodist bishops in their statement In Defense of Creation have sought to go beyond the pacifism—​just-​war debate by elaborating on areas where the two traditions converge, or where new issues and new approaches to the problems of war and peace simply transcend the traditional categories

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of debate. The Methodist bishops state this directly at several points in their document: We believe the nuclear crisis poses fundamental questions of faith that neither the pacifist nor the just-​war traditions have adequately addressed. We invite pacifists and non-​pacifists among our people not only to recapture their common ground, such as their moral presumption against all war and violence, but to undertake together a fresh inquiry into those transcendent issues that stretch far beyond private conscience and relational calculation.… In the roundedness of shalom, a just-​war ethic is never enough. Our churches must nurture a new theology for a just peace. Over the centuries three classical positions developed among Christian thinkers and church bodies: pacifism, “just-​war” doctrine, and the crusade. While this threefold division never fully reflected the diversity of Christian views, it is particularly outmoded and inadequate for clarifying the ethical dilemmas of the nuclear arms race. We confess that the churches’ response to primal nuclear issues over the past four decades has been fitful and feeble. At the same time, we recognize that some theologians in the first years after Hiroshima, and again in the 1980’s, have earnestly sought to address these primal issues. Typically, they have drawn on pacifist and just-​war traditions in their efforts. We are equally troubled by the inadequate response of churches and theologians to the consequent nuclear issues. There consequent issues stretch farthest beyond the classical war-​peace debate. They cut most sharply into the systemic fabric of our cultural and institutional life. They make most clear that the nuclear crisis is an issue of social justice as well as world peace. And they make the wholeness of the shalom vision most imperative for our time. As most denominations and ecumenical bodies have become freshly engaged in the nuclear debate since 1980, the classical threefold typology (pacifist/​just-​war/​crusade) has proved increasingly inadequate to contain the burgeoning variety of ethical positions. 7

These statements suggest that the bishops are groping for a way to describe an emerging paradigm. In the above statements and throughout their document they are making several claims that can be shared in both just war and pacifism: (1) the moral presumption against all war and violence; (2) the idolatry of embracing nuclear weapons systems as a basis for ultimate security; (3) the threat to social justice by the waste of so many human intellectual and economic resources on the arms race; and (4) the need to make peace through a reciprocal process of gradual disarmament, the only lasting basis for security.

7

United Methodist Council of Bishops, In Defense of Creation: The Nuclear Crises and a Just Peace (Nashville: TN: Graded Press, 1986).

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In developing a statement that goes beyond pacifism and just war, however, the Methodist bishops have created a position that at times seems incoherent and confused. Methodist theologians Paul Ramsey and Stanley Hauerwas have pointed out this confusion. Despite this claim of the Methodist bishops to transcend the pacifist-​just-​war debate, Hauerwas argues that the bishops have obscured basic differences between the two traditions and that this has led to confusion in the document. I believe the bishops have not shown us that the issue of nuclear war requires the church to develop a position beyond just war or pacifism. Indeed, I think they would have helped us be more faithful as Christians if they had challenged the church to think through both the common commitments and differences between the just war perspective and the pacifist.8

What the bishops failed to do was to address the church unambiguously, helping to clarify the theological foundations of Christian peacemaking. In some respects, the document does reflect a theological orientation rooted in the Scriptures and addressed to the church. They appeal to the authority of scriptural teaching, which leads them to the view that war is incompatible with the teachings and example of Christ. In several places in the document the bishops call for the church to be an alternative community. But instead of following this direction, the bishops have developed a position that is shaped primarily by a secular philosophy, the urgency to avoid nuclear destruction. The consequence of this starting point is confusion about to whom the pastoral letter is addressed. Because the bishops address governments who hold in their hands the power to destroy the earth, they cannot simply affirm pacifism. That would undermine the very existence of government, insofar as government rests on the availability of the sword to protect good and punish evil. The bishops’ ambivalence is also reflected in how they treat the issue of deterrence. Deterrence is contrary to pacifism, yet it cannot simply be abandoned, because governments must work toward disarmament through a reciprocal process over time. Thus, deterrence is wrong from a Christian point of view because of its threat to genuine security, yet it cannot be abandoned by governments in the short run. Also, because the bishops seem to want to allow for the possibility of violence in liberation movements, they cannot affirm pacifism wholeheartedly. The ambivalence about audience is above all reflected in their quotation from their Social Principles statement:

8

Stanley Hauerwas, “A Pacifist Response to In Defense of Creation,” Asbury Theological Journal 41, no. 2 (Fall 1986):14.

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We believe war is incompatible with the teachings and example of Christ. We therefore reject war as an instrument of national foreign policy and insist that the first moral duty of all nations is to resolve by peaceful means every dispute that arises between or among them.9

The first statement about the authority of Jesus Christ for the church is joined with a “therefore” that directs how nations are to behave in foreign policy. So, the bishops cannot quite affirm pacifism. Yet simply to adopt the just-​war position would not describe the new direction in which they want to go. Though the Methodist statement is incoherent and confused, nevertheless I believe the bishops are searching for a direction that does move toward a convergence of pacifist and just-​war thinking in some important respects. One can also observe in the Catholic bishops’ statement an effort to draw upon insights from both pacifist and just-​war traditions, although interpreters of their statement do not agree in what sense there has been a real movement beyond traditional categories. Daryl Schmidt argues that the pacifist content of the bishops’ scriptural exegesis is not operative at the level of moral theory in the document as a whole, where just-​war categories dominate.10 The bishops seem to want a position that recognizes the validity of both a pacifist and a just-​war position for Christians. However, this is possible by declaring that the church’s corporate position is just war, whereas pacifism is an appropriate position only for individual Christians within the church. David Hollenbach believes that the pastoral letter’s statement of the complementary relationship of pacifism and just war (par. 74) is a genuinely new element in Catholic teaching. The pastoral’s position on the complementarity of the just-​war ethic and ethic of non-​v iolence had not been affirmed previously in these explicit terms in the conciliar and papal teaching since World War II. The United States bishops are aware that they are breaking new ground in affirming this interdependence of just-​war and pacifist perspectives in the contemporary situation. The impetus for such development comes from the conditions of the “new movement” in which we are located –​a moment characterized by the massive destructive potential of nuclear weapons and by the new public perception of the dangers of these weapons.11

9 In Defense of Creation, 26–​27. 10 Daryl Schmidt, “The Biblical Hermeneutics on Peacemaking in the Bishops’ Pastoral,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 16, no. 2 (April 1986): 46–​55. 11 David Hollenbach, “The Challenge of Peace in the Context of Recent Church Teachings,” in Catholics and Nuclear War: A Commentary on “The Challenge of Peace”, ed. Philip J. Murnion (New York: Crossroad, 1983): 6–​7.

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That something genuinely new has emerged here is reflected by a critic of the pastoral letter. In his recent book Tranquillitas Ordinis, George Weigel argues that the bishops have abandoned the classic heritage. One part of the abandonment is “the letter’s confusion on the compatibility of the just-​war and pacifist traditions …. The pastoral letter’s argument that just-​war theory and pacifism were interdependent methods of evaluating warfare is, to put it plainly, false …. The confusion of these two positions leads to the corruption of both.”12 Weigel defines the difference at the level of moral theory this way: the pacifist opposes all use of armed force, whereas the just-​war theorist allows the proportionate and discriminate use of force in carefully defined circumstances. Weigel, however, goes on to say that while the two positions are not reconcilable at the level of moral theory, the letter does not sufficiently illuminate possibilities of practical cooperation, for “there is no reason why pacifists and just-​war theorists cannot work together in the practical order on building international political community sufficiently to sustain legal and political means of resolving conflict.”13 What is going on? Are pacifist and just-​war thinking converging? We have seen that both Protestant and Catholic scholars do not agree. Are the statements of the Methodist and Catholic bishops simply confused and lacking coherence, or are the critics so bound up with traditional categories of analysis focusing upon areas of disagreement that they have failed to sufficiently note possible areas of commonality? One of the major areas of confusion regards what kind of pacifism is being compared with just war. Given the description of evangelical pacifism outlined earlier, many of the traditional polarities distinguishing just war and pacifism are simply inappropriate. Some of these traditional ways in which pacifism and just war have been distinguished are the following. Peace vs. justice Utopianism vs. realism Perfectionism vs. realism Withdrawal vs. political involvement Ideal vs. the real Christ vs. culture Otherworldly apocalyptic vs. theology of culture What can we say about these traditional oppositions?

12 George Weigel, Tranquillitas Ordinis: The Present Failure and Future Promise of American Catholic Thought on War and Peace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987): 283. 13 Ibid.

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Peace and justice are not opposites. Rather, evangelical pacifism is an ethic concerned with and actively involved in working for justice as well as peace. Some thinkers, like Richard Mouw, would argue that there is ultimately a tension between pacifism and just war relating to peace and justice. The ongoing debates between Christian pacifists and just war theorists can be viewed as an important argument over how we should deal with this experienced tension, with one side arguing that in the present dispensation the primary emphasis must be placed on a consistently non-​v iolent witness to the promise of peace, and the other side insisting that the doing of justice requires us on occasion to commit acts of violence.14

He believes that only in the Reign of Christ can and will peace and justice unite. I remain unconvinced by the argument that this distinguishes pacifism and just-​war theory, for three reasons. First, the tension between peace and justice exists within both just war and pacifism, not between them. One should seek justice according to just-​ war theory, but one may not do that if the means used to bring about justice violate other standards like noncombatant immunity, proportionality, or reasonable chance of success. Thus, justice does not always take precedence over peace, but there is a tension between them. Similarly, pacifist believe strongly in working for justice, but not if that violates certain standards like restraints against violence to bring about justice. Second, both positions also believe strongly in the interconnections between peace and justice. Without justice there cannot be a stable peace, though the existence of justice is often not a necessary condition for avoiding war. Just-​war theorists tend to emphasize this side of the equation. The other side of the equation is that without peace, justice is unobtainable. Pacifists, such as Kenneth Boulding, tend to emphasize this side of the equation: Justice is most easily increased when there is a strong sense of community, when the “integrative systems,” as I have called them, are visible and strong. People then feel bonds of fellowship and empathy with others, and the poverty of the poor is seen as a disgrace by the rich. Another important condition for the increase in justice is that the political structure should have a minimum degree of competence, defined as the ability not only to want the right things but to know what has to be done to get them. War, whether international or internal, tends to destroy these preconditions of the dynamics of increasing justice. It creates enemies, it destroys the larger sense of community, it destroys the sense of common humanity. In order to justify our own violence, we have to deny humanity to its victims. There is a fair amount of evidence that the most just societies that we see around the world 14 Mouw, “Christianity and Pacifism,” 105.

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Duane F r iesen that are accepted by their citizens as reasonably just without strong dissent, are those that have been created by the slow growth of the sense of community, that on the whole have abjured violence, that have believed in buying people off rather than knocking them down, and that have had reasonably competent government.15

Third and finally, at the theological level, it is because peace and justice are united in the Reign of God that they are united in the church’s work in the world. The church is a community which trusts in God’s kingdom as the ultimate reality governing its life in the world. As such, the church lives by its commitment to Jesus Christ, who brought healing (justice) to the world nonviolently. Evangelical pacifism is realistic about the sinful structures of the world and also about the problem of sin within the church (thus the concern for repentance and discipline in the church). The dichotomy between realism and utopianism, or perfectionism, is not fundamentally at issue between the two positions. Evangelical pacifism is also profoundly active in the world. The labels of withdrawal, Christ vs. culture, or an otherworldly apocalypticism are simply not applicable. Thus, it is not surprising to find the recognition by the Catholic and Methodist bishops of a certain convergence between pacifism and just war, a movement beyond the categories that have traditionally defined the difference between the two positions. However, I think the key factor in this convergence is the influence of a common biblical theology of shalom, which has had a profound effect upon both just-​war and pacifist traditions. One cannot help but be struck by the agreement among the Methodist bishops, Catholic bishops, and evangelical pacifists about the meaning and centrality of shalom in the Bible. Here I would give much more credit to the Methodist bishops than does Stanley

15 Boulding goes on to cite evidence for his position: “It was not Oliver Cromwell but the ‘Glorious Revolution’ of 1688, in which not a shot was fired, which set Britain off on a path to greater riches and justice. The Meiji Restoration in Japan in 1868 was rather similar. Australia and Canada internally are much more peaceable and relaxed societies than the United States. Neither of them had a revolution or civil war, although their tie-​in with the British Empire involved them in some very traumatic foreign wars, such as World War I and II, from which the independence of the Unites States did not save it either. The French Revolution produced Napoleon, Oliver Cromwell produced the tragedy of Ireland, the Russian Revolution produced Stalin. There may be exceptions to this rule, but they are hard to find. The appeal to justice is often disguised self-​justification. A just war is one that is easily justified, no matter what the evidence to the contrary.” Kenneth Boulding, “Peace, Justice, Freedom, and Competence,” Zygon 21, no. 4 (December 1986): 526–​27.

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Hauerwas. This common emphasis upon shalom has given shape to the following common emphases in both the just-​war and pacifist traditions.



1. The centrality of justice to the shalom vision. 2. The linkage of shalom to God’s redemptive activity in history. Shalom is integral to Christian theology. 3. The emphasis upon and preference for nonviolent means for seeking justice and resolving conflict. 4. The centrality of the church in giving witness to and embodying shalom. Though the Methodist bishops do not spell out the implications of their position, they refer on several occasions to the necessity of an alternative community to live out and give witness to the shalom vision. 5. The recognition of sin as it is expressed in nationalism, the idolatry involved in the trust in military power and weapons systems to provide security, and the violation of justice in the use of scarce human resources for an arms race that inevitably robs the poor.

At a more practical level there is common agreement:



1. Nuclear weapons must never be used. 2. Criticism of deterrence grows, though the Catholic and Methodist bishops and evangelical pacifists do not agree about whether deterrence may still be a short-​r un necessity. 3. Interest grows in the development of strategies and techniques of nonviolent conflict resolution, and in the development of international structures that can provide a peaceful alternative to solving conflict with arms. 4. The development of particular types of weapons systems is dangerous because of the increased insecurity and the increased danger of nuclear war they are likely to bring.

This list of commonalities between the two positions is not exhaustive, but it is sufficient to point out very significant convergences. Convergence does not mean agreement. But having focused our thinking more clearly upon areas of convergence, we can more accurately identify the real issues still at stake in the debate. George Weigel, referring to an article by James Finn, argues that pacifism and just war are fundamentally incompatible at the level of moral theory: “The principled pacifist opposes all resort to armed force; the just-​war

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theorist allows the proportionate and discriminate use of armed force in carefully defined circumstances.”16 While this is true, I do not believe this point identifies the fundamental tension between pacifism and just war. It seems to me that the tension between the two positions is rooted in a basic theological polarity characteristic of the Christian faith and thus is a polarity that all Christians must struggle with. This is the tension between the kingdom of God—​God’s rule and sovereignty over the entire creation, which in some sense has “already” come—​and the reality of a sinful world “not yet” transformed into the kingdom of God. The tension between the “already” and the “not yet” must be struggled with by every Christian, by every theological position. Pacifism tends to emphasize the “already” side of the polarity. It urges that Christians within an alternative community live out the new reality of God’s peace and seek to give witness to that new reality in a sinful world. Just war tends to emphasize the “not yet” side of the polarity. It recognized the need for force in a world of sin where God’s kingdom has not been fully realized. But each must recognize the truth of the other: pacifism the reality of sin, just war the reality of God’s kingdom which has broken into history in Jesus Christ. Thus, the underlying truth of the two positions is a polarity that both recognize. In this sense pacifism and just war represent “complementary” truths in the Christian church, rather than positions that are necessarily opposites. Perhaps an analogy to the analysis of light in physics can illumine this issue. From one perspective light appears as a wave, from another as a particle. Ian Barbour describes the principle of complementary this way: Most physicists … would probably subscribe to (Niels) Bohr’s advice: retain both wave and particle models but recognize their limitations. “A complete elucidation of one and the same object,” Bohr writes, “may require diverse points of view which defy a unique description” (Niels Bohr, Atomic Theory and the Description of Nature, p. 96). A duality of representation is required, since differing aspects of the structure of events are interpretable by differing models, each of which is incomplete and applicable only to certain experimental situations.17

Barbour’s description recognizes two realities that apply to the pacifist—​ just-​war debate. Both must recognize their limitations, and each is required—​ or, more accurately, both together are required—​to interpret reality. It is the

16 Weigel, Op. Cit., 283. 17 Ian G. Barbour, Issues in Science and Religion (New York: Harper and Row, 1966): 290–​91.

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differing theological emphasis in the “already” and “not yet” polarity that leads to differences at the level of moral theory. The fundamental tension is also expressed in two different interpretations of history.18 We have two different visions of the future. One of these visions believes that our life in this world (i.e., the peace in the earthly city) is secured through the nation-​state. From the point of view of the nation-​state, war always remains a possibility. Thus, the Catholic bishops hold that defense of the nation-​state justifies the use of armed force. In a world of sin, nations must have the right to defend themselves against unjust attack, and thus war must always be a possibility. The evangelical pacifist trusts ultimately that the kingdom of God is present in Jesus Christ and is above all embodied in the earthly city in the new community—​the church. Christian pacifism views history from the standpoint of God’s kingdom, which has already broken into history in Jesus Christ, and which has made possible a reconciliation and peace between people who are normally hostile to each other. The church is called to live out this history within the present reality. Thus, the difference between the two positions ultimately involves a tension between how one understands the “already” represented by the church and the “not yet” represented by the state.19 I think it highly significant that the Catholic bishops use the language of a “complementary relationship” between pacifism and just war.20 I was thus pleased to discover that Francis X. Meehan, in interpreting the bishops’ statement, had arrived at a point of view similar to my own—​t he complementarity of just war and pacifism: 18 Hauerwas, Against the Nations, 195. 19 This difference in emphasis is illustrated by Mouw, who begins his explanation of why he is not a pacifist by emphasizing the role of government when it comes to the maintenance of peace in the world: “Many are not pacifists. We believe that governments have been invested by God with the legitimate authority to use the sword in both the internal policing of the affairs of nations and in the defense of nations against external enemies. We also believe that there are circumstances in which citizens are justified in wielding the sword against their own governments, when those governments have become agents of systematic oppression. Furthermore, we believe that it is permissible—​perhaps even obligatory on occasion—​for Christian citizens to participate in these violent activities.” Mouw, “Christianity and Pacifism,” 105. Though Mouw does not refer here to Romans 13, I suspect further debate would turn to the interpretation of that passage. The evangelical pacifist would claim that the perspective Paul is writing is that of an advisor to the church: advising Christians to live nonviolently (ch. 12) but nevertheless to have proper respect for the semblance of order sin the world provided by the state. 20 National Conference of Catholic Bishops, The Challenge of Peace: God’s Promise and Our Response (Washington, DC: United States Catholic Conference, 1983).

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Duane F r iesen Our protest against the increasing militarization must be sustained and vigorous, must pervade the whole church, its structures, and its grass-​roots organizations. This can happen only when there is some pull from an eschatological kingdom, some sense of grace, some awareness that force is an element of concupiscence which stems from sin, and which therefore must be moderated, diminished, progressively abolished. This kind of theological rooting of just-​ war teaching will put us in sympathetic dialogue with the pacifist who insists on total nonviolence. No longer will we see them in opposition, but rather only in tension …. Once we put just-​war teaching in the context of a theology of sin and grace, we see how a new doctrine can develop in continuity with the old, and how there can be a progressive movement in the Church toward nonviolence, and finally how the two are not dichotomous but “complementary” realities.21

Similarly, from the point of view of evangelical pacifism we can see a movement to recognize the issues raised by the just-​war perspective. I refer here to my own position in Christian Peacemaking and International Conflict, a position that I believe is representative of the development of thinking in a number of evangelical pacifists. [Christian] peacemaking must be extended to work for those overall conditions of society and the physical environment which can lead to a full and holistic human development for all persons …. In order for Christians to relate their theological perspective effectively to the human situation, they must be able to translate the theological-​ethical norms that are meaningful within the community of faith into principles that are applicable to the political order. This translation process is necessary in order to bridge two gaps: the gap between the more particular community of faith and the larger political community, and the gap between the church and political institutions. Some would argue that there is a necessary conflict between political institutions and the church because the essence of politics is the “sword,” i.e., the ultimate sanction is violent force. Though violent force is present in political institutions, political institutions cannot be reduced to this definition, as if violent force were necessary for political institutions to remain political. The essential purpose of political institutions is cooperation for the sake of the common good. Coercive violence is often not operative. We tend to exaggerate its importance.22

Because the Christian pacifist starts from the point of view that it is possible within history to trust in the reality of the kingdom of God, he or she believes that God’s work in the world is most effective in the community of peace and nonviolence, not in the nation-​state where a resort to armed force is a constant possibility. As a public citizen, the Christian pacifist contributes to the well-​being of the society by working toward the achievement of 21 Meehan, “Nonviolence,” 100. 22 Duane K. Friesen, Christian Peacemaking and International Conflict: A Realist Perspective (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1985), 105.

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justice through nonviolent means of change. The Christian pacifist is actively involved in the world to help develop an alternative to war and establish alternative systems of dispute settlement. Though the vision must be balanced with an awareness that is realistic about the tragic situations in which nations are caught, the institution of warfare is not seen as inevitable, because the evangelical pacifist operates also from the perspective of an eschatology which sees the triumph of the Lamb as the dominant power in history. Nevertheless, evangelical pacifists might relate to a world where the sword is operative. I will choose one very complex and tough issue to illustrate the method the evangelical pacifist must use to make the transition from the church to the political realm. The question of how the Soviet Union and the United States can extricate themselves from the instability of deterrence is an appropriate issue for intellectual analysis and practical action by the evangelical pacifist. Both the Methodist and the Catholic bishops also seek to address this problem realistically.23 That they seek to do so is not at issue for the evangelical pacifist. Insofar as the evangelical pacifist also seeks to address the well-​being of society as a whole, he or she can agree with the recognition by the Methodist and Catholic bishops that the movement away from deterrence must be a step-​by-​step process. The evangelical pacifist too must imaginatively translate the shalom vision into realistic alternatives that can lead toward shalom within the political order. In fact, the evangelical pacifist can even appropriately employ just-​war categories as a set of middle axioms 23 A realist is one who understands the world the way it is. Boulding puts it this way: “Realism is some kind of more or less accurate mapping between the image of the world in the decision maker’s head and the real world that lies in and around it. Competence, therefore, always involves a learning process by which experience leads to a diminution in error. Error has two aspects: there may be error in the image of the environment around us—​we may believe things about the world that are not true—​ or there may be error in the evaluation system by which we evaluate alternative futures leading us into decision which we or others eventually regret.” Boulding, “Peace, Justice, Freedom, and Competence,” 531. Realism should be common to both traditions. Both pacifist and just-​war theorists are constantly testing each other in terms of the “realism” of each other’s position. Just-​war theorists often exaggerate the place of war and romanticize its positive effects. Pacifists tend to overlook the prevalence of violence and the difficulties of achieving justice nonviolently. I cannot here discuss the complex issues surrounding deterrence, but I chose this issue because it is one of the most difficult and complex issues of political judgment and thus can illustrate the method by which a Christian pacifist relates Christian ethics to politics. See the realism brought to bear on this issue by Alan Geyer, The Idea of Disarmament! (Elgin, IL: Brethren Press, 1982), 27–​59; and also the helpful analysis of the moral arguments in and around the Catholic bishops’ statement by David Hollenbach, S.J., Nuclear Ethics: A Christian Moral Argument (NY: Paulist Press, 1983), 63–​85.

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to judge the behavior of nations when they are unable or unwilling to abandon trust in armed force as the way to peace. Within the political realm, the Christian pacifist can cooperate with the just-​war advocate calling for nations to abide by standards of just war. That both the Catholic and the Methodist bishops cannot accept deterrence in the long run is their implicit recognition of the centrality of the church and its shalom vision. It is ultimately unacceptable for Christians to threaten to do violence against others in order to deter them from violence. Christians cannot simultaneously proclaim the good news of the Gospel and threaten their Soviet brothers and sisters with nuclear war. The Catholic bishops have recognized this contradiction both at the level of shalom and at the level of just-​war theory. At the level of just-​war theory, one cannot simultaneously forbid all use of nuclear weapons and have a credible deterrent, where one’s opponent believes that one intends to use the weapons. In connection with their critique of deterrence the Methodist bishops have also called for the church to stand as an alternative community in the world. The problem for evangelical pacifists, and the Methodist and Catholic bishops, is how to preserve the integrity of the church and at the same time speak realistically to the political realm. As an address to the church, the evangelical pacifists and just-​war advocates appropriately call for an alternative community, for an alternative to the violent and unstable ethic of mutually assured destruction. As an address to the political community, the documents appropriately call for the realistic step-​by-​step process of movement away from deterrence. The problem for both pacifism and the just-​war position is to avoid confusion about which audience one is addressing. From the point of view of the “already” realized kingdom, an alternative way of peace is possible in an alternative community—​t he church. Once we are clear about the possibility, we can address the “not yet,” the issue of war and peace at the political level. At the political level, from the perspective of the church’s shalom vision, the church can then appropriately assess and give support to those specific government policies that move in a direction that will eventually make deterrence obsolete. Within this sphere, a step-​by-​step process must be imagined and acted upon. We can say that there are differences and crucial issues distinguishing just war and pacifism, though these tensions or polarities are not adequately identified by traditional typologies. One way we can treat these differences is simply to accept the fact that there are differences among Christians, that no one position can contain the whole truth, and that each needs the other to correct its own inadequacies. This perspective has, at its best, recognized that truth is greater than any one of the particular positions. On the negative side, this

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kind of thinking has led to a type of relativism, where the agreement to accept diversity has led to a lack of engagement about the truth claims of differing traditions, and a lack of real encounter at the level of theological and moral argument. The areas of convergence and commonality between the two positions suggest, however, a much more important fact. Christians do share a common identity shaped by the memory of Jesus Christ and embodied in the one holy Catholic Church. The common norm of Christian peacemaking is increasingly leading to areas of convergence and agreement between the just-​ war and pacifist traditions. This suggests that we go beyond our traditional propensity simply to agree to differ, that we continue to search for and find in each other that common truth which we have in Jesus Christ.

Epilogue October 2020 “The Convergence of Pacifism and Just War” (Title: “Peacemaking as an Ethical Category: The Convergence of Pacifism and Just War”) was first published in Ethics in the Nuclear Age: Strategy, Religious Studies, and the Churches edited by Todd Whitmore (Southern Methodist University Press, 1989). The nine essays were the outgrowth of a two-​year seminar, Colloquium on Religion and World Affairs at the Divinity School, University of Chicago. The conversation was generated by the 1983 U.S. Catholic Bishops Pastoral Letter, The Challenge of Peace, the ethical incoherence of deterrence strategy (mutually assured destruction) and principles of a just war: namely noncombatant immunity from intentional, indiscriminate direct attack and proportionality, the waging of “total war” that would destroy the very civilization a just war is attempting to preserve. In 2020, thirty-​one years later, the ethical incoherence remains: on the one hand, the belief that deterrence works only if adversaries believe that nuclear weapons will be used, and on the other hand, the moral conviction that the deployment of weapons of mass destruction should never be used. One might use the “Doomsday Clock” of the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists24 as a metaphor for how the world has been doing in reducing the 24 The Doomsday Clock is a symbol that represents the likelihood of a man-​made global catastrophe. Maintained since 1947 by the members of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists (founded in 1945 by the University of Chicago scientists who had helped develop the first atomic weapons in the Manhattan Project), the Clock is a metaphor for threats to humanity from unchecked scientific and technical advances. Each year the Bulletin’s Science and Security Board in consultation with its Board of Sponsors,

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threat of nuclear war in the last 30+​years. In January 1984, the hands of the clock were at an ominous three minutes before midnight. In 1988 when I was writing the essay, the scientists stated: “Recent events—​t he U.S.-​Soviet treaty to eliminate intermediate-​range nuclear forces (INF), the improvement in superpower relations, and the increase in international and non-​governmental efforts to reverse the arms race—​demonstrate that the world’s dangerous course can be changed. In recognition of these developments, we now turn the clock back to six minutes to midnight.”25 In 1991 with the demise of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War, the clock was moved back to seventeen minutes to midnight, the most hopeful the scientists have ever been since the invention of nuclear weapons. In the last decade the hands of the clock have moved in an alarming direction. In 2020 the hands are at “one hundred seconds to midnight,” not this close to midnight since 1953 with the detonation by the United States of a Hydrogen Bomb on the Eniwetok Atoll in the Marshall Islands on November 1, 1952.26 In their January 23, 2020 address to “Leaders and Citizens of the World” the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists sound the alarm: Humanity continues to face two simultaneous existential dangers—​ nuclear war and climate change—​that are compounded by a threat multiplier, cyber-​ enabled information warfare, that undercuts society’s ability to respond. The international security situation is dire, not just because these threats exist, but because world leaders have allowed the international political infrastructure for managing them to erode.27

We need to listen! The atomic scientists are contemporary prophets. What does the Gospel of Mark’s clarion call mean for the world, the church, for Anabaptist Mennonites in our context: “The time is fulfilled, and the Kingdom of God has come near, repent and believe in the good news.” (Mark 1:15) This is the good news from which we derive the word “evangelical.” We cannot allow that good word to be co-​opted by the religious right, by which includes (in 2020) 13 Nobel laureates, decides whether to move or leave in place the minute hand in the light of the world’s vulnerability to catastrophe from nuclear weapons, climate change, and new technologies emerging in other domains (Sources: Wikipedia; Bulletin of Atomic Scientists, Editor’s note, January 2020). 25 “From the Editors, Six Minutes to Midnight,” Bulletin of Atomic Scientists, January (1988): 3. 26 “Physical scientists have now found means which, if they are developed, can wipe life off the surface of this planet.” John Foster Dulles, Secretary of State, address before the United Nations September 17, 1953. 27 “It is 100 seconds to midnight” 2020 Doomsday Clock Statement, Science and Security Board, Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, ed., John Mecklin.

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some who court outright apostasy by aligning themselves with nationalism and white supremacy. What “time” is it? We can view time as “chronos,” chronologically, quantitatively, as in: we do not have much time left; the time is short; the end is near, the world is going to blow up. Or, we can see time qualitatively as “kairos,” filled with meaning, full of possibility. Catherine Keller reminds us of Paul Tillich’s eventive moment of “kairos” in the context of “religious socialism,” the breakthrough into, not out of, concrete history. “Kairos” is “gathered together” “contracted time,” “filled full” or as biblical scholar L. L. Welborn puts it, “the kairos arrests and suspends chronos.”28 The eschatological language of my 1989 essay can be misleading: “The evangelical pacifist operates from the perspective of an eschatology which sees the triumph of the Lamb as the dominant power in history.” It does not mean, as many evangelicals believe, that the Kingdom of God is off the map of ordinary history, an otherworldly salvation beyond this world, at the “end” of history. “Dominant power” in history does not mean a “deus ex machina.” a God of the gaps, who breaks into history on a white horse magically to save us (Revelation 19:11f). It does not mean, as some Anabaptists believed, that we can trust in nonviolence and accept suffering now because in the end God’s divine wrath will mete out justice on evil doers. Within the current atmosphere of doom and gloom, it is also too easy to despair and lose hope, to become unwitting participants in a self-​f ulfilling prophecy. We need another kind of eschatology, to remember stories of “kairos,” fertile moments, opportunities seized, times abundant with possibility, emerging creativity in the midst of crisis, potential for good news to break into history, healing for planet earth. Two historic kairos documents come to mind, a mix of good and discouraging news: the theological statement issued in 1985 by a group of mainly black South African theologians based predominantly in the townships of Soweto, South Africa challenging the vicious policies of the apartheid regime that contributed to the end of the apartheid regime; and the 2009 statement of the Christian Palestinian movement advocating an end to the oppressive Israeli occupation and a just solution to the conflict, yet even further away from resolution in 2020 than in 2009. Since my 1989 essay, I have had the opportunity to participate in two “kairotic” moments. In the less polarized international context after 1991, a group of ethicists/​t heologians (mostly members of the Society of Christian 28 Catherine Keller, Political Theology of the Earth: Our Planetary Emergency and the Struggle for a New Public (Columbia University Press, 2018): 2–​5.

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Ethics of both pacifist and just war traditions), international relations scholars, and peace activists began meeting for dialog on the possibility of a consensus on the meaning of peacemaking for this “kairos” moment in history. We began to ask a different question: the meaning of Jesus’ positive peacemaking teaching in the Sermon on the Mount, “blessed are the peacemakers”; no longer preoccupied with the traditional debate between pacifism and just war whether violence is justified (though we recognized this was still an important question). Over the course of about 8 years, we identified 10 practices that prevent war and violence and lead to the peaceful resolution of conflict. The breakthrough in our work together came when our conversation shifted from talking about peace as a utopian ideal to practical normative practices of peacemaking that are supported by empirical evidence.29 A second “kairos” moment grew out of the crisis of 9/​11. After 9/​11, particularly the violent reactions toward Muslims, many in the original Christian just peacemaking group became convinced that an interfaith just peacemaking model was required, particularly the enlargement to interfaith conversation among the Abrahamic religious traditions—​Jews, Muslims and Christians. Work began with a small interfaith leadership team in 2005. I joined the dialog in a conference June 13–​15, 2007, spearheaded by Susan Thistlethwaite and Glen Stassen, and sponsored by the United States Institute of Peace and The Churches’ Center for Theology and Public Policy. Again, we experienced “convergence,” as we had as Christian ethicists, when the interfaith conversation focused on the question of practices to prevent violence and make peace rather than the traditional debate whether violence is justified.30 The Jewish and Muslim contributors pointed out that we are text-​based faiths, and we need to base our peacemaking practices on our scriptures. The most creative moment occurred in the days leading up to the conference when one of the participants suggested that a person from each of the faith traditions prepare a paper in which they do three things: (1) identify passages in their own scriptures that have been used to support violence; (2) describe the ways their tradition has interpreted their scriptures in order not to rile up hatred and violence; and (3) then focus on the guidance in their scriptures for peacemaking. This created a remarkable non-​defensive spirit as we worked together. We left behind accusation and resentment toward each other to

29 Just Peacemaking: Ten Practices for Abolishing War, ed. Glen Stassen (The Pilgrim Press, 1998). Just Peacemaking: The New Paradigm for the Ethics of Peace and War, ed. Glen Stassen (The Pilgrim Press, new edition, 2008). 30 “Abrahamic Alternative to War: Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Perspective on Just Peacemaking,” United State Institute of Peace (October 2008).

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discover the myriad ways our three traditions emphasized love of God and neighbor and the practices of peacemaking.31 After more work and planning by the interfaith leadership team of two from each faith tradition, 30 religious leaders and scholars met together for a three-​day conference in January 2010 at the Pocontico Center, New York, with support from the Rockefeller Brothers Fund. The conference was structured around 10 small study/​seminar groups, each focusing on one practice of just peacemaking. One person from each tradition explained how they found support for and interpreted that practice. Plenary round table sessions fostered dialog among the 10 groups that enabled us to process the web of connections between the 10 practices. The process resulted in 30 essays, three from each faith tradition, converging around the ten practices of just peacemaking.32 The “already” of the Kingdom of God is larger than the Christian faith, than the church. The reality of God’s community forming power bursts into the world in surprising ways. History moves forward in fits and starts. Sometimes we see progress. The practices of just peacemaking are effective and empirically verifiable, yet in 2020 the world leaders are ignoring this wisdom. The civil rights movement and the 1965 Voting Rights Act are signs of progress. Yet with voter suppression, John Lewis admonished us 55 years later that we are called again to get in “good trouble, necessary trouble” for the soul of America. We witness another “kairotic” moment in the explosion and energy of the Black Lives Matter movement in response to the murder of George Floyd (and others), the “unmasking” of the systemic racism of police violence toward people of color. We humbly acknowledge that the “not yet” of the Kingdom of God is not only “out there” in the world, but also manifests itself in the alternative community, the church. Our Anabaptist Mennonite complicity in white supremacy and our treatment of the indigenous in our land calls for repentance and restorative justice. Teacher and mentor to many of us, John H. Yoder, an intellectual leader of “evangelical pacifism,” (who I cite in my article) we name for his long-​term sexual harassment and abuse of women.33 31 Interfaith Just Peacemaking: Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Perspectives on the New Paradigm of Peace and War, ed. Susan Brooks Thistlethwaite (Palgrave Mellon, 2012): 3. 32 Ibid. The book includes prefaces by Bryan Hehir (Christian, Kennedy School of Government), Reuven Kimelman (Jewish, Brandeis University), and Jamal Badavi (Muslim, St. Mary’s University, Halifax). 33 Documentation and discussion of these abuses is found at http://​menno​n ite​usa. org/​menno-​snapsh​ots/​john-​how​a rd-​yoder-​d ig​est-​rec​ent-​ articles-​about-​sexual-​ abuse-​a nd-​d iscernment-​2 and in the MAR 89, no. 1 (Jan. 2015).

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Nevertheless, even with our failures it is so important that we sustain the church as a vital alternative community. In my research and writing on the 10th practice of just peacemaking, “encouraging grassroots peacemaking groups and voluntary associations,” I conclude: Religious communities nurture a spirituality that sustains courage when just peacemaking is unpopular, hope when despair or cynicism is tempting, and a sense of grace and the possibility of forgiveness when just peacemaking fails.34

Bibliography Barbour, Ian G. Barbour. Issues in Science and Religion. New York: Harper and Row, 1966. Boulding, Kenneth. “Peace, Justice, Freedom, and Competence.” Zygon 21, no. 4 (December 1986): 519–​532. Friesen, Abraham. “Social Revolution or Religious Reform? Some Salient Aspects of Anabaptist Historiography.” In Umstrittenes Taufertum 1525–​1975, edited by Hans-​ Jurgen Goertz. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1975. Geyer, Alan Geyer. The Idea of Disarmament! Elgin, IL: Brethren Press, 1982. Hauerwas, Stanley. “A Pacifist Response to In Defense of Creation.” Asbury Theological Journal 41, no. 2 (Fall 1986): 14. Hollenbach, David, S. J. “The Challenge of Peace in the Context of Recent Church Teachings.” In Catholics and Nuclear War: A Commentary on “The Challenge of Peace.”, edited by Philip J. Murnion New York: Crossroad, 1983a. —​——​. Nuclear Ethics: A Christian Moral Argument. New York: Paulist Press, 1983b. Johnson, James Turner. The Quest for Peace: Three Moral Traditions in Western Cultural History. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987. Meehan, Francis X. “Nonviolence and the Bishops’ Pastoral: A Case for the Development of Doctrine.” In The Catholic Bishops and Nuclear War, edited by Judith A. Dwyer. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 1984. Mouw, Richard. “Christianity and Pacifism.” Faith and Philosophy 2, no. 2 (April 1985): 105–​111. National Conference of Catholic Bishops. The Challenge of Peace: God’s Promise and Our Response. Washington, DC: United States Catholic Conference, 1983. Schmidt, Daryl. “The Biblical Hermeneutics on Peacemaking in the Bishops’ Pastoral.” Biblical Theology Bulletin 16, no. 2 (April 1986): 46–​55. Stayer, James. “The Anabaptists.” In Reformation Europe: A Guide to Research, edited by Steven Ozment. St. Louis: Center for Reformation Research, 1982.

34 Just Peacemaking, new edition, op. cit., p. 212.

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United Methodist Council of Bishops. In Defense of Creation: The Nuclear Crises and a Just Peace. Nashville, TN: Graded Press, 1986. Weigel, George. Tranquillitas Ordinis: The Present Failure and Future Promise of American Catholic Thought on War and Peace. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987.

Chapter 4  Interfaith Paths to Peace1 D oug Hostetter

Mennonites broke away from the Catholic Church in 16th century Europe in an attempt to model themselves on the early Christian church. I will not attempt to go into a complete analysis of the theological difference with the Catholic or other Protestant churches at the time, but only point out three of the significant breaks from the Christian orthodoxy of that time [For more extensive coverage, see Anabaptism: Neither Catholic or Protestant, Walter Klaassen].2 Mennonites insisted that the Christian faith was something that one chose freely as an adult, not something that one inherited by be being born in a Christian family or a Christian state; secondly, Christians should take literally Jesus’s commandments to love your enemies; and thirdly that allegiance to God superseded the demands of governments to take up arms on behalf of the state.3 For their unorthodox beliefs, and refusal to participate in the military, Mennonites were persecuted across much of Europe during the 16th and 17th centuries.4 My own ancestors fled persecution in Europe and immigrated to the US in the early 18th century. I was raised in a small Mennonite community in Harrisonburg, Virginia. Growing up I realized that as Mennonites we lived differently, dressed differently, and had different beliefs than the other residents of Harrisonburg, Virginia, but I also knew

1

This essay was presented at the First International Conference on Peace and Conflict Resolution at the University of Tehran (Iran) held on April 29–​30, 2019. http://​ bil​grim​age.blogs​pot.com/​2019/​10/​ douglas-​hostetter-​interfaith-​paths-​to.html. Reprinted with permission. 2 Klaassen, Walter. Anabaptism: Neither Catholic nor Protestant (Waterloo, ON: Conrad Press, 1973). 3 General Conference Mennonite Church, and Mennonite Church. Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective (Scottdale, PA.: Herald Press, 1995). 4 Van Braght, J. Thieleman. Martyrs Mirror (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1994).

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that we were God’s people, and at the time I believed that we were God’s only people. I graduated from Eastern Mennonite College in 1966, just as the US government was escalating the war in Vietnam. At that point in American history, students were exempt from military service until graduation from college, but upon graduation most US males were immediately classified with the status of 1-​A , eligible for military service. As a minister’s son from a Mennonite community that had refused military service since the US Civil War, it was not difficult to convince my draft board that I should be granted the status of 1-​W, conscientious objector, or CO. As a CO one was required to do two years of alternative service working for a school, hospital or some other public or non-​governmental institution to fulfill a “civilian capacity contributing to the maintenance of the national health, safety or interest.”5 I decided that since most of the young men of my generation were being sent against their will to fight and kill in Vietnam, that I would volunteer to do my alternative service in Vietnam working with the MCC, a Mennonite relief, development and peace organization which was working in Vietnam helping the victims of that war. After a few months of Vietnamese language training in Saigon, I was sent as the first MCC volunteer to work in the Central Vietnamese village of Tam Ky, in Quang Nam province. Tam Ky was in the middle of the war zone, with a number of camps filled with refugees from the war. I remember watching the US Air Force bombing “enemy” villages only a kilometer or two away from Tam Ky, and saw the wounded civilians being brought to the Tam Ky Hospital or refugee camps. I spoke with displaced peasant farmers from areas to the east and the west and learned how US planes had sprayed their fields with Agent Orange,6 an herbicide that instantly destroyed their fields of rice or vegetables. Understanding the evil of war was not difficult when working in Tam Ky. MCC knew that the Tam Ky area was overwhelmed with civilians displaced by the war. The program director in Saigon suggested that when I arrived in Tam Ky, I should meet with the refugees, find out what were their greatest needs, and work with them, using MCC resources, to meet those needs. I was surprised to learn from the residents of the refugee camps that their greatest need was education, they wanted their children to learn to read and write. As in most wars, it was the infrastructure (schools, clinics, and marketplaces) in “enemy” territory that was first destroyed. The schools 5 Selective Service System. “Alternative Service Program.” Accessed March 19, 2019. 6 Griffiths, Philip Jones. Agent Orange: “Collateral Damage” in Viet Nam (London: Trolley, 2003).

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in the rural areas of Quang Nam Province had been destroyed two years before I arrived and the children in the camps had missed their first two years of education. As an American just learning Vietnamese, it was clear that I would not be the person to teach the Vietnamese children how to read and write their own language. I desperately needed help. Growing up in Virginia, I had been taught that Mennonites were the only people of God, but when I arrived in Saigon, the MCC Director gently encouraged me to broaden my perspective. I was now in Vietnam, 14,000 kilometers from home, and would soon be moving to Tam Ky, where there were no Mennonites at all. There was, however, a small Vietnamese Protestant church in Tam Ky, as the result of American Protestant missionary efforts decades earlier, and those Vietnamese Protestants, I was assured, would be my Christian brothers and sisters. Although I felt a bit awkward, I went to the Protestant pastor in Tam Ky and asked if he would allow the Protestant Youth Group to be volunteer teachers in a new MCC program on weekends to help the children in the Tu Heip Refugee Camp in Tam Ky to learn to read and write. The pastor thought for a minute, and then responded that he and the youth group already visited the Tu Heip Camp every weekend where the pastor preached evangelistic sermons, and the youth group sang Christian songs. The Protestant youth group would not have time to teach children in the camps how to read and write. I was very disappointed. I had interviewed many families in the Camps; most had asked for education for their children, and not a single family had asked for Christian evangelism for their children. Growing up I had known that Catholics were not real Christians, they had viciously persecuted my ancestors in Switzerland and Germany in 16th and 17th centuries and they believed in fighting “just wars.” But I was halfway around the world, and I really needed help. I finally worked up my nerve to speak with the young Catholic priest who ran the Catholic Youth Group and asked him if he would allow the youth group to volunteer as teachers in the MCC literacy program in Tu Heip camp that I was trying to develop. The priest paused for a bit and then responded, “Yes, we will be glad to help the MCC literacy program teach the Catholic children in Tu Heip how to read and write. Just show us which are the Catholic children.” That was a help, about 10% of the children in Tu Heip were Catholic, but that still left 90% of the children without teachers. I knew that Buddhists could not be children of God, they worshiped in pagodas with large statues of Buddha. But I was far from home, and the children of Tu Heip desperately needed teachers. I finally approached the young monk, Thich Han Doc, the leader of the Buddhist Youth Group, and asked if he would encourage his youth group to volunteer as teachers in the MCC

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literacy program in Tu Hiep camp. He responded, “Yes,” and never asked which children were Buddhist, Catholic, Protestant, Confucianist, Cao Dai or Hoa Hao, but offered their services for all children in the camp. I was embarrassed when Thich Han Doc, the young monk who led the Buddhist Youth Group, invited me to teach English at the Bo De (Buddhist) High School in Tam Ky. I had gone to Eastern Mennonite High School (EMHS) in Harrisonburg, Virginia, and I was certain that our principal would never have allowed a Buddhist to teach at EMHS. On the first day teaching at the Bo De High School, Han Doc introduced me as his “brother.” He explained to the class that Buddha was not God but was a finger pointing in the direction of God, and although Han Doc was not very familiar with Christianity, perhaps Jesus was also a finger pointing to God and we really are brothers and sisters. It was some months later that I learned from some of the Buddhist high school students that Han Doc’s mother had been killed years earlier by an American bomb. Yet, Han Doc became one of my closest friends in Tam Ky. I was not sure how many Mennonites I knew back in Virginia could become close friends with a Vietnamese if their mother had been killed by a Vietnamese bomb. The literacy program in Tam Ky grew to include 90 high school student volunteer teachers from a variety of faith backgrounds who taught over 4,000 children how to read and write their own language. It was in Vietnam in the late 1960s that I learned not only the horrors of war, but also the power of interfaith cooperation to build friendships that could transcend religious, ethnic, and political differences to work together to mend the world and our selves that have been broken by hatred and war. In the early 1990s, decades after my time in Vietnam, I was appointed the International/​Interfaith Secretary of the Fellowship of Reconciliation (FOR), a century old interfaith pacifist organization.7 My new appointment was beginning just as Yugoslavia was coming apart after the breakup of the Soviet Union and the Cold War was ending. Yugoslavia had been a socialist country composed of six republics and two autonomous regions, organized largely along ethnic/​religious lines. Slovenia and Croatia, both largely Catholic populations, seceded from Yugoslavia without too much conflict, but when the multi-​ethnic Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina (often referred to simply as Bosnia) voted to secede, the bitter Bosnian War began. The 7 Dekar, Paul R. Dangerous People: The Fellowship of Reconciliation Building a Nonviolent World of Freedom, Justice, and Peace (Virginia Beach, VA: Donning Company, 2006).

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population of Bosnia according to the 1991 Yugoslav census was 43% Bosniak (Muslim), 31% Serb (Orthodox Christians), 17% Croat (Roman Catholic), 6% identified only as Yugoslavs with the remaining 3% composed of Jews, Albanians, Hungarians, Roma, and others.8 As the war began (1992) the President of Yugoslavia and the majority of the officers in the Yugoslav Army were Serb (Orthodox Christian). When a majority of the Bosnians voted to withdraw from Yugoslavia and become an independent multi-​ethnic country, Serbian (Orthodox Christian) militias in Bosnia, with covert military support of the Yugoslav Army, attacked the Bosniak (Muslim) and Croat (Catholic) areas of Bosnia, attempting to drive Bosniak Muslims and Croat Catholics out of areas of Bosnia where their families had lived for hundreds of years. The Serbs (Orthodox) coined a new term, “ethnic cleansing” to describe their efforts to drive Bosnians of other ethnic/​religious traditions (primarily Bosniak Muslims and Croat Christians) from Bosnia to create an ethnically pure country of Orthodox Christians.9 The Ethnic Cleansing often took the form of Serb militia taking over a Bosnian town or village, incarcerating the non-​Orthodox Christians citizens of that area in holding camps where the economic, political and intellectual leaders were selected out, to be sent to concentration camps for torture or death while the men of military age were held for involuntary labor and the women, children and old men were forced across the border into Croatia.10 The Bosnian War was, in essence, genocide, carried out by Orthodox Christians against Muslim, Catholic and other non-​ Orthodox Christian citizens of Bosnia. As the International/​Interfaith Secretary of an American interfaith pacifist organization founded by Christians, I was faced with the dilemma: How does a predominantly Christian pacifist organization respond to a genocide where Orthodox Christian militia are killing Muslims and others in the name of God? It was a major ethical/​religious struggle for me. I read everything I could find on the war and the atrocities and struggled for clarity as to how the FOR should respond. About a year into the war, I received a call from Imam Tosun Bayrak, a local Turkish/​A merican Sufi Shaykh, asking if 8 Census. Ethnic composition of Bosnia-​ Herzegovina population, by municipalities and settlements, Zavod za statistiku Bosne i Hercegovine –​Bilten no. 234, Sarajevo. Census. 1991. Ethnic composition of Bosnia-​Herzegovina population, by municipalities and settlements, Zavod za statistiku Bosne i Hercegovine –​Bilten no. 234, Sarajevo, 1991. 9 Sells, Michael Anthony. The Bridge Betrayed: Religion and Genocide in Bosnia. Comparative Studies in Religion and Society, 11 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998). 10 Ibid.

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I would meet with him to learn of his recent trip to Croatia where he visited refugee survivors of the Bosnian War. He had traveled to Croatia with a small delegation of Muslim psychologists and social workers to visit the women survivors of Bosnian rape camps. During the Bosnian War, Muslim women who were captured by Serb militia were often put into rape camps where they were impregnated by Serb militiamen, held until they were six months pregnant and then forced across the Croat border. Rape was a weapon of war in Bosnia. In Yugoslavia, religion and ethnicity of a child, was inherited from the father. When a Serb (Orthodox Christian) soldier impregnated a Bosniak (Muslim) woman, the mother would be dishonored in her Muslim community and a new Christian child would be created. When the American psychologists met with the rape camps victims, they quickly understood that the survivors had been so severely traumatized, that there was little that their group could do during their short visit, except pray with the women, assure them that they were loved by God, and they had not sinned by being a victim of rape. When the group realized that they could not fulfill their original goal for their visit, they looked to see if there were other things that they could do while they were in Croatia. They quickly discovered that there were many Bosniak students in Croatia, who had originally come to study at the University of Zagreb (the capital of Croatia), one of the best universities of the former Yugoslavia. When the Yugoslav Republic of Croatia broke away to become the independent state of Croatia in the early 1990s, it also became a Catholic country, rather than socialist state. Bosniak Muslim students who had begun their education in a university in their own socialist country, suddenly discovered that they were now foreign students in a Catholic country. They were no longer considered matriculated as students and were expelled from their dorms and their university. But by the time that the Bosniak students lost their status at the University of Zagreb, the war in Bosnia had already begun, and the Bosnian cities in which their families lived were no longer accessible. The students had organized themselves into the Association of Students of Bosnia and Herzegovina to try to get help to continue their education. Because Croatia had been part of the Austrian Empire in the 19th century, there was a small office of the Austrian branch of the World University Service that was trying to facilitate scholarships for a few of the Bosnian students to attend the University of Graz, in Austria, but for most students there seemed no hope. The students lived together packed in small apartments selling their blood or anything else they had, to pay the rent. Tosun Bayrak had been a university professor in the US before becoming an Imam, and he quickly realized that the Bosnian former University

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of Zagreb students he was meeting were some of the brightest students of Bosnia. He recognized that many of them would be very successful at colleges or universities in the United States. When he returned to the US, he wrote letters to 300 American colleges and universities explaining that some of the most talented students from Bosnia were no longer able to continue their education due to ethnic/​religious discrimination and asked each college to offer a full tuition scholarship to a qualified Bosnian student. Only one college responded. The Dean explained that they were a Christian college, and they would be pleased to offer a scholarship, but only to a Bosnian Christian student. Tosun remembered that he had met two Bosnian Croat sisters from Sarajevo, whose parents supported the new multicultural Bosnian government, but had sent their daughters to Croatia for safety. He checked and the Christian college agreed to accept both sisters. When the sisters applied for American student visas at the US embassy, however, the official pointed out that the sisters were Croats, and as Catholics from Bosnia, they could get immediate citizenship in Croatia and attend the University of Zagreb for free, so he would not give them student visas to study in the US. After Tosun Bayrak reported to me his experience in Croatia, and his futile attempt to find scholarships for the talented Bosniak students he had met in Croatia, he turned to me to ask me what the FOR might do to help the victims of the War in Bosnia. I explained that the FOR was a peace organization, and we could write an article about the war and the victims of that war for Fellowship Magazine, or perhaps organize a conference where we could bring in experts to lecture on war. Or we might organize a demonstration against the war at the United Nations in New York. I remember Tosun Bayrak responding, “Yes, those all sound like good things to do, but could you also help just a few of those talented Bosnian students to continue their education in the US?” I explained, that although many of FOR members were educators, FOR was a peace organization, not an educational institution. I did, however, promise to take his request to the FOR leadership, but encouraged him not to be too hopeful. My request to the FOR leadership received the response that I expected. FOR does not do that kind of work, the Director indicated, but I could give lectures about the war and the difficult situation faced by Bosnian students and was encouraged to write an article for Fellowship Magazine about the dilemma of Bosnian students. I did an article for Fellowship describing the dilemma of Bosnian students in Croatia and the Jarrah Order of America, the small Sufi charitable organization that wanted to find American schools who would offer full tuition scholarships to qualified Bosnian students who could no longer

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continue their education because of the war or ethnic/​religious discrimination. In response to my article, several FOR members who were professors or chaplains in colleges, invited me to come to their colleges, to lecture on the Bosnian war, and the difficulties faced by Bosnian students. I immediately accepted the invitation and organized a multi-​state lecture tour to visit the colleges that had extended the invitations. Although Tosun Bayrak had been totally unsuccessful in finding American colleges and universities willing to offer scholarships to Bosnian students, by the time of my invitation to lecture in several colleges, he had found a private high school near his mosque that had offered scholarships to six qualified Bosnian students, who had recently arrived at Chestnut Ridge, New York, near the FOR headquarters. With Tosun Bayrak’s permission, I asked the newly arrived students if some would be willing to accompany me in a speaking trip to the Midwest. Three students agreed, and we were soon loaded into my station wagon and headed out for our week-​long trip to visit five colleges in Ohio and Indiana. In each college, I would give a short lecture on religion, ethnicity in the former Yugoslavia and Bosnia War, and then ask one or two students to tell the story of what happened to them and their family in Bosnian War. The stories were heartrending and very personal—​neighbors expelling neighbors from their houses, families being sent to concentration camps. During the discussion period people would always ask, what could we do? I would respond that students and faculty should educate themselves about the war and ethnic cleansing in Bosnia, write to their member of congress or the Secretary General of the United Nations, but any college could also offer a full scholarship to one Bosnian student. I explained that there were thousands of qualified Bosnian students unable to continue their education in the former Yugoslavia because of war or ethnic prejudice. For any college that would offer a full tuitions scholarship, the Bosnian Student Project would find an academically qualified Bosnian Student, no longer able to continue their education in their own country, to accept that scholarship. Three of the five colleges we visited offered scholarships to one or two qualified Bosnian students. When I returned from our first speaking tour, the Bosnian Student Project was born.11 Tosun Bayrak realized that the FOR with its American Christian roots could be more successful in getting scholarships for Bosnian Muslim and mixed ethnic students in American schools than the Jerrahi Order of America, with its Turkish Sufi roots. Tosun asked me to be 11 Hostetter, C. Douglas. The Bosnian Student Project: A Response to Genocide. Pendle Hill Pamphlet, 334 (Wallingford, PA: Pendle Hill Publications, 1997). Hostetter, C. Douglas. The Bosnian Student Project: A Response to Genocide. Pendle Hill Pamphlet, 334 (Wallingford, PA: Pendle Hill Publications, 1997).

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the director and FOR to be the primary sponsor, and he and his community would volunteer in the project. The Bosnian Student Project from its very beginning was an interfaith endeavor, with the goal of American Christians, Muslims and Jews uniting in an effort to find scholarships and homes in the US for Bosnian Muslim and mixed ethnic students who were no longer able to continue their education in the former Yugoslavia due to ethnic/​religious prejudice or the war. The concept was really quite simple for Americans to understand. Regardless of your faith tradition, if you did not believe that God wanted God’s followers to kill or drive out people of other faith traditions, the Bosnian Student Project (BSP) wanted you to work with others who shared that belief to try to rescue Bosnian students who were the victims of religious prejudice and hatred. If genocide is the epitome of religious hatred, love and inclusion was the antidote. We needed Americans of any faith tradition with connections to US high schools, colleges and universities who were willing to challenge those educational institutions to affirm their commitment to the humanity of all individuals, regardless of religious background, to offer a full tuition scholarship to a qualified Bosnian student who had been denied their right to education simply because of their religious/​ethnic background. The BSP also needed American host families who were willing to love, accept and provide a home to a Bosnian student who had lost their home due to the war or ethnic cleansing. Every host family was carefully screened. The host family from any religious traditions, needed to love, welcome, and affirm the Bosnian student in their own religious tradition. Proselytizing was strictly prohibited. Host families were asked to learn about and respect the dietary and worship obligations of the student, but they were also permitted to invite the student in their home to come with the family to their house of worship. We also encouraged communities where more than one Bosnian student was hosted, to form interfaith support committees for the students in that area. Those support committees were often of host parents of Bosnian students (often Christian or Jewish) together with concerned faculty from sponsoring colleges or universities (often Muslim) so that the group could support and provide interreligious/​intercultural understanding to both the host families and the Bosnian students in that community. The Bosnian Student Project would have been impossible without interfaith cooperation at all levels. Although the American, predominantly Christian roots of the FOR made finding scholarships easier in the United States, it was only the deep involvement of the Jerrahi Order of America with its deep Sufi Muslim roots, and the willingness of Shaykh Tosun Bayrak to make numerous visits to Croatia and Bosnia, that made possible the trust of

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Bosnian students and their families. Interfaith cooperation was also essential for the project to be successful in the former Yugoslavia. We absolutely needed, and were blessed to find, people of all of the major ethnic/​religious traditions of Bosnia and Croatia who were willing to cooperate with the project to help us find qualified Bosnian Muslim and mixed ethnic students in Croatia or Bosnia and help them leave the war zone to continue their education in US educational institutions. We were fortunate that the Austrian branch of the World University Service (WUS) had small offices in Zagreb, Croatia and Sarajevo, Bosnia. The WUS staff person in Zagreb was a wonderful Croatian Croat (Catholic) woman while their staff person in Sarajevo was an amazing Bosnian Serb (Orthodox Christian whose wife was Muslim) adjunct professor; both were eager to help the BSP identify talented Bosnian students from Muslim and mixed ethnic families and assist the students to leave the war zone and continue their education in the US. The FOR developed a small brochure to describe the desperate situation of Bosnian Muslim and mixed-​ethnic students and outlined the BSP program to work with WUS in Zagreb and Sarajevo to identify qualified Bosnian students unable to continue their studies in their own country. The brochure further described the effort of the BSP to find US educational institutions willing to offer full tuition scholarships to qualified Bosnian students and American families willing to host and care for those students during their academic studies. The brochure further pointed out a precedent in FOR’s history. During WWII, and FOR affiliated Christian community in southern France had sheltered, protected, and educated hundreds of Jewish children during the Nazi occupation of France.12 To emphasize the interfaith nature of the effort, the slogan we chose for the BSP was a quote from the Talmud (Jewish sacred text) “To save one life, it is as if you had saved the world,”13 for a project that was rescuing Muslim and mixed ethnic students. The FOR and the Jerrahi Order of America circulated the brochures and information on the Bosnian Student Project throughout their respective networks. In actuality, however, most people learned of the effort through friends or relatives. The Bosnian Student Project had one very powerful motivator: during a period when the news was consistently negative—​war, atrocities, ethnic cleansing, concentration camps and the world community failing to respond—​t he BSP offered something positive that an American family or 12 Hallie, Philip Paul. Lest Innocent Blood Be Shed: The Story of the Village of Le Chambon and How Goodness Happened There. 1st HarperPerennial (New York: HarperPerennial, 1994). 13 Talmud, Sanhedrin 37a.

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an educational institution could actually do. A school could offer a full tuition scholarship to a qualified Bosnian student, and a family could offer love and shelter to a Bosnian student in our program. The project worked quite simply. An organizer (peace practitioner) who had learned about the project would call offering to help. The organizer could be a faculty member or a chaplain at a college or university, but most often they were simply concerned citizens who had learned of the program and wanted to help. The organizer was then encouraged to find an educational institution willing to offer a full tuition scholarship to a qualified Bosnian student. If they found a high school, college, or university willing to offer a full scholarship, we would analyze the academic level of the institution, and forward that information to the World University Service in Zagreb and Sarajevo which had already collected the academic records of hundreds of Bosnians unable to continue their education due to the war or ethnic discrimination, and eager to participate in the BSP. Each student was also asked to write a two-​page biography describing their family, personal experience in the war and hopes for the future. When an organizer indicated that they had secured the promise of a scholarship, and a family willing to host the student, we would send to them the academic records and short biographies for 4 or 5 student who would be academically suited for the school which was offering the scholarship. The organizer and the admissions officers at the school, would then review the student files, and agree on which student they wanted to accept at their educational institution. Once the BSP was notified of the selected student, we would immediately informed WUS in Zagreb or Sarajevo who would notify the student and arrange to get them to Zagreb. In Zagreb the student was oriented to the BSP program and prepared for their interview at the US Embassy where they would be interviewed, and they could present the documentation that they had been accepted at a specific American school. If the interview went well, the US embassy would issue the student visa to come to the US and the BSP would buy the airline ticket from Zagreb to a US city near their American school and notify the organizer who would arrange to meet the student when they arrived. The project started small with six high school students, but by the end of the war, 4 years later, we had been able to bring over 160 Bosnian students and place them high schools, colleges, and universities, including the most prestigious American educational institutions: Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Stanford. The BSP was successful not only because we were able to rescue 160 talented Bosnian students from the war zone and facilitate their continuing education in the United States, but also because everyone who participated

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in the project was changed for the better through the experience [Full disclosure, I was not only the director of the BSP at the time, but my own family was a host family for two Bosnian students during the project. My family was deeply enriched by the experience, but especially my sons (who were eight and twelve years-​old when the project started) who had the amazing opportunity to grow up with Muslim older brothers in our home and to attend their Bosnian brothers’ graduations upon completion of their Master’s Degrees.] The BSP was interfaith at every level. Everyone knew that the success of the project depended on the full cooperation of people from other faith traditions. In Bosnia and Croatia, we needed the assistance of Croats (Catholics), Serbs (Orthodox Christians) and Bosniaks (Muslims) if we were to be able to bring Bosnian Muslim and mixed ethnic students out of Bosnia, across the front lines into Croatia. And in Croatia, we needed Croats (Catholics) to host the students in Zagreb and to facilitate their getting US student visas at the American Embassy in Croatia. Most of the host families in the US were of a different faith tradition than the student that they were hosting, and all of the support groups were interfaith to further help the BSP students to be successful in their educational experience. I will give just a few of the examples of student experiences that were transformative for the students, their host families and their educational institutions. Lejla, a Bosnian Muslim student from Mostar, was a freshman at the University of Sarajevo when the war broke out. She immediately returned to her home in Mostar, which was shelled first by Serbs (Orthodox Christians), but later and more bitterly in building-​to-​building conflict, destroyed by Croats (Catholics). Lejla was offered a scholarship at Iona College, a Catholic college in New Rochelle, New York, and her host family was Ms. Diane White, an African American Catholic who lived near the college.14 Lejla, who should have hated Catholics for what they had done to her family and her city, discovered that there were also Catholics who wanted to love, shelter, and educate her. Maya was a freshman at the University of Sarajevo when the war broke out. Her father was Muslim, and her mother was Serb (Orthodox Christian). The family had lived comfortably in a section of Sarajevo that was populated by mixed-​ethnic families. When the Serb militias took over the section of Sarajevo where her family lived, her father was arrested. Maya’s mother who was Serb sought the help of a family friend; a Serb physician who had also 14 Hostetter, p. 16.

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been drafted into the Bosnian Serb Army. The Serb doctor searched police stations and military camps until he found Maya’s father, who had been tortured nearly to death. As the doctor had a higher military rank than the camp commander, he was able to claim Maya’s father as his prisoner, and evacuate him to a hospital in Belgrade, Serbia, where Maya and her sister were able to smuggle him across the border into Macedonia, and then on to Turkey. Maya’s mother was eventually able to leave Sarajevo on a Red Cross caravan to Croatia, where she was then able to travel to join the rest of the family in Turkey. In the Bosnian refugee camp in Turkey Maya and her sister were able to attend an English school run by a Muslim voluntary organization. Unfortunately, when the Muslim organization learned that Maya and her sister were only half Muslim, they were deemed ineligible to continue in the English language school. When the BSP called Maya to tell her that we had located a college and a host family for her in the United States, Maya’s first question was, “Do you know that my father is Muslim and my mother is Christian?” Maya was assured that the BSP was open to all Bosnians regardless of race, religion, or ethnicity.15 I remember that I was particularly concerned about Sanela, a Muslim student from Tuzla who had been out of school in a Bosnian refugee camp in Europe for several years. I knew that the adjustment from refugee camp to life in a mid-​western college would be a difficult transition, so I called an FOR member, a Baptist minister in the same town as the college, asked him to welcome Sanela and help her adjust to college life in Ohio. I called back several months later to ask the pastor how Sanela was doing. He responded, “The congregation has accepted Sanela as a Muslim member of our Baptist church. We feel so privileged to have her with us. Being a friend of Sanela, holding her as she cries and we cry with her, has helped our congregation to move beyond the limits of religious separation. We couldn’t have a more meaningful gift to our congregation. Everyone in the congregation feels helpless at the enormity of what she represents, and we are privileged to stand with her in this suffering.”16 In a letter to me Sanela wrote, “This church is just like my mosque back home. They are my family. Did you know that Baptist and Muslims pray to the same God?”17 It is assumed to be common knowledge that Jews and Muslims are bitter irreconcilable enemies. The Bosnian Student Project proved that that does not need to be the case. Two Bosnian Muslim students were hosted 15 Ibid., pp. 19–​21. 16 Ibid., pp. 24–​5. 17 Ibid., p. 25.

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by two Jewish rabbi families in our program. The family of a very religious New York Jewish doctor welcomed into his home Mirza, a very religious Bosnian Muslim high school student in his last year of high school. After Mirza had moved on to a nearby college, I called the host mother to enquire how things had gone for Mirza and the family. “Mirza has become like one of our children,” she explained. Even now that he is off to college, he returns home every other weekend. A month ago was our 25th wedding anniversary. The children decided to organize a big party to celebrate with our family and friends. Mirza came and spoke about how important we had been in his life. He couldn’t finish his speech because he broke down crying. “He has really become part of our family.”18 A Jewish family in North Carolina who had hosted a Bosnian Muslim high school student called me one day to inform me that they had just received word that their student’s father had just been killed by a Serb sniper in Sarajevo [A not uncommon experience in the BSP. Three other students lost a parent in that same year.] The killing had occurred in the midst of the siege of Sarajevo, so it was clear that the student could not return home for her father’s funeral. “How can we help Maja mourn the tragic loss of her father?” the host mother asked? I consulted Shaykh Tosun Bayrak who found a Lebanese/​A merican imam in North Carolina. The imam met with the host mother’s rabbi and together they were able to provide suitable prayers and rituals in North Carolina to help this young Bosnian high school student mourn the tragic death of her father in Sarajevo.19 The goal of the Bosnian Student Project was to enable talented Bosnian students to continue their education in the US so that they could return to rebuild their country after the war. The war, however, ended with a deeply divided county, with the homes of many Bosnian Muslims located in the areas of Bosnia that had been given to the Serb sector of the tripartite Bosnian government. In many situations Muslims families were kept from returning to rebuild their homes in the Serb controlled areas of the country, so many BSP students had no home in Bosnia to return to at the end of the war. Some have remained in the US; some have found jobs in other countries while others were able to return to their homes in Bosnia after graduation. I have visited our BSP graduates in the US and four foreign countries but have also returned to Bosnia about a half dozen times to visit our former students. All of our graduates have done well, regardless of the country where they now live, and not one of our students has become a terrorist or extremist, because 18 Ibid., p. 26. 19 Ibid.

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each of the BSP students has experienced generosity from good people from diverse religious and ethnic backgrounds. The graduates from the Bosnian Student Project have gone on to become good people themselves, each in turn, helping to make the world a better place. The four years of the Bosnian Student Project during the War in Bosnia gave me a good chance to examine some of my own stereotypes on peacemaking and peacemakers. During a 1994 visit to meet with our World University Service liaison contact in Zagreb, she invited me to a dinner with some of her friends: Serb, Croat and Bosniak, all professionals, who lived and worked in Zagreb. One of the guests at the dinner was a Croat doctor who arrived late to the dinner because he was just coming back from the border, where he had spent the day doing medical evaluations of Bosnian refugees who had just been forced across the Bosnian border into Croatia, only 30 kilometers from Zagreb. I remember asking the mixed ethnic/​religious guests, how it was that we were all comfortably having dinner together in Zagreb, while people like them were killing each other only 30 kilometers away. No one had a clear answer, and all felt betrayed by their academic disciplines that had failed to predict the ethnic/​religious wars that swept both Croatia and Bosnia. I stated that from my experience I would have assumed that educators and religious leaders would be the ones that would teach love, compassion, and tolerance to combat the forces of hatred, war, and ethnic/​religious chauvinism. They quickly pointed out that the ethnic/​religious hatred that had driven the earlier war in Croatia and the ongoing war in Bosnia had originated from the faculty in the universities and had been encouraged and supported primarily by religious leaders. My dinner guests pointed out that as the ideology of communism was collapsing in Yugoslavia, ethnic/​religious nationalism was used to quickly fill the void and to enhance the power and popularity of politicians, university professors and religious leaders who promoted it. In the 1990s the Consortium on Peace Research, Education and Development (COPRED) was the major association of peace studies professors and researchers and development scholars in the United States. COPRED held their 22nd annual conference on October 8–​10, 1993, in Hampton, Georgia, on the theme, “Nonviolence in a Violent World: Responses to Racism, Poverty and War.” This was at the height of the War in Bosnia; the Honorable Muhammed Ascribe, the Bosnian Ambassador to the US, was the feature speaker. I was on the schedule to do a workshop, “Nonviolent Strategies During Time of War.” The Bosnian Student Project had just begun a few months earlier, and I was excited for the prospect of the BSP at the conference. I was giving a workshop in a conference with over a thousand peace studies professors and research academics associated with hundreds of

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American colleges and universities. I was going to describe the peace project that not only responded creatively to the war of that era, but also matched perfectly with the theme of the conference and the academic resources of the participants (almost every participant had some connection to a college or university). The workshop was packed, every seat taken with people standing in the back of the hall. Everyone lauded the timeliness and creativity of the Bosnian Student Project. But when I asked the packed hall which of the participants wanted to offer, or even just explore, getting a full tuition scholarship for a qualified Bosnian student at their college or university, the room was totally silent. In a conference of more than 1,000 peace scholars, meeting during the height of the War in Bosnia, there was not one who stepped forward to offer to find a scholarship in their university for a Bosnian student no longer able to continue their education because of the war or ethnic discrimination. As one academic explained to me afterwards, “We academics do research and teach about peace, we don’t actually do peace.” That was a hard lesson for me to learn, and it completely overturned many of my assumptions. When the Bosnian Student Project was finally officially accepted to be sponsored by the FOR, I remember thinking that it would be the theologians and peace studies professors on the FOR board who would be the first to bring Bosnian students to their academic institutions. I was wrong; they were the last. I remember a prominent Christian theologian from Louisville, Kentucky, on the board who explained to me that FOR was a peace organization, not social workers. He explained that our task at FOR was to educate the world about how God taught love, tolerance, and fellowship, not hatred and war. Despite the board member’s refusal to assist the BSP, I was able to find several FOR members in Louisville who secured scholarships for two Bosnian Muslim students in Louisville colleges. Several years later, the theologian approached me after a board meeting and apologized. “I am sorry for the way in which I opposed the Bosnian Student Project. You know, I have been teaching and preaching love and peace in Louisville for three decades, and no one seemed to understand. When the Bosnian students arrived, and we had Christian families rescuing Muslim students from the war zone, welcoming them into their homes and helping them continue their education, suddenly the people of Louisville have begun to understand what I was trying to teach for 30 years.”

Conclusion The first step in interfaith peace work is the recognition that one’s own faith tradition is not the only way to God, and that other faith traditions and their

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practitioners must be accepted, respected, and cooperated with, in peacebuilding efforts. While interfaith dialog encourages people of different faith traditions to explore, compare and contrast their different theologies, interfaith peacebuilding encourages people of different faith traditions to draw on their own faith traditions to engage in cooperative efforts with people of other faith traditions in humanitarian efforts to save lives and build a better common world. In a world in which much of the conflict and war is defined along a religious/​ethnic axis, it is extremely powerful for interfaith peace PR actioners from both sides of that axis to come together in concrete actions of love and compassion to build peace through the assistance to the victims of hatred and war. The intellectual understanding of the history and theory of peacebuilding is very different than the practical, actual engagement in peacebuilding. As the University of Tehran goes about setting up a department of Peace Studies and Conflict Resolution, I would hope that the university would make a real effort to include peace practitioners, as well as academic scholars, in your teaching faculty. I would also hope that you would include within the program a requirement that students do an internship or practicum in which they would be obligated to bring their theoretical knowledge and understanding into real life practice in actual peacebuilding or conflict resolution projects.

Afterword I do not want to take away from the results of the interfaith work that I have referenced in the paper above, but I also want to acknowledge that every interfaith engagement happens within a specific geography, culture, and moment in history. One cannot assume that a project from one place, at one time, can be repeated in a different local and a different era. The Bosnian Student Project of the early 1990s, during the American presidency of President Bill Clinton, could not have been possible in the post September 11, 2001, era during the presidency of Donald Trump. But other projects of interfaith engagement are waiting to be discovered, and it is our task as peacebuilders to find the interfaith paths to peace in our time and in our place.

Bibliography Census 1991. Ethnic composition of Bosnia-​Herzegovina population, by municipalities and settlements, Zavod za statistiku Bosne i Hercegovine –​Bilten no. 234, Sarajevo, 1991. Dekar, Paul R. Dangerous People: The Fellowship of Reconciliation Building a Nonviolent World of Freedom, Justice, and Peace. Virginia Beach, VA: Donning Company, 2016.

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General Conference Mennonite Church, and Mennonite Church. Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1995. Griffiths, Philip Jones. Agent Orange: “collateral Damage” in Viet Nam. London: Trolley, 2003. Hallie, Philip P., and Mazal Holocaust Collection. Lest Innocent Blood Be Shed: The Story of the Village of Le Chambon, and How Goodness Happened There, 1st ed. New York: Harper & Row, 1979. Hostetter, C. Douglas. The Bosnian Student Project: A Response to Genocide. Pendle Hill Pamphlet, 334. Wallingford, PA: Pendle Hill Publications, 1997. Klaassen, Walter. Anabaptism: Neither Catholic nor Protestant. Waterloo, ON: Conrad Press, 1973. Selective Service System. “Alternative Service Program.” Accessed March 19, 2019. Sells, Michael Anthony. The Bridge Betrayed: Religion and Genocide in Bosnia. Comparative Studies in Religion and Society, 11. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998. Talmud, Sanhedrin 37a. Van Braght, J. Thieleman. Martyrs Mirror. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1994.

Chapter 5  The Ground and Educational Ministry of Ethics: A (Darkly Hued) Anabaptist Perspective1 James Samuel L ogan

Ethics on Planet Earth and in the Classroom Ethics begins with human birth into an un/​k nown geo-​historical world. Any particular human birth-​world is governed by an underlying ethos or distinctive world view, which (for better, worse, and all points in between) grounds ascribed cultural narratives that feature racial-​ ethnic-​ gender-​ communal-​ trans/​national identities, as well as principles, virtues, values, customs, and common practices that bind human associations in the natural and, for most people, spiritual world(s). Indeed, I set the classroom stage for the teaching of ethics by helping students to understand that complex and subtle social-​cultural histories, stories, and ideological understandings always undergird families, communities, societies, and nations. All these domains of human life work in interactive union to shape and reshape the individuals who inhabit these intersectional spheres of human life, which are persistently engaged from within and from without. Within one’s birth-​world and beyond it there are universal truths that ground all ethics, namely, the basic human quest to grapple with the contingencies, complexities, tragedies, and promises of natural, temporal, life. In this regard ethics—​the art and/​or science of continuous moral inquiry, reasoning, and action—​routinely meets us in our common desire for safety, security, and protection; in our desire for associations with, and belonging to, those things that give life ultimate meaning and purpose; and in our desire to have our human dignity valued, affirmed, and respected by others. 1

Reprinted with permission from The CGR 35, no. 1 (Winter 2017): 59–​71.

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It is in the context of such universal observations and concerns that I contend in my religion classrooms that ethics, as noted by Dietrich Bonhoeffer is very much, “a matter of history” and “a child of the earth.”2 Or to put it as many liberation theologians, feminists, womanists, and queer theorists have contended, religious and theological ethics are always informed by historical traditions forged in particular times and places. This notion goes back at least as far as the teleological virtue ethics of Aristotle, who maintained that moral reasoning begins with what is known to us—​t hat is, what is sufficiently self-​ evident requiring no “reason why,” the portion of knowledge about the world that is “without qualification.”3 This point about the earthbound quality of all ethical understanding, whether “meta-​ethics,” “normative ethics,” or “applied ethics,” suggests that no ethical system, theory, philosophy, or theology is devoid of a necessary historical ground that roots it in temporal time and geographic place. In this regard, I often draw on the contention of the great African American public intellectual, James Baldwin, who noted that, … the great force of history comes from the fact that we carry it within us, are unconsciously controlled by it in many ways, and history is literally present in all that we do. It could scarcely be otherwise, since it is to history that we owe our frames of reference, our identities, and our aspirations.4

So it is in the particular context of the wisdom of Black American history and intellectual genius, Christian liberation, Anabaptist ethics of various sorts, and ancient virtue ethics that my teaching of ethics finds its datum as it expands out to encounter and engage a rich variety of other moral traditions of struggle and hope in a cosmopolitan society and world. The ethical ground of my classroom teaching understands that an Aristotelian politics (the science of the whole) informs, and is informed by, ethics (the science of the part). While my philosophy of teaching ethics is always in a state of becoming, a foundational understanding I carry into the classroom is that teaching is a political activity. By “political” I mean that teaching is a power activity that 2

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A rendering of Bonhoeffer’s fuller thought concerning the datum of ethics reads as follows: “Ethics is a matter of blood and a matter of history. It did not simply descend to earth from heaven. Rather, it is a child of the earth, and for that reason its face changes with history as with the renewal of blood, with the transition between generations. There is a German ethic as well as a French ethic and an American ethic. None is more or less ethical than the other, for all remain bound to history ….” See Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, Volume 10: Barcelona, Berlin, New York 1928–​1931, ed. Clifford J. Green (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008), 360. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon (New York: Random House, 1941), 1095b. James Baldwin, “The White Man’s Guilt,” Ebony (August 1965): 47.

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contributes to ways in which we employ our various forms of agency to organize our common lives together in the natural-​spiritual world. What goes on in classrooms is both a reflection of, and a contributor to, the politics of living that is happening in families, communities, the wider society, and the world. Hence, as with politics, teaching is an activity related to the pursuit of power/​influence, status, recognition, belonging, and control (often involving a variety of methods, strategies, maneuvers, and intrigues). Given my view that any vocation, including teaching, ought to serve as a foreshadowing of the better moral world that people of goodwill seek to create, I tend to employ a collaborative, interactive, and dialogical seminar style of learning, with inclusive language as a communicative foundation. Even with this pedagogical foundation, it is still important that the art of lecturing be employed in order to lift out salient themes that might not appear so obvious in the texts or other materials under consideration. As a teacher interested in religious, social, and philosophical ethics, as well as in constructive theologies, cultural criticism, and the role of religion in public life, I hope to help place students’ (and my own) constructive/​normative assertions and moral commitments in conversation with various contemporary and historical ideas, figures, and social movements. I wish to assist students in developing their capacity to engage difficult moral problems in more complicated and subtle ways. As they discuss strong and opposing views about some of the most provocative ethical issues of our time, I try to foster an atmosphere where all members of the class can feel relatively comfortable expressing their views. Here it is important that all are treated with dignity and respect, as arguments that some will surely find objectionable will require that others be intellectually, morally, and psychologically vulnerable to views other than their own. Of course, having said this—​and with the best of intentions—​liberal arts instructors like me will sometimes find themselves participating in the arduous task of discerning when a student’s (or my own) opinion or position crosses the line, and then regulating accordingly. This is always dicey terrain both inside and outside the classroom. As a teacher interested in religious, social, and philosophical ethics, as well as in constructive theologies, cultural criticism, and the role of religion in public life, I hope to help place students’ (and my own) constructive/​normative assertions and moral commitments in conversation with various contemporary and historical ideas, figures, and social movements. I wish to assist students in developing their capacity to engage difficult moral problems in more complicated and subtle ways. As they discuss strong and opposing views about some of the most provocative ethical issues of our time, I try to foster an atmosphere where all members of the class can feel relatively comfortable

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expressing their views. Here it is important that all are treated with dignity and respect, as arguments that some will surely find objectionable will require that others be intellectually, morally, and psychologically vulnerable to views other than their own. Of course, having said this—​and with the best of intentions—​liberal arts instructors like me will sometimes find themselves participating in the arduous task of discerning when a student’s (or my own) opinion or position crosses the line, and then regulating accordingly. This is always dicey terrain both inside and outside the classroom.

Race, Mass Incarceration, and the Black Body: Teaching as Ethical Ministry I offer two specific case examples of the trajectory of my classroom teaching in light of my contextual ethos in the United States and at Earlham College, a Quaker liberal arts college. The social consequences of mass incarceration in the United States have been substantial. The complex intersections of bureaucratic, political, economic, and media-​driven forces that fuel excessive spending, bodily confinement, community supervision, and surveillance as means of domestic crime control and corporate profit have compromised the societal good in the US. In her widely read and debated text, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in an Age of Colorblindness, Michelle Alexander correctly notes that the entire collection of institutions and practices comprising the criminal justice system is not an independent system. Rather, the criminal justice system is “a gateway into a much larger system of racial stigmatization and permanent marginalization.” She goes on to contend that “This larger system, referred to … as mass incarceration, is a system that locks people not only behind actual bars in actual prisons, but also behind virtual bars and virtual walls—​walls that are invisible to the naked eye but function nearly as effectively as Jim Crow laws once did at locking people of color into permanent second-​class citizenship.”5 Indeed, “The term mass incarceration refers not only to the criminal justice system but also to the larger web of laws, rules, policies, and customs that control those labeled as criminals both in and out of prison.”6 There is no doubt that the new Jim Crow, this new 5

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“Jim Crow,” the term commonly used for the systems of forced Black segregation and disenfranchisement in the Southern states from roughly 1865 to 1965, is inclusive of state and local laws, customs, and common social practices that restricted voting rights and relegated Black citizens to inferior public accommodations, housing, schooling, employment opportunities, and other markers of full and complete citizenship. Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration the Age of Colorblindness (New York: The New Press, 2010), 12–​13.

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insidious caste system, has seriously exacerbated the destabilization of Black communities. With regard to the collateral social consequences of mass incarceration, Black communities experience a quite disproportionate brunt of the nation’s commitment to the new Jim Crow. As a religion professor and director of a Program in African and African American Studies at a peace church liberal arts college, I view my teaching and scholarship as a Christian ministry against this state of affairs. My teaching of ethics concerned with race, mass incarceration, and the Black body can be seen in two courses I conduct as an expression of my vocational ministry: Criminal Justice and Moral Vision, and Religion and Culture of Hip Hop. After commenting on the socio-​religious trajectories of these courses, I will offer something of the theo-​ethical thinking and attitude that informs, and is informed by, my ministry of teaching. In Criminal Justice and Moral Vision, my students and I work to articulate various religious and other moral visions that might serve as resources, inspiration, or foundations that might inform confrontations with the nation’s new Jim Crow. From the start, I want students to understand the social context in which the course exists. I want them to know that I recognize that Black males are not the only group disproportionately targeted by US criminal justice systems. Indeed, Angela Davis’s observation that the prison-​industrial complex “trains its sights on black women and other men [and women] of color, as well as on poor white people,” cannot be ignored.7 I do think, however, that some initial focus on Black men, and on Black communities in general, is appropriate because they represent the nerve-​center (the ground zero) of debates over race, mass incarceration, and the Black body. To say that a focus on Black people is to focus on the nerve-​center of the debate over mass incarceration is simply to say that no other large community of US residents shares the same burden of disproportionate confinement and overall criminal corrections sanction, supervision, surveillance, and death. With the possible exception of the one or two percent or so of Native Americans, the prominence and urgency of a focus on Black “affirmative action” in the nation’s carceral matrix is difficult to overstate. African American males make up less than 7 percent of the US population, yet they compose (perhaps conservatively) approximately 37.5 percent (750,000) of

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Angela Y. Davis, “Race, Gender, and Prison History: From the Convict Lease System to the Supermax Prison,” in Prison Masculinities, ed. Don Sabo, Terry A. Kupers, and Willie London (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2001), 35.

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the of the nation’s jail and prison inmates. Taken together, African American males and females represent (nearly) half the nation’s inmates.8 More than 600,000 Black males between the ages of 20 and 39 are being imprisoned, a devastatingly high number.9 Indeed, it has been noted that “for every black male who graduates from college, one hundred others are in prison or jail.”10 Unfortunately, since the commencement of the 1980s “war on drugs,” “the same disproportionate pattern is occurring with African-​ American females, whose rate of inmate growth has now surpassed that of males.”11 With the staggering increase in the confinement of Black female bodies since the 1980s, we see a significant expansion of the historical psychosexual and fetishized surveillance of the Black female body, along with the much higher rates of criminalization of their bodies. The highly racialized state of the new Jim Crow expresses significant underlying anxieties within the body politic; these racial anxieties get expressed in the disproportionate stopping and frisking, sanctioning, and killing of the Black body. One of the dimensions of what I am saying is episodically evidenced in the para-​ militarized police terror, supervision, and surveillance of individual Black bodies and whole communities, as in Ferguson, Missouri, and in West Philadelphia, where in 1985 some sixty blocks were destroyed when a helicopter primed for war dropped a military explosive on the MOVE family headquarters, killing eleven adults and children during a standoff with police. Militarized police forces become increasingly frequent, as the armed forces turn over more and more of their weapons of war over to domestic police forces. The specter of hyper-​para-​militarized policing in Black communities is evidence of a hegemonic order (both overt and covert), which routinely manages and punishes the perceived threats that frequently get mapped onto Black bodies.12 Leading up to this state of affairs is a long religious and racial history that has psycho-​sexually degraded and criminalized Black bodies. From slavery to the narratives of Jim and Jane Crow, to today’s new Jim Crow, Black people 8 If Joseph Ryan is correct, by April 1999 Black people accounted for 65 percent of US inmates. 9 James Lanier has reported that, as of July 2003, more than 596,400 Black males between the ages 20 and 39 were incarcerated. See James R. Lanier, “The Harmful Impact of the Criminal Justice System and War on Drugs on the African-​A merican Family,” National Urban League Annual Report 2003, 4, nul.iamempowered.com/​ files/​report attachments/​2003AnnualRpt.pdf. 10 Lanier, “The Harmful Impact.” 11 Ibid. 12 See Joseph Ryan, “Black Prison Population Approaches One Million,” Socialist Action (April 1999). www.socialistaction.org/​news/​199904/​prison.html.

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have lived as a pariah people both resisting and conforming to anti-​Black racism, which today is a constant feature of mass incarceration. The racial ethos governing Black bodies gets created and recreated by the routine discriminatory actions of individuals and systemic institutions under the influence of excessive national anxiety, fear, hate, vindictiveness, cynicism, ignorance, latent and overt feelings of White cultural superiority, and the desire to control and manage the surplus populations needed to secure cheap labor and high profits in an advanced capitalistic society. With respect to the policing of Black bodies, I suggest to students in the Criminal Justice course that, among many other things, military-​style policing and surveillance in Black communities function as if these communities were a caste of domestic enemy combatants. In the Religion and Culture of Hip Hop course, my students and I work to get at the moral significance of Hip Hop as a religious and cultural force adequate to mount a fight against the new Jim Crow. Viewing Hip Hop as a religious and wider cultural phenomenon, this course examines its synchronistic embrace and employment of traditional (sometimes transcendent) religious symbols, myths, and rituals. The course also explores the possibility that Hip Hop itself has become a “religion” to which many young and middle-​aged people give their faith and fidelity as they pursue various desires for identity, justice, love, peace, and freedom. As is true with any religion, life philosophy, or other foundational commitment, my students come to understand that Hip Hop as a cultural force, just like religious institutions has its “ever-​ changing mixtures of life-​giving and malignant tendencies.”13 The ministry of this course aims, to a significant extent, to get a deeper understanding of the population of young people whose embrace of Hip Hop culture might provide moral resources or foundations for seeking bodily, communal, and spiritual identity and justice against mass incarceration. We examine Hip Hop because it now finds social-​political expression and cultural-​stylistic form in most arenas of American life. Bringing to bear written texts, music, film, and other media sources, the course examines this phenomenon as a significant religious and cultural force for social change. Issues explored include Hip Hop’s syncretism of religious symbols and sensibilities, its racial, ethnic, sex-​gendered, and class dynamics, and its language and aesthetics. A critical underlying viewpoint of this course is that popular culture, delivered in myriad forms like Twitter, Vine, Skype, Facebook, 24-​hour television 13 Jeffrey Stout, “Rorty on Religion and Politics,” in The Philosophy of Richard Rorty, ed. Randall E. Auxier and Lewis E. Hahn (Chicago: Open Court Publishing Co., 2010), 524.

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coverage, texting, Instagram, Snapchat, YouTube, LinkedIn, OrKut, Ning, Pinterest, myLife, LiveJournal, Yik Yak, and so on, has become the primary pedagogical medium for masses of people who want to understand and interact with the moral realities of life. Popular culture is the site of a whole lot of moral education and miseducation; this is especially true for those born in the generation of students currently occupying today’s classrooms. Finally, a word regarding the question of how my teaching informs, and gets informed by, my commitments to a Christian “theo-​ethical” praxis that responds to the new Jim Crow. It is critical that any Christian contemplating the radical, countercultural, nature of Christian justice and love faces the realities and memories of the new Jim Crow dead on. We Christians, who are all too human, with trembling rage, fear, and anxiety, must stare into the pale dead face of our misery and anger on account of Ferguson, New York, Oakland, Cleveland, Beavercreek, Baltimore, Chicago, Baton Rouge, Falcon Heights, Tulsa, the Middle Passage, Slavery, and the entire New Jim Crow with the memory of an executed-​yet-​living God to guide us while living at the crossroads of Good Friday and Easter. A theo-​ethical approach of difficult Christian love will also mean confronting the understandable and all-​too-​ human Black bloodthirst for retribution as tragically expressed in the executions of New York City police officers Wenjian Lu and Rafael Ramos (by Ismaaiyl Brinsley), and the White Texas cop Darren Goforth, who was shot 15 times in the head and back by Shannon Miles. Peaceable Christian justice and reconciliation does not turn its back on any of this. I tell my class that my Christian participation in a politics of radical human intimacy must lead me toward undoing practices and consequences associated with the systemic police violence visited among our communities every day. I tell students that even peaceable Christians, in this moment, need a politics of pissed-​off Christian intimacy that understands God’s love of all creation to be the story in view of which they pursue reconciling justice and love in real time. Without getting into the thick systematic theology that arises from and informs my thoughts here, my attitude these days affirms a radical perusal of (not so fast) forgiveness and reconciliation in a manner that loses my civility, while embracing reconciling grace as the measure of supreme Christian love. A tricky moral balancing act, indeed. In this regard, we Christians need to get a deeper understanding of what the cost of standing with the oppressed and marginalized really entails in contemporary US society. A theo-​ethical response to the present situation will require that more of us commit to a much better understanding of the ordinary activists of the Hip Hop generation who insist on prominent roles in leading the struggle against the New Jim Crow. This will no doubt be

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very difficult for some seasoned adult Christian activists of an older generation. That youths and young adults are playing a prominent role against dimensions of mass incarceration can be seen when social media like Vine, Instagram, Facebook, and especially Black Twitter (with hashtags like #iftheyshot-​medown, “#IfTheyGunnedMeDown, #BlackLivesMatter,” and #Say-​HerName) are employed to mobilize cross-​racial and ethnic coalitional masses of young people onto the streets of many American cities. Christian ethicists of every age in North America need to figure out what to make of the Hip Hop generation in times such as these, a time when J. Cole mobilizes Black young people with his tribute to Michael Brown called “Be Free,” a half-​century after “We Shall Overcome” first hit the blood-​soaked streets of protest, justice, and freedom. This is the same J. Cole whose new, already best-​selling album, 2014 Forrest Hills Drive, contains the track “G.O.M.D.” (Get off My Dick). Increased, uncomfortable, and hopeful Christian companionship with the Black youthful generation, who bear the brunt of excessive punitive policing, community supervision, correctional confinement, and death within the new Jim Crow, signals the risks of faith that requires Anabaptists getting our Christian convictions about peace and reconciliation fucked up in the name of Jesus Christ. Indeed, my contribution to the teaching and articulation of Christian ethics has now become a costly, unsanitized, and often raggedy theo-​ethical approach that dances toward justice and love in this particular place and circumstance of time. Grounding moral confrontations with the new Jim Crow in the classroom, I ask students to consider, discuss, debate, evaluate, and critique the professor’s commitment to the moral clues that present themselves in the Christian God’s self-​unveiling as the lowly-​born, tortured, spat upon, beaten, crucified, and risen Jesus Christ of Nazareth. I argue with them and they argue back that the way of this humiliated Jesus has been demonstrated in a Gospel tradition which aims at the restoration of justice, love, and grace in human relationships. Jesus sets us ablaze with active hope for justice and love, for friend and foe alike. The grace modeled for Christians in the Jesus tradition is a profound justice and love for others that speaks of our primal interrelatedness, our radical mutuality for the cause of difficult, costly, and reconciling liberation from the new Jim Crow.

Black and Anabaptist Virtue Ethics in the Classroom My teaching of theological (and more broadly religious and philosophical) ethics in relation to my teaching about mass incarceration, as well as across other interdisciplinary courses, is grounded in my constructivist membership

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in a historically forged American Blackness and with my membership in the MCUSA. My more than decade-​long vocation as professor and program director at a Quaker institution has been undergirded by a committed Anabaptist Mennonite faith perspective, and a cultural-​political praxis that seeks to correspond with an active hope and vision for a reconciled society and world within an eventually just and peaceable Christian framework of love. It is with humility and respect that I affirm the difficult and hope-​spired work of Jesus Christ in space and time. As I see it, Anabaptist Mennonite faith, hope, and love work in the service of engaging partnerships of often costly grace, and peaceable reconciliation among a complex diversity of conceptions of happiness, which my students are more than happy to school me on. Indeed, my teaching is inextricably connected to what I hope are love-​inspired relationships with the wider organic and inorganic world. I deeply believe that the pursuit of Christ-​centered love in the classroom, even when not specifically articulated, foretells, for me as a Black and Christian professor, a vision of ever-​closer reconciliation with the Christian God. Such reconciliation, at once unspeakably difficult and beautifully sublime, must commit itself to critical conversations and partnerships with interlocutors across the liberal arts disciplines and university professions, in churches and other places of worship, and in the wider society and world. Many interlocutors will no doubt have commitments to religious, philosophical, theoretical, and other foundations of truth and justice very different than those of Christians, whose reconciliation even among ourselves continues to be in a state of becoming. At the heart of my teaching ethics is a difficult, joyous, and ongoing embodiment of the theological virtues of faith, hope, and love—​as well as the cardinal virtues of classical antiquity, derived from Plato and adopted by Christian tradition: practical wisdom, courage, temperance, and justice. Always attending to the development of Christian character, or “excellence” in community, my teaching is meant to express a moral commitment to the temporal-​systemic reconciliation of that which is conflicted, alienated, or estranged. Foundationally, Christian love (principally philia, eros, and agape as the ultimate scriptural forms) lies at the heart of present and eschatological Christian reconciliation with the God who offers into human history the “politics of Jesus” as a supreme yet historically contested gift. Trying to live out a politics of what I imagine to be a “hold-​up-​not-​so-​fast” reconciliation has been the aim of my work as I teach against, for example, highly racialized mass incarceration and paramilitary policing at home, and against the Israeli occupation of Palestine abroad.

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I wish for my students to absorb well the domestic realities of life’s complex material and moral estrangements, as well as signs of a better hope, which lie both within and beyond the immediacy of the professor’s or student’s particular narratives of life: we must pay moral attention to clean water; adult literacy; corporate degradation of weeping mountains stripped for profit around the world; monstrous narratives of genocide that routinely accompany human history; gang violence, brutal policing, imprisonment culture; First Nations rights; exploited-​yet-​d ignity-​inspired migrant farm workers of North America; courageous survivors of devastating natural disasters worsened by the weight of racial and ethnic xenophobia; and gross indignities of a domestic and world-​w ide slave trade that ensnares predominantly women and girls in numbers too great to count. I try to tell students that a critical and necessary domestic focus on reconciling moral hope ought not to preclude paying active attention alongside others to the confounding levels of human alienation, neglect, and hostility beyond North America. Moral attention must be given to the Middle East, Sub-​Saharan Africa, the wide expanses of Asia, Eastern and Western Europe, Central and South America, the Caribbean, and even, perhaps, to J.R. Tolkien’s fictitious and factious “Middle Earth” representing the elusiveness of creaturely reconciliation on grounds that are sexed, gendered, racial, tribal, greed-​laden, religious, and otherwise. I invite students to give their ethical lives to the service of the elusive moral good, right, and fitting, whether they are ultimately committed to the Christian Christ, the Muslim Allah, the Jewish Adonai, Buddhism, Hinduism, atheistic or agnostic human reason, scientific truth, Voodoo, Obeah, Santeria, Jainism, Daoism, Deism, or any other spiritual or secular ethical foundation or admixture thereof to which they offer up their faith and fidelity. From wherever my students’ (and my own) moral foundations emerge, a robust dialog concerning the life-​affirming, versus death-​dealing, elements of life together is routinely present. Indeed, my vocation of teaching ethics and scholarship at a Quaker college has been deeply inspired by a reconciling, interrogating, and unyielding embrace of Christian faith, which actively lives (once again) at the intersection of Good Friday and Easter. I suspect that living at such an intersection reflects the peaceable ethical teaching of Anabaptist Christians, whose call is to foster human interconnectedness, belonging, celebration, and joy in a manner that affirms the Gospel in both our particular societies and the wider world. This is to say—​drawing on Menno Simons, Allan Boesak, and Karl Barth, respectively—​that teaching ethics signifies the profound Christian confession that the

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“true evangelical faith cannot lie dormant: It clothes the naked; it feeds the hungry; It comforts the sorrowful; It shelters the destitute; it binds up that which is wounded; It fights poverty, seeks justice, [respects and preserves the natural world] and foretells [of] peace.”14

Such reconciling faith must never be “an escape into the safe heights of pure ideas” (theological or otherwise). The pursuit of such reconciliation is “an entry into the need[s]‌of the present, sharing in its suffering, its activity, and its hope.”15

Bibliography Alexander, Michelle. The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration the Age of Colorblindness. New York: The New Press, 2010. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics. In The Basic Works of Aristotle, edited by Richard McKeon. New York: Random House, 1941. Baldwin, James. “The White Man’s Guilt.” Ebony (August 1965). Boesak, Allen. In Beyond Poverty and Influence: Toward an Economy of Care. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, edited by Bob Goudzwaard and Harry de Lange, 1995. —​—​—​. “God van de armen”. In [“God of the Poor”] in Met de Moed der Hoop, Opstellen Aangeboden aan dr. C. F. Beyers Naudé [Encouraged by Hope: Essays Dedicated to Dr. C. F. Beyers Naudé], 48–54. Baarn, The Netherlands: Baarn, Bosch en Keuning, 1985. Bonhoeffer, Dietrich. Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, Volume 10: Barcelona, Berlin, New York 1928–​1931, edited by Clifford J. Green. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008. Busch, Eberhard. Karl Barth: His Life from Letters and Autobiographical Texts, translated by John Bowden. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994. Davis, Angela Y. “Race, Gender, and Prison History: From the Convict Lease System to the Supermax Prison.” In Prison Masculinities, edited by Don Sabo, Terry A. Kupers, and Willie London. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2001.

14 Quoted with some paraphrasing and addition from Menno Simons, The Complete Writings of Menno Simons, ed. C. J. Wenger (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1956), 307, and Allan Boesak, in Beyond Poverty and Influence: Toward an Economy, ed. Bob Goudzwaard and Harry de Lange (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 72. The original Boesak source, “God van de armen” [“God of the Poor”], is in Met de Moed der Hoop, Opstellen Aangeboden aan dr. C. F. Beyers Naudé [Encouraged by Hope: Essays Dedicated to Dr. C. F. Beyers Naudé] (Baarn, The Netherlands: Baarn, Bosch en Keuning, 1985), 73. 15 Quoted with some paraphrasing and addition from Eberhard Busch, Karl Barth: His Life from Letters and Autobiographical Texts, trans. John Bowden (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 100.

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Lanier, James Lanier. “The Harmful Impact of the Criminal Justice System and War on Drugs on the African-​A merican Family,” National Urban League Annual Report 2003. nul.iamempowered.com/​fi les/​report attachments/​2003AnnualRpt. pdf. Ryan, Joseph. “Black Prison Population Approaches One Million,” Socialist Action (April 1999). www.socialistaction.org/​news/​199904/​prison.html. Simons, Menno. “Why I Do Not Cease Teaching and Writing”. In The Complete Writings of Menno Simons, edited by J. C. Wenger, 289–320. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1956. Stout, Jeffrey. “Rorty on Religion and Politics.” In The Philosophy of Richard Rorty, edited by Randall E. Auxier and Lewis E. Hahn. Chicago: Open Court Publishing Co., 2010.

Chapter 6  “Be Just, and Fear Not”: Theater as Restorative Justice1 L aur en F r iesen

When all the tools of criticism for dissecting theater are put aside, what is left on the table is one central body of truth: theater lays bare for the world to see how justice and injustice are measured.2 Typically, theater is examined with an eye on structure (Aristotle), deconstruction (Derrida), type (Kitto), didactic parables, “Lehrstücke” (Brecht), cruelty (Artaud), cultural artifact (Kant), expressiveness (Tolstoy), difference (Sue Ellen Case), or psycho-​analytical insight (Freud). Instead of extending those valuable discussions, this essay examines theater as an instrument of justice and the methods which theater employs toward that end. The good in art has parallels, according to Kant, with the good in ethics because “the beautiful is a symbol of the morally good.”3 Therefore, justice is not a sub-​t heme, but the dynamic force at theater and society’s core. I will examine selected works from the ancient Greeks to contemporary trends. This approach continues a thematic methodology I have developed in prior publications.4

Foundations of Restorative Justice Justice, as a principle, has many layers: just intentions, just agents, just means, just ends, and just systems that fall into the categories of virtues and

1 William Shakespeare, Henry VIII. Act 3, Sc 2:1. 2 This essay will not cover the topics of previous publications where I examined Mennonites and theater. The bibliography section lists some of those essays. 3 Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgement, 180. 4 Lauren Friesen, “Race, Ritual, and Reconciliation”; and “Transcendence in Modern and Postmodern Plays”; “Tragedy, Modernism, Identity.”

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teleological (contextual obligations) ethics.5 But justice is not an emotion or subjective declaration such as “I am not a crook,” or “I am not a racist.” Action, praxis, separates the just and the unjust. Aristotle also suggests that societies need to move beyond ethical principles and develop “rectifying” strategies to actualize justice.6 For the purposes of this essay, I will focus on Aristotle’s teleological ethics as the equitable distribution of goods7 and rectifying deeds8 as the just restitution in the event ethical norms are fractured. The distinction between virtue and distributive ethics is relevant for an examination of theater. Virtue ethics generally focuses on personal and individual intentions and behavior. Ever since the emergence of Greek philosophy, the ethic of virtues has held a strong foothold in Western culture.9 Virtue theory presupposes that if society is composed of good people (virtuous) then the result will be a good (just) society. And as attractive as that may be, virtue theory is seriously limited as a method for analyzing theater; theater is not a collection of individual characters demonstrating personal virtues: good people doing good deeds. Virtue theory for individuals often does not account for the injustices that a society might perpetuate simply because institutions themselves are often limited and flawed.10 Character flaws in a play have little meaning unless one can observe their impact on the larger social fabric. Theater exists to explore those coercive social factors that test the inner life and decisions of a character, and this unveiling of the soul is to some the dwelling-​in on a discovery while others find it too close for comfort. Distributive justice examines the ethics of social, political, and economic realities. Theater is a discipline where the production is greater than the sum of its parts which thrusts it into the larger, social arena. And even though theatrical characters are individual, they are shown in their social contexts. For that reason, I tend to rely on the methods of distributive ethics as a more efficacious approach for the study of a dramatic work.

5 Teleological ethics assess choices: what we ought to do in contrast to those emphasize what kind of person we should be (virtue theories). https://​plato.stanf​ord.edu/​ entr​ies/​eth​ics-​deonto​logi​cal/​. Accessed July 1, 2020. 6 Sarah Broadie, Ethics with Aristotle, 427. 7 Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics, 112. “The just, then, is a species of the proportionate.” 113. 8 Ibid, 114–​116. 9 Plato. Republic, Book IV. His four cardinal virtues are: wisdom, courage, moderation, and justice (the latter decided by the state). 10 Reinhold Niebuhr, Moral Man and Immoral Society. “The coercive factors in social life … create injustice in the process of establishing peace.” 16.

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The late John Rawls expanded upon Aristotle’s principle of distributive justice with the claim that in a democracy it encompasses more than the equitable distribution of goods to include the equitable administration of liberty, freedom, and responsibility.11 Thus, the administration of justice might be implemented and evaluated by (a) the equitable distribution of goods, (b) a rectifying process, while (c) guarding the rights, freedoms, responsibilities of the citizenry. Theater, I claim, illustrates the ethical weaknesses, and promises of those three dynamics: dynamic because in theater we see action instead of inept posturing. As Augusto Boal stated, “Dramatic action throws light on real action.”12 The line between that often exists between the stage and real life, is thus diminished even if not eliminated. Any skeptic might ask whether plays are able to encapsulate teleological principles of fair and equitable distribution of anything. Justice is, for Aristotle, “a certain thing that … should be equal for all persons.”13 Where goods are equitably distributed, people will have a higher degree of satisfaction with their social, legal, political, and religious systems. When that standard is met, citizens will have a higher degree of happiness. John Rawls expanded that view by stating the marks of a just society are where not just goods, but rights, liberties and responsibilities should also be distributed fairly. The second part of Aristotle identifies rectifying actions as voluntary or involuntary. He is particularly interested in the voluntary ones because they reveal character and hope for society. He recognizes that involuntary actions (legally or politically coerced) have the potential to bring about social and economic equality.14 Rectifying actions are for Aristotle generally in proportion to the injury inflicted on the wounded parties. This view appears to be close to, but not identical with, the process recently termed restorative justice.15 Those two perspectives, distributive, and restorative justice, and how they link with theater, are the primary foci of this essay. Responsible citizens, Aristotle advised, need to act and not withdraw from society; they cannot excuse themselves from the uncertainties of pursuing 11 John Rawls, Theory of Justice, 18. 12 Augusto Boal, Theatre of the Oppressed, 155. 13 Aristotle, Politics, 103–​104. 14 Aristotle, Poetics, 111. 15 Howard Zehr, The Little Book on Restorative Justice; Stephanie Hixon and Thomas Porter, The Journey: forgiveness, restorative justice and reconciliation; Jessica Metoui, “Returning to the Circle: Reemergence of Traditional Dispute Resolution in Native American Communities”; Mitch Dudek, “2 New Restorative Justice Courts to Open Next Month,” 11.

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justice. Even though he viewed the created universe as static and unchanging, his view of society was the opposite: social and political processes are a dynamic organism. John Rawls expands upon this idea: “The social system is not an unchangeable order beyond human control but a pattern of human action.”16 What is true for society, according to Aristotle, is also true for theater: justice is not a peripheral theme or subordinate topic for theater, but a central and pivotal factor for a play. The reason this analysis matters is that it removes theater from the realm of entertainment and locates it directly within the academy as a tool for investigating human behavior (ethics) in a contextual manner. The arts, theater in particular, are that bridge between individual and society, church, and world. Thus, for people of faith, the intersections between justice and theater are fertile grounds for an investigation. Theater, according to Aristotle, provokes strong emotions of fear (ϕοβέω) and shame (έρασθε)17 before resolving them with the frequently maligned term catharsis (κάθαρσις as wholeness). The audience witnesses how pride leads to flawed (ἁμάρτίά means “missing the mark”) decisions and actions by a tragic hero (i.e., Oedipus) that leads to their fall. This plot progression evokes strong emotions of guilt and phobia (often translated as pity and fear) and by experiencing them in an exaggerated form, the audience is purged (cleansed) from them. People are cleansed internally, and society is cleansed externally to become free to act as just and responsible citizens in a society. Catharsis is not a static term or merely a subjective sense of “feeling good” but a dynamic term that references human actions and emotions that generally follow the purging of guilt and fear. People who have experienced catharsis become free from emotions that had often paralyzed them or lead to tragic actions: fear and guilt. According to Helen Briassoulis, alleviating fear and guilt from the individual and society frees them to act in a more ethical manner.18 Stephen Halliwell emphasized that in classical Greek, catharsis was a medical for healing (rectifying) and he suggests that was Aristotle’s intended use of the term.19 This latter definition is similar to my understanding of theater and its impact. And, according to Benedetto Croce, Aristotle “…had a glimpse of the modern idea of the liberating power of art.”20 Catharsis is

16 Rawls, Op. Cit., 102. 17 The English term “guilt” or “pity” might be equivalent concepts for an Aristotelian analysis. See David Konstan, “Shame in Ancient Greece.” 18 “The Catharsis of the Commons,” International Journal of the Commons, 1101. 19 Stephen Halliwell, Aristotle’s Poetics, 186. 20 Benedetto Croce, Aesthetic, 161.

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the wholeness that emerges after a calamity is existentially confronted and resolved.21 This emphasis on catharsis, linked with justice and liberation, is rooted in how Aristotle viewed theater, not as a suppressive, stagnant effect on society but as a dynamic force for healing and justice. There are voices, of course, who claim that emotional depth corrupts the arts and that links between justice and the arts are, if not impossible, then at least highly improbable. Many of these thinkers follow Plato’s warning (Republic, Bk 5) that artistic pleasures are disconnected from thought and will therefore corrupt a society. This line of thought prevailed, via Augustine, through much of the medieval world and is still present today. The late philosopher Susanne K. Langer explores the opposite view when she states, “The import of art is imaginable feeling and emotion, imaginable subjective existence.”22 Elsewhere she states that art is “…the projection of feeling by means of transformation.”23 Art, and possibly art alone, provides us with a dignified journey into that landscape of emotions. That is the efficacious linkage between art and feeling where transformation occurs. Art thrives at the core of human feeling and when it evokes catharsis, people are made whole. Catharsis, thus, is not limited to a feeling or an attitude, but a resetting of the forces that touch our lives so that we can see that evil (ἁμάρτίά) has been exposed, expiated, and justice (fairness) has been restored. This restoration is on a personal level, such as Creon (Antigone) coming to terms with his diabolical edicts, and they are social: the impact on the family, society, and political structures. Sophocles, with two of his plays (Antigone and Oedipus), is teaching audiences of the dangers inherent with tyranny. Justice, in this manner, is restored even though the evil deed cannot be undone. Therefore, catharsis is not a mood, such as elation or euphoria, following the dramatic resolution of a dramatic conflict. As Theodor Adorno notes, “Catharsis is a purging action directed against an ally of repression.”24 Catharsis, thereby, purges the viewer from engaging in or wanting to imitate similar, tragic actions. Purgation leads to wholeness. To state it more succinctly, catharsis exorcises the demons of guilt (modern view of Aristotle’s “pity”) and fear

21 Duane K. Friesen makes a similar observation that justice is closely linked to biblical “shalom as wholeness” for individuals and society. “The Convergence of Pacifism and Just War,” in War and Christian Ethics: Classic and Contemporary Readings on the Morality of War, 2nd edn, ed., Arthur F. Holmes (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academy, 2005), 353. 22 Susanne K. Langer, Problems of Art, 113. 23 Langer, Mind: An Essay on Human Feeling, 128. 24 Theodor Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, 238.

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(ελєου και φοβου in Poetics, Book VI, 2).25 The exorcism of fear from public and personal life is a spiritual discipline which is not limited to the arts or a singular event, but a set of deliberate actions that lead to the transformation of the individual and society. Kwame Anthony Appiah refers to this process as “soul making” as the internal re-​creating of self, shedding all that distracts from our spiritual well-​being. Through the experience of theater (rehearsing, designing, staging, performing and viewing/​audience participation) this process of soul making becomes an existential reality. The healing capacity of soul making increases our potential for “living an ethical life.”26

The Plays27 This essay will examine plays, from across the span of history, which grapple with principles of justice and illustrate soul making or its opposite: personal and social disintegration. I propose that theater reveals the human struggle to understand justice and then often points to the means to live accordingly. Justice, as a cord that ties together ancient Greek, medieval ritual, Elizabethan, and contemporary theater as a central element becomes a measure by which one can weigh the dimensions of faith and aesthetics in dramatic works. The people of God, it seems to me, can identify with that aim. “We must come to understand that how we live out our lives and take responsibility for ourselves and our activities here on planet Earth are matters that we humans must work out as carefully and responsibly as we can.”28 Such a definitive claim will require further investigation with examples that come not from the fringes of theater but from works often listed in theater syllabi. From the Greek tragedian, Aeschylus, to the wide diversity of the current theater offerings, justice is an arc that links the best of the works and is the one element that transcends the vicissitudes of history. Comedy, as well as tragedy and epic works, have provided audience after audience, generation 25 Augusto Boal, Op. Cit., rejects Aristotle’s plot analysis as “oppressive” but in the end, he and I stand in agreement that theater is about unmasking oppression and liberating people for action. Evidence of how nimble these concepts are and malleable for interpretation. 26 Kwame Anthony Appiah, The Ethics of Identity, 164. John Keats, in a letter to his brother (1819), contrasted “the vale of soul making” with the “vale of tears” as the two areas of struggle humanity faces. https://​johnk​eats​200.co.uk/​1819/​200-​years-​ ago-​keats-​w rote-​about-​t he-​vale-​of-​soul-​mak​ing/​. Accessed May 10, 2020. 27 This study is limited to plays even though many musicals from Jerome Kern’s Showboat (1927) to contemporary works such as Lin-​Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton (2015) also explore the theme of justice. 28 Gordon Kaufman, In the Beginning … Creativity, 68.

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after generation, with works that highlight the traumas of an age and how a quest for justice can serve as a solace or incite action against prevailing injustices. This has occurred not because there is a deep or wide conspiracy among playwrights to hold the mirror of justice/​injustice in front of one reluctant audience after another. This assumption is rooted in the universal understanding, among artists, of a common humanity. Martha Nussbaum observes that the Greeks thought justice originated with Zeus who gave this principle to humanity so it would not destroy itself.29 Nussbaum notes that justice is the means by which individuals and the city can rescue themselves without resorting to violence.30 In addition, Nussbaum notes that justice, properly applied, is the operative principle whereby individuals and the city can restore political integrity.31 This nonviolent emphasis in the Greek understanding of justice has many parallels in religious traditions, especially the Mennonite/​ Anabaptist legacy, as we will see later. How does this theory of justice (goods, rectification, rights, liberty, and responsibility) function in a theatrical production? Immanuel Kant outlined that view and included the concept that the aesthetically good is also connected to the ethical (justice) good.32 Those concepts, universality, the ethical good, the beautiful, unite all the plays under consideration in this essay. The analysis I will apply to these plays is closely aligned with the process termed “restorative justice.” The central tenet in restorative justice is, “the obligation to put right the wrongs.”33 How is this done? Who are the agents to accomplish this, and what are the implications for the characters for a play, i.e., the plot resolution? Do characters put things right, at the end of a play, with that obligation? The connection between restorative justice and Aristotle’s catharsis became obvious to me the more I directed plays and taught theater history. Justice and catharsis are not equivalent values, but the emotions and processes inherent in each have a similar form: a beginning, middle, and, when all goes well, a satisfying conclusion. My commitment to theater, in fact my view of art, is rooted in this connection between justice and aesthetics. Camus states it very well, “The aim of art can only be to increase the sum of freedom and responsibility.”34 Absolute freedom without responsibility, may lead to anarchy and absolute responsibility (duty) without freedom, becomes servile. 29 Martha Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness, 102. 30 Ibid, 353. 31 Ibid. 32 Kant, Op. Cit., 180. “The beautiful is the symbol of the morally good.” 33 Howard Zehr, Op. Cit., 19. 34 Albert Camus, Resistance, Rebellion, and Death, 184.

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Those two values are often incompatible, one is the antithesis of the other, but art exists because an artist struggles to knit liberation and responsibility into a new synthesis. The artists have the burden and pleasure of linking those two factors in a synchronized dance of dislocation or harmony, beauty or waste, and justice or inequality. With that preamble, our next step will be to examine how theater combines those contrasting elements in its quest for justice.

Sophocles In Sophoclean tragedy, Oedipus, the main character’s flaw, pride, is expressed in two incidents. The first is when, prior to the play’s opening lines, he killed his biological father (King Laius) in a heat of emotion (pride) and secondly when he brags that he alone (arrogance) can set the world right with his sword by punishing those who killed his father (lines 245ff). Oedipus is not seeking justice, in the sense of setting things right, but revenge against anyone who might have killed Laius and, ironically, as the audience knows, he is the perpetrator of the crime. The remainder of the play is about fact-​fi nding, establishing the veracity of the prophet’s claim. And when the truth comes out, Oedipus keeps his word and punishes himself. Watching his fall from the pinnacle of society to the lower depths, evokes the tears of purgation (cleansing) which results in catharsis (restoration). Oedipus will not continue as king, but a degree of social wholeness occurs because he took responsibility for his own misdeeds. A level of justice is realized when pride and arrogance is brought low with Oedipus punishing himself for his deeds. Aristotle emphasized that the greatest character flaw is pride (ùβρις) and that character failing caused Oedipus to murder his father and marry his mother (incest). The fact that Oedipus did it unknowingly (he did not recognize his father or his mother) does not absolve his shame/​guilt from those vile deeds, or in modern language: ignorance is no excuse. The play begins when he seeks to find the identity of this man who would murder his own father and marry his mother and that he, as King, will mete out punishment. Clarence Bauman points out that the tragic characters in Greek plays do not seek revenge but a measure of justice.35 What they seek is justice that restores the quality of life in the polis. Is such a scenario not a rough equivalent to the process of restorative justice? In both paths there are misdeeds that cannot be undone, there are consequences for the victims and the perpetrator and, in the end, hopefully,

35 Clarence Bauman, On the Meaning of Life, 56.

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and the one who precipitated the misdeeds will take responsibility and possibly pay a price. By illustrating the short-​sightedness of Oedipus’s revenge strategy, the play suggests that another path would have been preferred. At this stage, the final restorative/​cathartic actions bring freedom to the community because it will recognize that justice has prevailed in a calamitous situation. Comedy also has parallels with restorative justice although the contours are in reverse. Instead of a tragic hero who falls from great heights, a comedy often begins with the misfortunes common to humanity and then we witness the gradual rise in fortunes. In these scenarios, we respond with laughter as we witness with the missteps of the characters. In a comedy, laughter is a sign of purgation and catharsis. It is the clue that we can see character flaws and learn from them, learn not to repeat the missteps we have seen. Aristotle observed that the character progression in a comedy is the opposite from a tragic one: instead of the mighty brought low, the lowly are raised up.36 As William Congreve observed, “Comick poets are oblig’d by the laws of Comedy … to present vicious and foolish characters” who then are transformed.37 There are two basic plot lines for comic characters. The first, as developed by Terrence in ancient Rome (i.e., Phormio, 161 B.C.E.) is the gradual rise in social status of a slave as the foibles of the citizens are exposed. The slave, for example, often outwits the master and thereby gains freedom and stature. The second possibility is the comic character is too audacious, arrogant and is reduced in stature in the end. Restorative justice, in those cases, may take the form of loss or gain of social and economic status.

Medieval English Play: Herod In plots where the comic characters are not transformed, they are often ridiculed or even punished for their inability to change. The differing versions of the medieval play Herod in the English Cycle plays all illustrate the impossibility of those in power to transform (rectify) evil intentions. It is an example of restorative justice gone awry because the main character, Herod, refuses to accept responsibility for his misdeeds. Herod stands in sharp contrast with Oedipus: one murdered his father, the other went on a killing spree and murdered hundreds. One experiences remorse, the other delights in his sadism.

36 Aristotle, Poetics, 23. 37 William Congreve, Amendments of Mr. Collier’s False and Imperfect Citations. Accessed July 2, 2020.

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Herod, in the Medieval English Cycle plays, also explores justice but from a very different angle. Herod is a buffoon who happens to be king.38 In the performance, he mingles with the audience and regales them as they whip up a chorus of cheers. The stage directions state that at one point “Herod rageth in the street.”39 This is a play with considerable actor/​audience interaction. In the language of theater, it constantly “breaks the fourth wall.” Herod, of course, is furious that three Magi came to ask where they could find the newborn “King of the Jews.” In his paranoia, coupled with his buffoonery, he orders his soldiers to kill infants and rewards them mightily when he hears they have completed the deed. Herod is not portrayed as a brute but as one who is indifferent to the suffering of others, especially infants, as he regales the public with comic wit. Where is the justice in that? Good question. Herod’s actions are completely opposite from a King who would take responsibility for his actions while ensuring protection for the people. There are no rectifying deeds in his repertoire of cruelty. Herod’s brutality is a direct assault on the audience’s sense of stability and yet fits a medieval paradigm: kings cannot be trusted; God alone, and God’s priests, are trustworthy. There is not a single king in all the English cycle plays who is portrayed as an advocate for justice and the Christian faith. The conflict between Henry II and the martyr Thomas ἁ Becket illustrates this tension and its mortal consequences. Curiously, Herod, in the Wakefield cycle prays to Mohammed which illustrates the tendency, following the murder of Thomas à Kempis by Henry II, to portray any king as an “enemy of the church.” In the Towneley Plays, Herod calls on Mahowne, a pre-​Christian god, to come to his aid and in the Chester plays he pleads with the god Mahound. To medieval ears, this may have sounded like a racist pejorative: a contraction between Mohammed and hound, but maybe I speculate too much. Herod exits with this ironic advice, “Sirs, this is my counsel, be not cruel.” The irony strips away any buffoonery that has been shown and now we, the viewers, realize that Herod is at heart as evil as we have assumed. There is no catharsis, no apparent justice, at the end of this trope. That will come in the following ones where the very family (Mary, Joseph, and Jesus) that he sought to destroy, with a murder of infants, becomes victorious and Jesus eventually staged as seated on an eternal throne. Only then, not at the end of the Herod play, is everything well again with the world. Justice in the medieval world was measured out and exercised through the eyes of eternity and 38 Andrew Lloyd Webber also recreated this view of Herod for his musical Jesus Christ Superstar. www.youtube.com/​watch?v=​BaOfBQ5uw6M. Accessed April 20, 2020. 39 John Gassner, ed., Medieval and Tudor Drama, 141.

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not necessarily here on earth. One can sense the nihilism running through these works, not a nihilism due to the loss of transcendence, but the loss of hope that political and economic systems have the will, let alone the ability, to create a just world. The question for the Herod plays is, where can justice to be found? It is not in the character’s actions or even the resolution. When Herod exits, he is untouched physically and even emotionally by his own treachery.40 So it first appears. Because it is only one play out of thirty-​t wo, its purpose is to provide comic relief and thereby it stands in contrast to the somber, New Testament narrative that follows, including a trial, crucifixion, and resurrection. The Herod play works as an interlude that swings the pendulum in one direction for which the plot then requires a reverse action to establish justice. Even so, not all is well. The subsequent events are the height of injustice: the slaughter of innocents in the Herod play foreshadows the great slaughter of the one innocent, Jesus, who, according to Christian thought, is at the center of history. The villainy of Herod foreshadows the villainy of the Romans who crucified Jesus. Thus, the principle of justice the medieval plays reveals that while life can be cruel, especially to the innocent, but, the meek shall inherit the earth. This method, defining what cannot be shown by showing its opposite, has a long tradition in Christianity and it would have been consistent with medieval Christian theology. Thomas Aquinas’s well-​k nown observation is useful here: “we cannot apprehend it by knowing what it is, but we have some sort of knowledge of it by knowing what it is not.”41 The audience learns what is “good” by seeing its opposite played out onstage with a despicable, comic character. It is funny when a big bird puppet (Sesame Street) talks, but when a person takes on a puffed-​up sense of self, it becomes both humorous and tragic.42 Pedagogically, one might say, comedy also instructs the public about justice with the ancient device called via negativa. We learn by seeing the failures of others who are portrayed in a tragic or comedic manner. Justice is portrayed, not by Herod, but the story which the public would know: the flight to Egypt and the ultimate victory of Jesus (I John 2:2). Thus, the restoration of wholeness occurs through those who follow the risen Christ and to work toward a just society (Romans 12:16) where citizens live in harmony and walk with the dispossessed.

40 The exception in the Chester Cycle where Herod dies onstage and is dragged, unceremoniously, off the pageant wagon. 41 Aquinas, Summa Contra Gentiles, Book I:14. 42 Henri Bergson, “Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic.”

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Theater has also addressed justice not just in terms of characters but by presenting social and thematic problems and resolutions. Occasionally, these lead to a sense of catharsis, as defined above, but often they do not. Instead, the resolution is not formalized, closed, and the audience must grapple with the implications of what they have witnessed if they are to find a path to catharsis. That resolution often requires a new view of humanity or a direct action to change society.

William Shakespeare A very different pattern emerges with Shakespeare’s Othello. The significance of this work has shifted from the Elizabethan Era till now. Then the presence of a Moor was exotic and unusual; today the play exposes the racial division in America where one side, the African, rises to greatness only to be destroyed by the devious and vicious mechanisms often inherent in white supremacy. In the same way that Othello follows an old tragic playbook—​t he hero who is flawed—​t he antagonist has been scripted with another: the reduction and possible elimination of someone who has risen above their social order. With the passing of time and the movement of peoples, the issues have changed from Shakespeare’s time till now, but the script has not. Yet, through those changes the script survives as a vital text that now illuminates the struggles of the current racial divide. So how does Othello address justice as a desirable and obtainable goal? The themes in Othello are well known—​betrayal, racism, gender, jealousy, murder, pathos—​even though the play seems to hover over the same Thomistic arena as Herod: via negativa. The differences are multiple between Herod and Othello, the Moor: comic versus tragic, betrayal of the main character rather than the main character betraying his subjects, and the final recognition by Othello of his own tragic errors which leads to the tragic ending. Iago devotes his energies to betraying Othello and advancing the notion that Desdemona is unfaithful. He warns Othello that Desdemona did not fully comprehend the true nature and intentions of a Moor. To that Othello defends Desdemona and himself with “For she had eyes and chose me.” Yet, Othello, who trusted Iago on the battlefield, trusts him in this moment of treachery thereby falling more deeply into Iago’s abyss of lies. The love between Othello and Desdemona is shattered by lies from Iago and a growing suspicion on the part of Othello until it reaches a shattering point and Othello acts, killing his wife. Then he learns that his great weakness, naiveté, has destroyed in his life, fortune, and hope. In his sorrow he takes responsibility for his own gullibility and actions, but it does not bring about

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a sense of equilibrium because he has destroyed the rights and liberty of Desdemona and, thereby his own. Justice and Aristotle’s catharsis both occur when the audience recognizes their own culpability in a world of treachery and accepts their own errors in judgment and action. Othello does appeal to a transcendent being who might rescue him. Justice is now a human responsibility, and any viewer of the play will need to learn how to act justly by learning to distinguish expressions of love (Desdemona) from betrayal (Iago). And Iago’s character is adroitly summed up by Andy Mousley: “A human being devoid of emotion is no human being.”43 That dimension of inhumanity is at the core of the plot and places the focus on those who hear and heed Iago’s schemes. Shakespeare removes responsibility for justice from the heavenly realm and brings it down to earth for humans to learn and then, presumably, to act. The danger in this humanization of ethics is an individualistic tendency to fall victim to diabolical innuendos. Shakespeare also warns the viewer against falling into that trap. The factor of race is also present in Othello and any examination of justice for this play needs to be cognizant of the destructive force of racism. Brabantio hinted at this early in the play as a prelude to Iago’s trickery and use of innuendo on the issue of race. In the face of all the accusations, Othello remains noble in intention and just in his deeds until he kills Desdemona. His action underscores Iago’s diabolical stance that a “Moor,” even a highly capable military leader, is too gullible and emotional to understand the human heart. “Othello’s sense of honor is intimately bound up with his belief in justice.”44 Therefore, in Othello we witness a just and gallant hero who falls victim to gossip and the vile tactics of lessor men. That fall is the tragedy of Othello and Shakespeare has the skill to develop the plot wherein fear and pity are presented with magnitude. Othello learns too late that his wife is blameless so he asks us to remember him as one who “loved not wisely but too well,” before he kills himself. Thus, we are presented with an ending that illustrates the great waste of human goodness. We weep for both, Desdemona and Othello who fall victim to the depraved devices of Iago. Shakespeare presents a heroic African (Moor) who is acclaimed by many but one individual, Iago, is intent on bringing him down. He uses treachery, the Moor’s weakness (jealousy), to destroy two lives. Shakespeare never has to say it explicitly, but he understands the tactics and motivation of white supremacy. In fact, Iago’s character and words align themselves with the villainy of white supremacy. 43 Andy Mousley, Re-​Humanizing Shakespeare, 59. 44 Martin Orkin, “Othello and the ‘plain face’ of Racism,” 172.

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The parallel methods in America have been lynching and police brutality, but the objective is the same: destroy the black man and his family to set an example for all others. These words by Iago to Brabantio, father of Desdemona, may as well be a prologue to American racism: Even now, now, very now, an old black ram Is topping your white ewe. Arise, arise; Awake the snorting citizens with the bell, Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you. (Act I, Sc 1)

Shakespeare unmasks those tactics for all to see. We, the audience, become witnesses and are thereby challenged to act against those tactics for justice to prevail. Shakespeare exposes white supremacy as a condition that destroys trust, human relationships, and institutions. As Brigitte Fielder45 notes that, with the marriage of a black man (Moor) and a white woman, Shakespeare exposes the horrors of a racist audience. Othello slices the principle of justice in different ways than the plays we have examined so far. It illustrates the tyranny of the lie, a lie repeated and augmented by even greater lies, until someone who is a valiant and just hero is destroyed. Iago has used his tongue to destroy the life and liberty of others and he is devoid of any effort to rectify the situation. In the wake of Othello’s fall, political instability and chaos will possibly ensue. It is a warning from William Shakespeare that political leadership, especially by an honorable leader, can be destroyed by intrigue, suspicion, and diabolical defamations, especially when they are tossed into a cauldron of racial tension. A kingdom without racial justice is a realm corroding from within.

Eugene O’Neill In the modern era we can find many works that explore justice and its outcomes. Eugene O’Neill’s A Moon for the Misbegotten spells out how justice and injustice cause either the destruction or hope for a family and society in distress. The play is set on a pig farm where Josie, an unusually large and husky woman, lives with her father. Their financial situation is dire, and they are totally vulnerable to the landlord, Jim Tyrone, who is threatening to sell a small, unproductive piece of land. Josie has a bad reputation in the area for being a loose woman and Jim is reportedly an uncontrollable drunk. Their two lives intersect in unpredictable ways. As Travis Bogard notes, “A Moon 45 Brigette Fielder, “Blackface Desdemona,” Journal of Theatre and Performance of the Americas 70 (2017): 47.

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for the Misbegotten is an act of love, supplying through its romantic fiction a blessing for a damned soul.”46 With two such compromised characters, the play can quickly drift into chaos and tragedy. Deceit and betrayal are the potential devices that might destroy these characters. But O’Neill has a surprise for the audience. On the day Jim intends to sell this farm, he spends the afternoon and evening drinking. Josie has been waiting for him on the front steps of their shack with the possible last-​minute ploy: she will seduce him to stop the sale. Finally, past midnight when Jim returns, he admits he did not have the heart to sell this farm. He joins Josie on the stairs and begins to tell all the unsavory details of his life. When he finishes, we see this large woman, Josie, holding the emotionally drained Jim her arms in “an evocation of the Pieta.”47 As Travis Bogard states, Jose, “became the legendary Goddess.”48 In that pose, Josie admits that the rumors about her loose living are false and that she is in love with Jim and has waited for this moment to express her love. Then she utters the final words O’Neill would ever write: May you have your wish and die in your sleep soon, Jim, darling. May you rest forever in forgiveness and peace.49

Jim has been absolved from the errors of his ways; Josie is the judge and priestess who offers absolution.50 Jim accepts her absolution and then gets up to leave knowing that he will probably never return. Now his conscience is clear, and he is free to live or even to die. Moon for the Misbegotten was not an outlier for O’Neill because it is representative of his whole body of work. He was an advocate for social justice and a relentless opponent of the candy and spice of 19th Century melodrama. His early works at Provincetown Players (i.e., Bound East for Cardiff ) portrayed empathy for the power of the Irish dialect. His characters were not held up by the playwright for scorn or ridicule due to their Irishness; he made no attempt to write the “King’s English” or some American adaptation of it. He followed that admonition for audiences to experience and respect the dignity of the Irish sailors with plays that presented Black actors playing Black characters in a sympathetic and tragic light. He insisted on integrated casts in a time 46 Bogard, Contour in Time, 449. 47 Robert M. Dowling, Eugene O’Neill, 438. 48 Bogard, Op. Cit., 450. The character Nina, in O’Neill’s Strange Interlude, observes, we should view “God as a woman!” The Plays of Eugene O’Neill, Volume III, 42. 49 Eugene O’Neill, Later Plays, ed. Travis Bogard, 401. 50 Judith Barlow, “O’Neill’s female characters,” In The Cambridge Companion to Eugene O’Neill, 174.

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when that was a taboo (1920s) with Emperor Jones (Charles Gilpin followed by Paul Robison). These plays were banned in much of America outside of New York City. With Anna Christie he staged the pitfalls of religious and moral prejudice. And thus, he continued with a series of exposures of corrupt corporations (Marco Millions) and the limits of love to conquer social ills (Good God Brown). With The Iceman Cometh, he portrayed a subculture that had lost its religious and psychological moorings. O’Neill has had a long list of critics, of course, which is probably normal for any Nobel Prize recipient.51 I, too, see his awkward dialect writing (Moon of the Caribbees), the lack of depth in some characters (Lazarus Laughed), his long-​w indedness (Mourning Becomes Electra), limitless psychologizing (Strange Interlude) and yet, respect his boldness in addressing the major ills of his age: prejudice, poverty, corporate greed, addictions, marginalization of women, pejorative attitudes toward the laboring classes, and the lack of empathy for the “other”. By addressing those pervasive social issues, O’Neill threw off the shallowness of 19th Century entertainments that, in general, did not even question, let alone challenge, unjust social and economic structures of the day. Moon for the Misbegotten was a failure in 1947 and it was not until 1957, three years after O’Neill’s passing, that it became a success and in fact an iconic play in the American canon. In defense of this work, Eugene stated that he had thought of the feminine face of God all his life and finally presented a play where it was the central motif. As in Eumenides, a female character provides justice and forgiveness and thereby establishing equilibrium (liberty, rights, and responsibility). Unlike Othello, where the same themes exist (betrayal and deceit), in A Moon for the Misbegotten, those issues are resolved but in a jarring and innovative fashion: a woman presides over a confession. Virginia Floyd reminds us that this play is a “joyous tribute to the regenerative power of love.”52 Restorative justice, one might say, is realized in a narrative performance! Justice, for O’Neill meant elevating the status of the marginal and recognizing the rights, liberties, and responsibilities of poor Irish immigrants, Blacks, and, as in the A Moon for the Misbegotten, women.

Arthur Miller When Arthur Miller’s All My Sons opened on Broadway in 1947, he addressed an issue that is seldom confronted on the stage: corporate injustice. The play is set in the Midwest after World War II and it centers on the Keller family. The family is waiting for the return of their son, Larry, a pilot, from the war 51 Horst Frenz and Susan Tuck, Eugene O’Neill’s Critics. 52 Virginia Floyd, The Plays of Eugene O’Neill, 566.

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but have not heard from him. The father’s company made airplane parts for the war is many were defective which caused engine failure. To have admitted to this mechanical problem would have cut into corporate profits and thereby the lively hood of not just this one family but their entire city which depended on military contracts. The audience quickly surmises that Larry was on one of those defective planes and will not return. In the meantime, his fiancé is left waiting, his mother is left longing, and the father, we begin to realize, knows all too well what must have happened. Eventually their remaining son, Chris, surmises the truth and confronts his father this with accusation, “You can be better! Once and for all you can know there’s a universe of people outside and you’re responsible to it, and unless you know that you threw away your son because that’s how he died.”53 Shortly thereafter, the play ends without a typical resolution; catharsis is not in the script but the responsibility of the audience as they return to their daily lives. Joe Keller, the father, can no longer face his living son while bearing the burden of thinking his company might have killed Larry, the other son. The play ends with Joe’s suicide. This is a polemical play which exposes family chaos lies, greed, and loss. Instead of catharsis, the audience is challenged to examine their own responsibilities and act where justice is needed. To overlook or turn away from acts of injustice, according to Miller, will lead to disaster. We, as a community, have a common responsibility to act and act decisively to rectify the injustices we encounter. Miller makes it very clear by stating, “I wanted to make moral world as real and evident as the immoral one so splendidly is.”54 Miller is condemning the ethics of the military-​industrial complex more than a decade before President Eisenhower delivered his United Nations speech on that subject. Thus, in All My Sons, if there is a path to justice, the audience is challenged to work toward that in their personal and corporate life. The alternative, to allow corporations to rush forward with only a profit motive, will eventually destroy the family and thereby rend the fabric of society.55 All My Sons is a stark warning that we, the public, need to rectify the conditions that led to this tragic ending: war, corporate malfeasance, and deception on a grand scale.

53 Arthur Miller, All My Sons, 105. The play is based on an actual court case. 54 Arthur Miller, Theatre Essays, 131. 55 My notes at the 1996 Prince William Sound College (unpublished) lectures by Arthur Miller, support this reading of his plays as ethical critiques.

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Lorraine Hansberry In contrast with Miller’s harsh critique and O’Neill’s wrestling with transcendence and forgiveness,56 Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin the Sun addresses the question of justice by illustrating the unjust racial situation in America. It explores core concepts where justice is denied and where it has a glimmer of hope. She addresses the scourge of American racism and its impact on one family which struggles with financial challenges, freedom, liberty, and opportunities for responsible living. The Younger family, after the death of the father, begins to envision their possibilities while being realistic about the obstacles facing them. The play has many themes and subthemes (family, education, longing for Africa, racism, role of mothers in Black culture, etc.) but the focus is on the unjust laws that trap the oppressed in America in unjust economic and racial circumstances. Hansberry offers a critique of liberties and rights that are unevenly distributed in a country which claims in its Declaration of Independence that “We hold these truths to be self-​evident, that all men are created equal …”57 The play illustrates how those words, when corrupted, can destroy the dignity, unity, and livelihood of loyal citizens. The play centers on Mama Younger and her children who live in segregated Chicago where apartments are small, cramped, and inadequate. It is the death of her husband when, with an insurance policy, she begins to search for a new home in a better neighborhood: a white, segregated one area of Chicago. That is where the action begins. Her son Walter Lee Younger would like to start a business for himself; daughter Betheana Younger hopes to become a physician. Both children intend to improve upon their circumstances and Mama believes this can happen only if they move into a better neighborhood. The complexity that unfolds is when the funds are not enough for medical school, a new business (liquor store), and a new home. Mama makes careful calculations on how to divide the money equally and have enough for a down payment on a home. It is the prospective son-​in-​law, the Nigerian Asagai, who makes the ironic observation, what country is this where, “Dreams, good or bad, must depend on the death of a man?”58 He is commenting on how the larger antagonist to the dream isn’t just the Younger family’s lack of 56 Lauren Friesen, “The Problem of Transcendence in Selected Modern and Postmodern Plays,” 35–​60. 57 https://​w ww.archi​ves.gov/​found​ing-​docs/​decl​a rat​ion-​t ra​nscr​ipt. Accessed 04/​03/​ 2020. 58 Hansberry, Act III, Sc 1.

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funds: it’s the Clybourne Park Improvement Association which has a covenant that prohibits nonwhites from moving in. With this dynamic, Hansberry has focused the play on segregation and its four components: systemic exploitation, the coming black rage, black resistance to the dehumanizing effects of segregation, and the awareness of the violence that persists along those demarcations.59 Hansberry references the racial clause in the Clybourne Park Improvement Association’s covenant as (1) white imperviousness to black bitterness and (2) the black potential for despair/​rage, hence the borrowing of Langston Hughes’s “Raisin in the Sun” line for the title of the play.60 “What happens to a dream deferred,” Hughes asked, “…does it dry up like a raisin in the sun, or does it explode?”61 The play ends with the Mama Younger’s triumph over the “covenant” when they buy the house. And, despite Walter’s bad judgment earlier, he may also have a successful, and dignified future. “Walter retrieves his dignity and becomes the man he always wanted to be.”62 The scales of justice swing favorably, economically, in the end for the Younger family, but even more than that, on “goods” that cannot be bought or sold: human dignity and fulfillment. Freeden Oeur notes, “Struggles for inherent dignity are fundamentally demands for justice.”63 Walter, and the Younger family, now have a taste of justice. The struggle the Younger family, confronted by many layers and options, was finally resolved when the most vexing issue they faced was removed by wit and courage. Justice, in this context, also required moral courage, the courage to act, the courage to demand respect and self-​esteem. Mama Younger’s wise and steady resilience is the backbone of the play. And yet, the continued success of this play serves as a reminder that this struggle is not over, the final victory has not been won. In the aftermath of the televised murder of George Floyd and the seemingly repetitive killing of racial minorities by police, we recognize that Hansberry is a voice that still speaks loud and clear to the injustices of our society. As Margaret B. Wilkerson so poignantly stated, “Its depiction of the Black struggle against pernicious, persistent racism remains current as racial intolerance continues to pervade the country’s institutions, albeit in more subtle forms.”64 Recent events in American society illustrate that blatant 59 Michelle Gordon, “ ‘Somewhat like War’: The Aesthetics of Segregation, Black Liberation, and A Raisin in the Sun,” 126. 60 Ibid, 126. 61 Langston Hughes. “What happens to a dream deferred?” 62 James V. Hatch and Ted Shine, Black Theatre, 104. 63 Freeden Oeur, “Recognizing Dignity: Young Black Men Growing Up.” 64 Margaret B. Wilkerson, “A Raisin in the Sun.”

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racism is still a scourge on our society. Raisin … continues to unmask the injustices within American society, and thus its continual appeal, that minorities face who are victimized by racism in its many forms. That vibrant and dramatic theme is the pulse at the heart of this dramatic work. When compared with the other works in this study, Raisin … measures up well with Aristotle’s principles of distributive justice. The Younger family takes responsibility for their actions and discovers a new level of freedom. They now have greater sense of liberty to determine their own future. This is a universal desire and especially acute for those who have been denied justice. Hansberry unmasked American racism and its impact upon a black community and thereby advanced the cause of justice.

Luis Valdez Jorge Huerta has followed the development of Luis Valdez’s El Teatro Campesino (The Farmworkers Theater) from its beginnings in 1965 in the fields in the San Joaquin Valley of California to its status as an established theater and media company. With his focus in on poverty, labor conditions, and the marginalization of minorities with its attendant oppression, he posits a social change thesis to validate the identity, dignity, and peoplehood of immigrant cultures. While he directly addresses the farm worker and their alienation from the dominant society, his vision is to restore a sense of meaning and dignity in Latin heritage and culture. Valdez critiqued the low wages, working conditions, and general lack of amenities that farm workers faced. That is why he joined with Cesar Chavez and his Farm Workers’ Union which protested, boycotted, and developed policies for improving the conditions of these immigrant workers who were then and still are today, vital for the food production in America. Yet, the dominant political and economic structures stymied their progress as often as possible. American culture has had a difficult time living up to the standard of not just that “all people are created equal,” but also the biblical admonition, “You must treat the foreigner living among you as native-​born and love him as yourself” (Leviticus 19:34a). Time and again, Valdez highlighted the failure of law enforcement and local communities to live up to those American and biblical precepts. This society has been woefully negligent in its distribution of justice (goods, services, liberty, and responsibility) and has seldom worked to rectify an unjust situation regarding the foreigner living among us. To say that he only addresses social change would be like saying Lorraine Hansberry only addressed poverty. Valdez’s work is about social change, and it is, at the same time, about the greater issues of humanity at an ethical

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crossroads. That split in the road is whether we will perpetuate oppressive systems or rise above them. It is via a renewal of heritage (Aztec/​Mexican/​ Chicano/​Chicana)65 and cultural memory that justice will be re-​d iscovered and become an existential reality. Valdez was invited to start the company by Cesar Chavez who envisioned performances to aid in forming the Farm Workers Union. It was, as Huerta states, a “raggle-​taggle troupe”66 dedicated to educating farm workers. Their early works were sketches that could be performed in the fields on flatbed trucks while workers were on lunch breaks. Those sketches (actos) were passionate statements about justice and injustice that migrant workers encountered. From that humble origin, the company developed a resident company with their own theater and, eventually, expanded into television and film. The passionate and creative Luis Valdez was at the center of this movement which now is considered the prototype for many Chicano/​Latino companies across the United States. Elizabeth C. Ramirez credits Valdez with giving “… rise to a whole generation of Chicano theater groups.”67 Huerta points out that “its founding director and playwright have experienced an odyssey few theater companies in this country have enjoyed.”68 His theater company, El Teatro Campesino, has overcome many challenges and is still producing works from their base in San Juan Bautista, California. Valdez excelled in several areas for this movement to succeed. He wrote, directed, arranged financial details, and defined the publicity campaigns. The works by his company all addressed the need to understand Chicano/​Chicana heritage, the condition of the farm workers and the injustices experienced by not just the farmworkers but all Chicano/​Chicana people. Thus, in his actos he critiqued, often with humor, those oppressing the farm laborers, and the need for the workers to restore their dignity by understanding their heritage. He also sought to commemorate the heroes of this culture. For example, his movie La Bamba which pays homage to the rock “n” roll star Richie Valens.69 Luis Valdez also nurtured his audiences by presenting them with plays where the intersection between myth and contemporary life was portrayed with humor and gravitas.70 To explore the delicate balance he portrayed 65 When Valdez references Chicano/​Chicana theater, is using the term to identify a subgroup within the larger Latino/​H ispanic culture in the United States. http://​ elteat​roca​mpes​ino.com/​w p/​our-​h ist​ory/​. Accessed June 15, 2020. 66 Jorge Huerta, “El Teatro Campesino’s Living Legacy.” 67 Elizabeth C. Ramirez, Footlights Across the Border, 137. 68 Huerta, Op. Cit. 69 La Bamba. https://​w ww.imdb.com/​t itle/​tt0093​378/​. 70 El Fin del Mundo. http://​h idvl.nyu.edu/​v ideo/​0 00539​699.html.

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between biting critique and humor, I have focused on a few of his early actos. I am not claiming they are better than his later works; it is just that they are the early examples of his definitive style. Valdez is a prolific writer, an exceptional director, and accomplished manager. His voice is unique, and his portrayal of humanity is vital for our understanding of justice and hope. A foundation in those works aids in understanding his wider contribution which ensued. Valdez calls for radical changes in American society. “Our belief in God, the church, the social role of women must also be subject to examination and redefinition.”71 His plays explore the breadth of the ethical issues I have addressed: distribution of goods, equity in liberty and the opportunity to have full responsibility for their lives and futures. And, on a personal note, I saw a number of these performed in 1968–​1969 in San Francisco and those afternoons were formative for my artistic development. Valdez continues to contribute to the American theater with his latest work with the Latino Writer’s Group and the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles. His latest play, Valley of the Heart, premiered in 2018 and augments his stature as a vital voice for the stage. The Los Angeles Times noted, “For as much as the cultures and languages of newcomers may change, the struggle to become part of the American patchwork remains the same.”72 This play, as with most of his work, explores the injustices immigrants face in a land which so often has promised to provide the opposite. He has remained consistent with his vision to expose the injustices immigrants (minorities) face and as an advocate for social change.

Bending Anabaptism In this final section, I will provide a quick analysis of our Anabaptist/​ Mennonite views on ethics and whether they connect to theatrical works. The examination of justice, as I have developed it, is also a link to our faith heritage. It may not be identical to our legacy, but it has observable intersections. Harold S. Bender observed that “the Anabaptists introduced discipleship as ‘the ethic of love and nonresistance as applied to all human relationships.’ ”73 The general approach to Mennonite ethics of the past century has been focused on virtues and discipleship, which is less accommodating for the 71 Valdez, Luis Valdez: Early Works, 9. 72 Charles McNulty, “Review: Luis Valdez’s Valley of the Heart,” Los Angeles Times, Nov 9, 2018, Entertainment. https://​w ww.lati​mes.com/​entert​a inm​ent/​a rts/​t hea​ ter/​revi​ews/​la-​et-​cm-​val​ley-​of-​t he-​heart-​rev​iew-​20181​109-​story.html. Accessed May 25, 2020. 73 Harold S. Bender, “TAV,” 42.

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evaluation of the arts and theater in particular. Theater, as we have seen, can best be analyzed from Aristotle’s teleology (distribution) which examines context and consequences. The teleological approach views an ethic of virtues, alone, as inadequate for reflection on the ethical dimensions in the arts. This is especially true now that Mennonites are engaged with world cultures through service, missions, policy making, and education.74 The arts, in this wider community, have the “capacity to invite us into another world to be enlivened and transformed.”75 That transformation will include ethical decision making as a differentiating factor. The arts exist at the center of that cultural dynamic as noted by Magdalene Redekop, who states that the purposes of art are discovered when we recognize, “the emphasis on justice is also valued by voices from the wider religious community.”76 Ethics is the reflection on human action; theater is the exploration of human behavior: two separate disciplines united by a common purpose. That purpose, according to Magdalene Redekop, is to shed light on the human condition without making any claim that art, by its very nature, transcends the politics of identity. Shedding light is the first step in developing a teleological ethic which exposes injustices and seeks to bring about wholeness. Wherever alienation and suffering exists, there is a need for justice and justice depends upon shedding light on those injustices that need restoration. With the arts, the light can shine on inequities (distribution) in goods, services, liberty, freedom and even opportunities for responsibility. American Anabaptist/​Mennonite ears are accustomed to calls for responsibility for a withdrawn faith community,77 but seldom has that principle been applied by Mennonites for action in the larger society. The opposite is true for those who wish to pursue the arts within the context of their faith. The arts are a high-​water mark in society whereby Mennonites can gain entre and influence on culture. If so, then “Mennonites will no longer weather the storm by taking cover in convenient harbors of their own making but by steering the best possible courses on the high seas of history.”78 They no longer operate within an isolated community and instead intersect with the cultures and

74 J. Lawrence Burkholder, Mennonite Ethics: from Isolation to Engagement, 184. 75 Duane Friesen, Artists, Citizens, Philosophers: Seeking the Peace of the City, 203. 76 Magdalene Redekop, Making Believe: Questions about Mennonites and Art, 282. 77 Harold S. Bender, Op. Cit., “He (the Anabaptist, sic) must consequently withdraw from the worldly system and create a Christian social order within the fellowship of the church brotherhood.” 53. 78 J. Lawrence Burkholder. Limits of Perfection, 33.

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peoples of the world in meaningful ways. It is, as Lisa Schirch has observed a transformative worldview.79 This is the underlying emphasis of John Rawls’ concept of justice as fairness80 which has also been advanced by Gordon Kaufman. Kaufman emphasized the need to address both “church-​and-​world” while developing an understanding of faith that is wider than just the withdrawn community and, instead, incorporates the “redemption of human history.”81 The arts, theater included, constitute that human history that seeks redemption through justice, because justice is preferable to anarchy, on the one hand, or tyranny on the other. J. Lawrence Burkholder points out that neither anarchy nor tyranny, by their nature, can have an equal distribution of liberties and responsibilities.82 Responsible actions, in the face of injustice, are rectifying actions. Anarchy may advocate liberty without responsibility and tyranny demands duties from us without liberty. He sought a nonviolent alternative to end tyranny without resorting to anarchy and bringing anarchy to an end without resorting to tyranny. We exist in that liminal realm where ethical decisions need to be made; pride should be avoided. The analysis that theater provides is the recognition that justice is a measure by which we view the arc of history. As Martin Luther King, Jr., reminded us, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”83

Conclusion We have seen how justice is a theme that connects many theatrical styles, from many epochs. Justice, in this usage, is not a mere slogan or attitude, but one that addresses the basic conditions of humanity: equitable access to goods, liberty, freedom, and the notion of a shared responsibility. A theological ethic that emphasizes nonviolent action creates an intersection with my understanding of theater. It challenges the viewer to examine their own inner self while, at the same time, opening a critique of injustices in the larger, social context. The arts are nonviolent advocates for liberating the oppressed and exposing the injustices of the oppressor. With this view, the audience 79 Lisa Schirch, Ritual and Symbol in Peacebuilding, 103. 80 John Rawls, Op. Cit. 22ff. 81 Gordon Kaufman, Nonresistance and Responsibility, 59. 82 Burkholder. Mennonite Ethics, 123. 83 Martin Luther King, Jr. https://​w ww.nbcn​ews.com/​t hink/​opin​ion/​idea-​moral-​ unive​rse-​inh​eren​t ly-​bends-​towa​rds-​just​ice-​inspir​ing-​it-​s-​ncn​a859​661. Accessed August 7, 2020. Theodore Parker’s 19th Century wording was paraphrased by Dr. King.

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can no longer celebrate the resolution of conflict that is limited to the play’s narrative, but instead will seek liberation and justice in existential situations. Restorative justice, as these plays illustrate, can be a long and complicated process that is filled with ambiguities while it provides a way to rectify unjust behaviors. Thus, I stand in agreement with Augusto Boal who reminds us that theater is more than acting, it is action for justice.84 Once our eyes are opened (Matt 20:33) to the injustices around us, we will experience, as with a catharsis within a play, transformation, and liberation. Thus, be just, and fear not!

Bibliography Adorno, Theodor. Aesthetic Theory, translated by Robert Hullot-​ Kentor. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997. Appiah, Kwame Anthony. The Ethics of Identity. Princeton: University Press, 2005. Aquinas, Thomas. Summa Contra Gentiles, translated by Joseph Rickaby. Book I:14. London: The Catholic Primer, 2005. Aristotle. The Nicomachean Ethics, translated by David Ross. Oxford: University Press, 1998. —​——​. Politics, translated by Carnes Lord. Chicago: University Press, 1984. Barlow, Judith. “O’Neill’s Female Characters.” In The Cambridge Companion to Eugene O’Neill, edited by, M. Manheim. Cambridge: University Press, 1998. Bauman, Clarence. On the Meaning of Life. Nappanee, IN: Evangel Press, 1993. Bergson, Henri. Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic. http://​w ww.gutenb​erg. org/​fi les/​4352/​4352-​h/​4352-​h.htm (Accessed 3 July 2020). Boal, Augusto. Games for Actors and Non-​Actors, translated by Adrian Jackson. New York City: Routledge, 2012. —​—​—​. Theater of the Oppressed. New York City: The Communications Group, 1979. Bogard, Travis. Contour in Time. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972. —​—​—​, ed. The Plays of Eugene O’Neill, Volume III. New York: The Modern Library, 1974. Briassoulis, Helen. “The Catharsis of the Commons.” International Journal of the Commons 13, no. 2 (2019): 1092–​1111. Accessed May 12, 2020. Broadie, Sarah. Ethics with Aristotle. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991. Burkholder, J. Lawrence. The Limits of Perfection. Waterloo, ON: Conrad Grebel College, 1993. —​—​—​. Mennonite Ethics: from Isolation to Engagement. Victoria, BC: Friesen Press, 2018. —​—​—​. Recollections of a Sectarian Realist, 193–​234. Elkhart: IMS, 2013. Camus, Albert. Resistance, Rebellion, and Death, translated by Justin O’Brien. New York City: The Modern Library, 1960. 84 Games for Actors and Non-​Actors, trans. Adrian Jackson, 154.

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Congreve, William. Amendments of Mr. Collier’s False and Imperfect Citations. 1700. Ann Arbor: Text Creation Partnership. Accessed 2 July 2020. Croce, Benedetto. Aesthetic, translated by Douglas Ainslie. Boston: Nonpareil Books, 1983. “Declaration of Independence.” https://​w ww.archi​ves.gov/​found​ing-​docs/​decl​a rat​ion-​ tra​nscr​ipt. Accessed March 4, 2020. Deontology. https://​plato.stanf​ord.edu/​entr​ies/​eth​ics-​deonto​logi​cal/​. Accessed July 1, 2020. Dowling, Robert M. Eugene O’Neill. New Haven: Yale, 2014. Dudek, Mitch. “2 New Restorative Justice Courts to Open Next Month,” Sun*Times, Saturday, August 1, 2020, 11. El Fin del Mundo. http://​h idvl.nyu.edu/​v ideo/​0 00539​699.html. Accessed May 11, 2020. Fielder, Brigette. “Blackface Desdemona.” Journal of Theater and Performance of the Americas 70 (2017): 39–​59. Floyd, Floyd. The Plays of Eugene O’Neill. New York City: Unger, 1987. Frenz, Horst and Susan Tuck. Eugene O’Neill’s Critics. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1984. Friesen, Duane. Artists, Citizens, Philosophers: Seeking the Peace of the City. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 2000. Friesen, Lauren. “Contemporary Plays by Mennonite Writers.” CMW Journal 6, no. 1 (2014). Accessed May 5, 2020. —​ —​ —​and Harold S. Bender. “Dramatic Arts,” Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online, 1989. http://​w ww.menno​n ite​w rit​ing.org/​jour​nal/​. Accessed April 21, 2020. —​—​—​. “Dramatic Arts and Mennonite Culture.” MELUS 21, no. 3 (1996): 107–​24. —​——​. “Hermann Sudermann: Mennonite Playwright and Novelist from the Boundary,” and “Hermann Sudermann: A. Bibliography.” Center for Mennonite Writing Journal 3, no. 4 (July 2011). —​—​—​. “Pox on All Wars: Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s Grotesque Comedy Die Wiedertäufer.” JMS 25 (2007): 11–​22. —​——​. Prairie Lands, Private Landscapes. Indianapolis: Dog Ear Press, 2015. —​—​—​. “Race, Ritual, and Reconciliation.” In Spiel-​Ritual-​Darstellung, edited by Ingrid Hentschel. Münster: LIT Verlag, 2005. —​——​. “Stretching the Invisible Canon: Vondel, Sudermann, Kliewer and Mennonite Drama.” In MQR 74, no. 3 (July 2000): 403–​4 21. —​—​—​. “Transcendence in Modern and Postmodern Plays.” In Theater-​Ritual-​Religion, edited by Ingrid Hentschel. Münster: LIT Verlag, 2004. Lecturers delivered at Phillips Universität-​Marburg in 1998. Gassner, John, ed. Medieval and Tudor Drama. New York City: Applause Books, 1987. Gordon, Michelle. “ ‘Somewhat like War’: The Aesthetics of Segregation, Black Liberation, and ‘A Raisin in the Sun.’ ” African Review 42, no. 1 (Spring, 2008): 121–​133.

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Halliwell, Stephen. Aristotle’s Poetics. Chicago: University Press, 1998. Hansberry, Lorraine. Raisin in the Sun. New York City: Samuel French, 1958. Hatch, James V., and Ted Shine. Black Theater. New York City: Free Press, 1966. Hixon, Stephanie and Thomas Porter. The Journey: forgiveness, restorative justice, and reconciliation. New York City: United Methodist Church, 2011. Hughes, Langston. https://​w ww.poetr ​y fou ​ndat ​ion.org/​poems/​46548/​har​lem. Accessed August 7, 2020. Huerta, Huerta, “El Campesino’s Living Legacy.” American Theater (November 21, 2016). Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Judgement, translated by James C. Meredith. Oxford: University Press, 2008. Kaufman, Gordon. Context of Decision. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1961. —​—​—​. In the Beginning … Creativity. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004. —​——​. Nonresistance and Responsibility. Elkhart: IMS, 1979. King, Martin Luther, Jr., https://​w ww.nbcn​ews.com/​t hink/​opin​ion/​idea-​moral-​u nive​ rse-​inh​eren​t ly-​bends-​towa​rds-​just​ice-​inspir​ing-​it-​s-​ncn​a859​661. Accessed August 7, 2020. The earlier version by Theodore Parker, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” Konstan, David. “Shame in Ancient Greece.” Journal of Social Science 70, no. 4 (2003): 1031–​60. Langer, Susanne K. Mind: An Essay on Human Feeling. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1967. —​——​. Problems of Art. New York City: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1937. McNulty, Charles. “Review: Luis Valdez’s Valley of the Heart,” Los Angeles Times, Nov 9, 2018, Entertainment. https://​w ww.lati​mes.com/​entert​a inm​ent/​a rts/​ theater/​ reviews/​la-​et-​cm-​valley-​of-​t he-​heart-​review-​20181109-​story.html. Accessed May 25, 2020. Metoui, Jessica. “Returning to the Circle: Reemergence of Traditional Dispute Resolution in Native American Communities.” Journal of Dispute Resolution 2007, no. 2, 517–​ 540. Accessed April 12, 2020. Miller, Arthur. All My Sons. New York City: Penguin, 2000. —​—​—​. Theater Essays. New York City: De Capo Press, 1997. Mousley, Andy. Re-​Humanizing Shakespeare. Edinburgh: University Press, 2009. Niebuhr, Reinhold. Moral Man and Immoral Society. New York City: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1953. Nussbaum, Martha. The Fragility of Goodness. Cambridge: University Press, 1986. O’Neill, Eugene G. Later Plays, edited by Travis Bogard. New York City: Modern Library, 1967. —​——​. The Plays of Eugene O’Neill, edited by Travis Bogard. New York City: The Modern Library, 1974. Oeur, Freeden. “Recognizing Dignity: Young Black Men Growing Up,” Socius (March 2016). https://​journ​a ls.sage​pub.com/​doi/​f ull/​10.1177/​23780​2311​6633​712. Accessed 4/​8/​2020.

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Orkin, Martin. “Othello and the ‘plain face’ of Racism.” Shakespeare Quarterly 38, no. 2 (Summer, 1987): 163–​85. Plato. Republic, translated by Desmond Lee. London: Penguin, 2007. Ramirez, Elizabeth C. Footlights Across the Border. New York City: Peter Lang, 1990. Redekop, Magdalene. Making Believe: Questions about Mennonites and Art. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba, 2020. Schirch, Lisa. Ritual and Symbol in Peacebuilding. Bloomfield, CT: Kumarian Press, 2005. Sophocles. The Oedipus Cycle, translated by Dudley Fitts and Robert Fitzgerald. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1977. Valdez, Luis. La Bamba. Los Angeles: Columbia Pictures, 1987. —​—​—​. Early Works. Houston: Arte Publico Press, 1994. —​——​. Zoot Suit. Houston: Arte Publico Press, 1992. Webber, Andrew Lloyd and Tim Rice. Jesus Christ Superstar. Los Angeles: NBC Universal, 1973. Wilkerson, Margaret B. “A Raisin in the Sun.” Theater Journal 38, no. 4 (December 1986): 441–​452. Zehr, Howard. The Little Book on Restorative Justice. Intercourse, PA: Good Books, 2002.

Part IV  R ace and Identity Diversity is the new reality among North American Mennonites. As cultural, religious, and economic differences rise, new voices and new issues also emerge. Vincent Harding startled the audience at the Mennonite World Conference in 1967 by asking whether Mennonites would and could walk along-​side the growing poor populations of the world. The Cheyenne Chief and Mennonite pastor, Lawrence Hart, highlights the common journey of Mennonites and native people who live on the prairies. Bryan Rafael Falcon wrestles with the dual heritage (Puerto Rican and Swiss Mennonite) and its meaning for his identity and vocation. The musician Katie Graber advocates the need for expanding Mennonite hymnody to include global voices.

Chapter 7  The Beggars Are Rising: Where Are the Saints?1 Vincent H ar ding

My reaction to the sermon of by Henk Bremer is a wholehearted “Amen.” I agree with him that the beggars are rising. Our morning papers are functioning as God’s messengers. The beggars are rising—​they refuse to lie on the ground, crippled, crushed, and begging. They are rising in Detroit and in Harlem. They have risen in Vietnam. They are rising in Mozambique. They are rising in Ecuador and Guatemala. They are dirty, crippled beggars. Soon they will rise in Johannesburg. They will rebel in every part of the earth. The lame and bruised prey of western exploitation are rising and marching and demanding the right to live as humans. They are rising and are outraged that we have eaten and drunk their sweat. They are in desperation because we have taken their silver and gold, their diamonds and oil and rubber and left them begging in front of our doors. The prey of the Christian west is rising, and among them is Christ, the beggar of Nazareth. Do you see him? Do you hear him in the noise of all the voices? Do you notice how his spirit blasts all bastions of security, affluence, and greed? He is there. We can hide but he is there. We can continue paying our taxes for armies and bombs, and continue to cry: What can we do? (the ‘ and “ marks here were for emphasis and not a quotation –​I removed them) We can call on the police and the army. Fearfully we can hide behind law and order or behind the walls of our churches. Nevertheless, there is a spirit

1

Dr. Harding’s response to a presentation by Henk Bremer titled “Rise up and Walk.” The presentations by Henk Bremer and Vincent Harding were for the Mennonite World Conference (Amsterdam) in 1967. Reprinted from Mennonite Life, XXII: 4 (October 1967): 150–​52. Reprinted with permission from Jonathan Harding and Rachel Elizabeth Harding.

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walking freely upon the earth. There is a spirit in search of freedom. This spirit will not perish. Some call this spirit communism, blurring the significance of its meaning. Christ loved the beggars before Karl Marx was born. Some accuse Black Power, but they forget that Jesus promised the crushed beggars freedom long before Dutch ships brought the ancestors of Stokely Carmichael to the American coast. Perhaps we have such lively discussions in regard to the Holy Spirit because of our blindness in regard to what is happening in the world. We should know one thing—​t he insurrectionist beggars are not waiting any longer. Christ has promised to help all beggars and he keeps his promise. Let us not misunderstand. He is on the side of the’ beggars. On which side are we as Mennonites, Christians, and humans who love humanity? Are we at the Conference to shake hands and take pictures? Are we in seminaries where we do our best to contain the spirit of God in words? Are we in churches where we sing and preach to people who have had the same name for generations? Are we preaching law and order and free enterprise in our peaceful congregations? Are we surrounded by the barricades of a status quo where we pray that the storm may pass so that we can continue living without disturbance? If we are satisfied to be busy with all those things in the midst of dying, disappointed insurrectionists, do we show our true face? Then let us not identify ourselves with the Christ of the beggars. In this case, we must admit that we are disciples of a church, missionaries of law and order, defenders of a status quo and seekers for peace without a cross. If this is so, let us quit calling the Anabaptist martyrs our ancestors. Let us not use Christ’s name in vain. He is marching. He is in the midst of the flames. His way is to give all he has. He stands in the midst of embittered men who throw rocks and in the midst of possessed revolutionaries. He is soiled through their dirt and bloody with their blood even if they do not see him. He tries to touch their right hand and to draw them onto a new road of justice and love, which will lead them beyond their dreams of a new society. This is more than symbolism. This was the only possible way and is the only possibility for those who live with beggars in the midst of a religious and political society of self-​righteousness. Beggars do not constitute an acceptable society, particularly not if they scream out loud in the temple. If we dare to search for a way in the midst of a crowd of beggars, we must, like Peter and Christ, go to them, not preaching, but reaching for the right hand and leading them. There will be moments when we will fall into the mud. Fear not, Christ is also the Lord over dirt. Stretch your hand out in the direction of the mad, fearful, and embittered beggars.

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Let them know that you revoke all rights of your possessions so that they will not need to rob you. Touch them with determination and depend on the Holy Spirit who will not leave you alone even if the beggars are armed. He will give you strength and wisdom. He will even give you the words if, after a while, they will be necessary. However, you must remember that God alone knows where the road on which the beggars go leads. This may lead you through prejudices, out of churches, away from old notions, and even into prison. The beggars are rising. The beggars are marching. And Christ is in their midst. Where are the saints? Are we now the lame, paralyzed because of fear, swaying under the weight of dignity, captured by the power of our possessions? Where are the saints? Rise you saints. Get out of your homes, out of your groups, out of your churches, when there is need for you to do so. Get out of conformity to the world and out of the fearful noisy night. You have nothing to lose but your life to win the world. Rise you saints, spring forth and start marching. The Master is already on his way saying, “I am the way, follow me.” Amen.

Chapter 8  Connections Past, Present, and Future1 L awr ence H art

In my capacity as a Cheyenne Peace Chief, I have for the past few months searched for a special cottonwood tree. Such a tree must be large enough to have at least 40 growth rings. It must be straight and tall and have a fork, with both branches of the fork of equal size. When such a tree is found, it will be selected and cut to be used as a center pole in an annual “renewal of the earth” ceremony the Cheyenne conduct on or near the summer solstice, the 21st of June. I participate in that special ancient ceremony by helping to find such a tree. I help in cutting the tree and I assist when it is placed in the center of a lodge. That is the extent of my participation. After that, I am an observer. In addition to looking for that special tree, I am also searching for the site of such a renewal-​of-​t he-​earth ceremony that took place in the summer of 1868. That year all of our people should have been on a reservation in what is now Oklahoma, subsequent to the Medicine Lodge Treaty of 1867. It turns out not all of our people were on a reservation, for somewhere along Walnut Creek in West Central Kansas, a group of our people conducted that very same renewal-​of-​t he-​earth ceremony. There are two forks of the Walnut Creek northwest of Fort Larned and if the land has not been disturbed, such as by plowing, the location of the ceremonial lodge will still be evident. To locate the site will be an awesome experience. Right in the middle of that circle, evidenced by contrasting vegetation, will be where a center pole stood. The center pole, of the same kind of cottonwood I am helping to look for, served as the axis mundi, a symbolic center of the earth. The axis mundi is a point between heaven and earth and is viewed as the most sacred spot in this 1

Reprinted from Mennonite Life 56, no. 4 (2001). Commencement address at Bethel College (1998), reprinted by permission from Lawrence Hart.

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meaningful ceremony that renews the earth. In contemporary times, cutting such a tree that serves as the axis mundi requires a ritual that includes striking the tree. How did such a ritual originate? Where did it originate? A few months ago, I had the pleasure of engaging in a conversation with Professor Christy Turner, III, of Arizona State University. Dr. Turner is an expert on how the earth was peopled. I asked him pointedly, “If I have contemporary relatives in the Old World, and I were to search for them, where would I go?” Without hesitation, Professor Turner said, “Go to Siberia.” I immediately thought that this made sense, for other scholars have indicated that this is where we came from. By the time of Columbus in 1492 we were living at the western edge of the Great Lakes; before that we as speakers of an Algonquin language had migrated from the eastern provinces of Canada, and perhaps before that from the eastern part of the Northwest Territories, and before that, Alaska. We migrated from Siberia to this hemisphere over Beria, a once-​massive piece of ice which covered the Bering Strait. Many similarities between the religious beliefs and practices of the Cheyenne and Siberian groups have been recorded by historians and ethnographers over the past century. The ethnographic similarities are problematic given the fact that the Cheyenne were non-​literate until European contact. The Cheyenne rely heavily on oral tradition. While a common origin cannot be proven beyond reasonable doubt, scholars continue to note similarities. A Cheyenne connection to Siberia is strongly suggested by Dr. Douglas C. Comer in his book, Ritual Ground, published in 1996. He indicates that the striking of the tree that serves as the axis mundi is similar to the striking of a center pole by people in Siberia. In the Siberian ritual the center pole serving as the axis mundi is a birch tree. It was struck nine times. The Cheyenne strike a cottonwood tree four times. The similarities may provide clues about how rituals migrate and are made freshly meaningful as a society evolves. The Siberian connection for the Cheyenne has many fascinating aspects. The Great Lakes region was our place of residence at the time of Columbus. We were between the Mississippi and upper Red River. We then began a migration westward. Place names reveal the path of that migration. There is a Sheyenne River, spelled with an “s,” in Minnesota. There is also a Cheyenne River in the Dakotas, and yet another Cheyenne River in Wyoming, whose capital is Cheyenne. There is a county in Nebraska, a county in Colorado, and a county in Kansas, all named Cheyenne. In Colorado there is also a place called Cheyenne Wells and a significant mountain named Cheyenne. Here, in Kansas, in addition to the county named Cheyenne there are two unusual

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geographic spots, Cheyenne Breaks and Cheyenne Bottoms, named after the Cheyenne people. In Oklahoma there is a valley between Glass Mountains called Cheyenne Valley and there is a Cheyenne Creek, in addition to a town named Cheyenne. These place names all along our migration route reveal connections to geographic areas in our past. At the time the Cheyenne people were settling on a reservation in what is now Oklahoma, there was a significant migration of Mennonites from Russia. Mennonites in this country were forming a conference of churches and there was a need for assisting those still in Russia. The major attention for the newly created General Conference Mennonite Church of North America was to aid immigrants from Russia. During this time the Cheyenne were settling on a new reservation in Indian Territory as outlined in the Medicine Lodge Treaty of 1867. A reservation was set aside for the Cheyenne and the Arapaho in the north central part of Indian Territory. The Cheyenne moved to that area. But they didn’t stop within the perimeters of that reservation. They kept going further south. Then they turned west and traveled to an area familiar to them to settle there. What to do became a question for authorities, including the military. A decision involved the President of the United States. During this particular time a “peace policy” had been established by President Grant at the urging of Quakers speaking out against the violence and injustice directed at the Indian people. President Grant did adopt a “peace policy” and rather than forcibly remove the Cheyenne and Arapaho people back to the reservation outlined in the Medicine Lodge Treaty, he issued an Executive Order and established a reservation on land more suitable to the two tribes. Once the Cheyenne and Arapaho began to settle on their reservation, efforts were made to “civilize” them through education. A school was established on the eastern part of the reservation. Centuries ago, the Cheyenne were in Siberia. Just over a century ago, some Mennonites were in the country of Russia at the invitation of Catherine the Great. Circumstances necessitated a migration from the steppes of Russia to this country. Would the Cheyenne and the Mennonites, peoples so vastly different from each other, ever have a connection? A part of the peace policy of President Grant was to assign Quakers as Indian Agents. The Quakers had urged President Grant to appoint Quakers as agents of the government. The Quakers were willing to be placed in positions on the frontier to deal with Indian people. The first agent to the Cheyenne and Arapaho Indian reservation was Brinton Darlington, a Quaker. One of the major tasks for Brinton Darlington was to construct buildings for a new school; however, he died while serving as the Agent. The Cheyenne

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and Arapaho people mourned his loss greatly, and he was buried on the Agency grounds. His successor, John D. Miles, another Quaker, contacted the Mennonites in Kansas for help. He invited the Mennonites to come help build the new school and to serve as teachers and staff other positions. The new school was named the Darlington School, in honor of the first agent. The Mennonites came. Young Cheyenne students were there. Two distinct peoples, with two vastly different histories, very far apart in terms of their cultures, now began to develop connections with each other. Education was central in this first connection between these two peoples of vastly different histories and cultures. Development of the General Conference Mennonite Church of North America continued. Education became one of the major interests and on the 23rd of May 1887, Bethel College was incorporated. A search was made for a president of this new institution. The educator Cornelius H. Wedel, was inaugurated as first president of Bethel College, and served from 1893 to 1910. C. H. Wedel had been one of the workers at the Darlington School on the Cheyenne and Arapaho Indian reservation. His wife, Susie Richert, had also been on the staff, serving as a teacher at the Darlington School. Parenthetically, Henry H. Ewert, president from 1891 to 1934 of the Mennonite Collegiate Institute in Gretna, Manitoba was another educator who had served at the Darlington School. The president of Bluffton College from 1909 to 1935, S. K. Mosiman, also served at the Darlington School, this important connection between two peoples. On this day, as the 105th graduating class of Bethel College holds their commencement, I have the distinct honor to be invited to come from our former reservation area to deliver the commencement address. I am awed. This is an axis mundi. Native Americans, as with many other people, have a strong connection to the earth. The singing of songs, especially about the earth, is but one example of this connection. Many songs in the Cheyenne language expressing Christian faith reveal this connection to the earth. When familiar hymns were translated, for example, for effective communication the translator would insert the word “earth” into the song, even if the word was not in the English or German text. The end result will not be a literal translation of the hymn, but one culturally specific and highly relevant. A classic example is the hymn “Silent Night,” a well-​k nown and internationally used hymn composed in 1818, which has no reference to the earth in the original German nor in the English translation. Rodolphe Petter, a Swiss linguist who served under the General Conference Board of Missions, studied Cheyenne culture and language in Oklahoma and Montana a century ago. Petter produced the classic Cheyenne-​English Dictionary, translated

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the New Testament and portions of the Old Testament into the Cheyenne language, and also translated the hymn, “Silent Night.” Perhaps at the suggestion of his language informants, Rodolphe Petter inserted the word “ho ‘e va,” earth, into his translation. This translation is a marvel! It accurately captures the theology of the incarnation by referring to the earth. The language informants must have thought, “How can one sing a hymn of the incarnation without reference to the earth?” The full richness of the incarnation, its deep and profound meaning, is captured when the word “ho ‘e va” is used by a people whose culture is inextricably connected to the earth. One of the Cheyenne language informants to Rodolphe Petter was Harvey Whiteshield. While a young adult he desired to study the English language at the Carlisle Indian School in Pennsylvania. Far away from home, he and other Cheyenne students would get together late at night and sing Cheyenne songs to allay their loneliness. A committed Christian, Harvey Whiteshield composed a particular indigenous song, perhaps at Carlisle, now included in Hymnal, A Worship Book, and sung for praise and adoration by Anabaptists and Pietists throughout this hemisphere, and perhaps around the world. Harvey Whiteshield evidences appreciation of his culture by using the word earth in his text. Father God, you are holy, you're the First One (HE-​E) Let your love come on down and touch your children here on earth Be with us (HE-​E) Jesus, we call you; watch over us (HE-​E) (78)

For Harvey Whiteshield, as well as other students at the Carlisle Indian School, the axis mundi, that point between heaven and earth, was where they were. God’s love did indeed come down and touch them where they were, on this earth. Axis mundi, a connection between heaven and earth.

To each of you graduates commencing from Bethel College today, the axis mundi will always be where you go. God will always be with you in the future as you make connections to places and to people he created. Congratulations. May God’s love come down and touch you always as you make your connections on this earth.

Chapter 9  Hexadecaroon Bryan R afael Falcón

Yo soy indio y africano: borincano, donde razas muy ardientes confluyeron: soy la vida, soy la llama: mis abuelos no me dieron ni perfiles ni colores seductores; pero escucha: las cadenas que a mis razas humillaron, en las venas rabia y fuego le dejaron.1 —​Luis Felipe Dessús Ah déjame recordarte cómo eras entonces, cuando aún no existías. —​Pablo Neruda 2

At my birth, in a small town in the mountains of Puerto Rico, my 89-​year-​ old great-​grandmother, Doña Petronila Rosario de Meléndez, cradled me for a time. She was only a few weeks from crossing over, and in this moment of introduction she called out the exotic beauty of my blue eyes and light hair, the result of the mixed blood that runs in my veins.

1 2

Luis Felipe Dessús (1875–​1920), a selection from “Indiana”, in Poesía afroantillana y negrista: Puerto Rico, República Dominica, Cuba, ed. Jorge Luis Morales (San Juan: Editorial de La Universidad De Puerto Rico, 1976), p. 36. Neruda, Pablo, “Poema 14,” in Veinte Poemas de Amor y una Canción Desesperada, Rincon Castellano. http://​w ww.rinco​ncas​tell​a no.com/​bib​l io/​sig​loxx​_ ​27/​nerud​a _​ 20​poe.html Accessed September 13, 2020.

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“Tienes que ponerle una manita de azabache para protegerlo del mal de ojo,” she said. Doña Tona feared for me. More specifically, she feared the mal de ojo, the evil eye. She saw my fair hair and blue eyes as an imminent threat to me, as these features were unique in my remote mountain town. My blue eyes were, surprisingly, gifts of the Spanish blood of my Abuelo, rather than from my Swiss German Mennonite grandfather. Doña Tona knew the stories of how ill-​w ill comes to the half-​blood, the other. With her great-​grandson lying in her arms, she pressed my mother to obtain an amulet made of jet stone and crafted into the shape of a crude hand, to keep the evil spirits away. When I first met my maternal great-​grandmother among the tilled hills of Iowa, no amulets were mentioned. But later, when I would attempt to play the fabled “Mennonite Game,” in which Mennonites connect nodes of an extensive shared cultural family tree with a conversation partner, the conversation would come to a halt when I shared my surname. My Swiss Mennonite mother’s side can trace their roots back to a thirteenth-​century cathedral in Bern, but in the Mennonite Game, the pattern of Falcón Meléndez is untraceable. The blond hair that got such attention when I was a two-​year-​old in Puerto Rico changed as I grew. It is now dark, wild and curly—​so different from the hair of my Swiss German Mennonite cousins. I stopped cutting it when working on my MFA in directing at Western Illinois University, where high-​rise dorms tower over the cornfields. Among these Midwestern fields I eschewed Shepherd or Mamet and instead, feeling affinity for the thought and themes of the Golden Age of Spain, selected Pedro Calderón de la Barca’s La Vida Es Sueño for my thesis. My fellow students nicknamed me “longhair,” and rather than try to hide its wildness I have since just let it be what it is.

Storytelling at the Fringe Two decades later, I run a theater company in Tucson, Arizona. Tucson, our beloved southwest town, called to me and my poet wife, Elizabeth, because of its mixed-​blood identity and rich history. This old railroad town is proud of its blend of Tohono O’odham, Pascua Yaqui, Hohokam, Spanish, Black, Mexican, Chinese, and European peoples among others. It bears the proud designation as a UNESCO City of Gastronomy, recognizing 4,000 continuous years of agricultural heritage. Tucson is a town that has been on the fringe of empire for centuries, and thus the borderlands it inhabits provides a particularly powerful tapestry of evocative and unique voices for a company of storytellers to share with the world.

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Today in 2020, it is a challenging time to be in the theater arts in Tucson, as well as anywhere else in the world. The events of this year unceremoniously yanked the rug out from under us as COVID-​19 worked its insidious hex on our community. The necessities of quarantine and social distancing, in particular, have dearly affected the performing arts, which depend on the communal gathering of people in order for the magic of theater to happen. At the time I write this, our theater, The Scoundrel and Scamp (S&S), has been shuttered for a full half year. Two theaters in town have already closed, victim to the uncertainty and harsh economic winter of this time. It will not be surprising if more follow their path into oblivion. Ingenuity has kicked in, born of our impulse to survive, and S&S now masquerades as a video and audio production house. We have migrated to the world of creating streaming content and radio plays, and in light of the unknown vagaries, our entire next season has the potential to be streamed content as a guarantee against the continuing pandemic. Everything we do now is resilient by design. We do not know when, if ever, we will be able to gather together as we once did, without masks, shoulder to shoulder, laughing, shouting, and crying together as a community in that magical darkened room. Despite experimentation with new forms of artistic expression, our core work goes on. At the S&S our aim has been to go beyond “the two hours’ traffic of our stage”; we pride ourselves on building community, encouraging compassion, and catalyzing reflection and dialog through storytelling. When we shuttered our theater, we began questioning how we could still fulfill our mission in a moment when millions of isolated individuals needed human connection more than ever. We began producing and sharing a variety of content online, bringing stories to life through oral storytelling and activities designed to immerse listeners in the world of the tale. We understand in our cores that in times of struggle story survives as an essential part of who we are. Every Theater 101 class begins with the mythic tale of the first theater performance. As the story goes, far back in the mists of time, a shaman squats across the fire from the other hunters. The shaman clears his throat, takes a stick in hand, stirs the embers and begins to tell the story of the trials of his people. Archetypes, like old friends, are invoked as we raise up gods, drown in hubris, mete out poetic justice, and cry out for what we have lost. Most importantly, we tell stories to define who we are as a people, and also who we hope we are not. Gathering around a fire is not encouraged in today’s theater, but storytelling continues to be essential to who we are. When we speak our story, we

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shape our memories as a collective, forming personal and communal connections. When the stories repeat, the connections move beyond the anecdotal to reveal patterns, and these patterns structure our identity. Identity is one of the most powerful tools that humanity, a cooperative species by necessity, has ever developed. Without story there is no sense of community or people, and without identity there can be no sense of self.

An Anti-​R acist Awakening Barely a month into our shuttering response to the pandemic, we were picking up momentum. Our new folktales and radio plays were gaining attention online. Then, unexpectedly, our storytelling came to a screeching halt. The tragedy of the death of George Floyd played out on the screens of the nation. The resulting protests expressed our fury even while the destruction gutted us. The artists of the Scoundrel & Scamp felt raw, vulnerable, scared. Our staff shared with each other feelings of guilt, responsibility and loss. As violence and anger ripped through society, we paused in our creation of new content, sensing that our pre-​planned slate of productions was no longer appropriate, even tone deaf. We understood, with fresh eyes, that there were additional stories and perspectives that needed to be shared at that point in time. We realized that—​despite our commitment to diversity and inclusion—​ what we were doing as an organization wasn’t enough. It was time for us to step off the stage for a time—​do more reading, more listening, and reassess our roles as citizens as well as storytellers of “diverse” story. In the months that followed we re-​committed to our inclusive practices. We reworked our season to make sure that at least half of our season shared stories outside of mainstream American culture. In our casting practices, we committed to rethink “traditional” casting mechanisms and extend beyond prior processes to find, attract and cast Black/​Indigenous/​People of Color (BIPOC). In our organizational practices we committed to identify new ways to support racial equity and dismantle institutional racism. We realized that as an “institution” of storytelling, we had an increased responsibility to tell the stories of the underrepresented. We knew that in doing so there was more risk to our survival as an organization—​fi nancially and artistically—​t han if we told the “tried and true” stories that mainstream viewers would recognize. However, this was a risk that we determined to undertake to help bring about change we desired for our community. Telling stories by underrepresented voices would both open up new roles that would/​could be filled by artists who otherwise would not have opportunity in our community. We knew that selecting a more diverse selection of

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plays would stretch our audience further, but in doing so, would grow the identity of what it means to be Tucsonan. We had new eyes. What we were seeing was hard to look at, but we knew that we needed to reassess.

Truth, Lies, and Stereotypes My grandfather Don Ramón Falcón Vázquez Torres Nieves was a charismatic storyteller and ladies’ man. Don Monche, as he was called, celebrated his birthday every December 25th in conjunction with his lord and savior. He had no birth certificate because in his birth year of 1914 the registry was located in the next town over. The journey on the old Spanish roads was not an easy one, so many in the community didn’t bother to make the trip to register their newborns. My abuelo lived a life as a serial entrepreneur and ran farms, stores and restaurants. He raised his family Catholic, but when the priest did not approve of his nightclub, he left the church. He joined the Mennonites, who later conveniently had a church right across the street from the family home. He continued to run his business selling lottery tickets and eventually the Mennonites objected. Don Monche, fed up with church disapproval, decided to quit the whole “religion racket”. He spent the rest of the Sundays of his life on his porch, stamping his lottery tickets for sale and reading the salacious stories of El Vocero as church goers filed by his front porch. We didn’t discover until nearly thirty years after his death, in the worn pages of the 1910 US Census, the secret record of his three-​year-​old self. The scoundrel was born in 1907 and was actually 82 years of age when he passed on, instead of the purported 75. My grandfather had sold us on the story that he was seven years younger than he was. His family found it believable. He looked, lived, and cast himself in a role—​name, age & birthdate—​of his own making. When actors audition for a part, the director and others study them, listening to voice, watching the spark in their eyes, sensing their grounded-​ ness, reading their physical choices and expressions. Our casting team at the S&S matches them with other potential cast members in our minds’ eyes, weighing dynamics and chemistry to find that special spark, “the magic” that audiences can’t name, but know when they experience it. Do they appear a certain age? Do they carry themselves in a certain way? When the actor stands before us in the casting room, the director asks, “Do I believe?” Believability in storytelling is the stock and trade of the theater. Visual metaphor is central to the artform and thus physical appearance a building block of storytelling on the stage. Casting, therefore, is key. The director, in the role of a master storyteller, keenly understands the stakes when casting a

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role. In my graduate program it was drilled into us that that 80% (or 98%!) of the success by a director in directing a production lies in the casting alone. A director matches the “believability” of an actor to the short-​hand understanding of the qualities they want to convey to the audience. A stereotype, for better or worse, is this “short hand.” In the theater we work with stereotype and either embrace it, reject it or subvert it, but we can’t ignore it. To stereotype is human, and thus is a part of us for better or ill, engrained in the patterns we strive to see in the world. The indicators of race, color, and ethnicity are woven into the written lines of the play, the stage directions, the parentheticals, even between the lines of the work. Stereotyping is unavoidable and expected, as it is not uncommon to see in the cast of characters, the character name (such implied ethnic indicators!) and race specified. Back in Theater 101, we learned that theater is defined in its most simple form as requiring two people: “the actor and the audience”—​the observed and the observers. An audience of a common background brings its own understanding of the world along with any shorthand understandings; they watch the actor judging their believability, often unaware of their own ingrained stereotypes. A director who knows their audience and wishes to carry them along on an emotional two -​hour long journey knows the levers they needs to pull to evoke a response. Stereotype, for better and worse, is a tool of the craft. However, a director trying to change systematic stereotype and adopt an anti-​racist approach also needs to face a more insidious challenge, bias. Bias is a bit more challenging because it lives just under our skin—​it is tied to our identity. “Race,” writes the historian Nell Irvin Painter, “is an idea, not a fact.”3 However, even if “only” a social construct, race can be a mighty force to reckon with in the casting room. If the director wishes to fairly assess the artists of the casting room the director must work to understand their own personal constructs around race and ethnic identity. Equipped with a stronger understanding of the private beliefs about race that resides in our minds a director can open casting opportunities that otherwise might be closed. But even with a self-​aware approach, there are nuanced challenges for the casting room. When the actor checks their race on the audition form—​is the actor’s “idea” (as compared to “fact”) enough? Or does that decision lie 3

Coates, Ta-​Nehisi. “What We Mean When We Say ‘Race Is a Social Construct,’ ” The Atlantic, May 15, 2013. https://​w ww.thea​t lan​t ic.com/​natio​nal/​a rch​ive/​2013/​05/​ what-​we-​mean-​when-​we-​say-​race-​is-​a-​soc​ial-​constr​uct/​275​872/​.

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with the director and audience? Or is who you can play decided by Twitter, as satirized by Saturday Night Live’s gameshow skit Can I Play That? (“One mistake and we’ll kill you”).4 Like Don Monche, do we get to choose who we are?

In the Hinterlands of Racial Identity If my sixteen great-​great grandparents could be coaxed to line up in the afterlife, in order for you to ascertain my racial identity, it would be a challenge. Eight of the figures are pale. I see them as hardworking Swiss immigrant Iowa farm folk with good healthy beards or dainty head coverings. I don’t know authoritatively if the beards and coverings were fact, but a good Mennonite stereotype is helpful for the storytelling in this moment. Another seven of the figures would be varying shades of what my father liked to call “café con leche.” They are from the island of Borinquen, of Puerto Rico, a melting pot of races. The sixteenth is a legend in our family: my great-​great-​grandmother, Mama Fela, a black woman. There are names for those of mixed-​blood like me. The mulatto was the offspring of a white and a black person … From the mulatto and a white came the quadroon, and from the quadroon and a white, the mustee. The child of a mustee and a white person was called the mustefino.5

Other names for those of one-​fi fteenth and one-​sixteenth African heritage include the quinatroon and hexadecaroon. A hexadecaroon may seem a strange construct, but for me it is an important aspect of my identity. My great-​grandfather Marcos, like me, stood out with white skin and African hair. My great-​great-​grandmother, Mama Fela (Felícita), born a slave, raised him alone. Family legend has it that my great-​great-​grandfather was a Spanish landowner, a person of power who never claimed this son for his own. We think that Mama Fela came from the Yoruba of West Africa, source of most of the African slaves who came to Puerto Rico and according to some, where the legend of mal de ojo—​t he evil eye—​originates. Even now, I let my hair grow long and when I bother to try to tame it, my family helps me comb out the tangles with coconut oil. Such blended blood is a part of being Puerto

4 Saturday Night Live, Can I Play That? March 10, 2019, YouTube video, 5: 22. https://​w ww.yout​ube.com/​watch?v=​sYSb​k _​tT​sjk. 5 Woodson, Carter G., and Charles H. Wesley, The Story of the Negro Retold (Wildside Press, LLC, 2008), 44.

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Rican, Borincano. Familia Falcón Meléndez remembers well that we come from both the slave and the oppressor. My “octoroon” father likes to say that “There is no race in Puerto Rico, only Puerto Ricans.” Skeptical, I ask him about people of different colored skin in PR, and he names them, “Negro, Trigueño.” Trigueño is a term more common in Puerto Rico than in the rest of the Spanish speaking world. It is derived from the term “wheat,” but it doesn’t mean white; it designates a lighter brown skin, and often coiled hair. It is a way to distinguish from “Indio6,” which designates straight hair, but also brown skin. When my father speaks of the darker-​skinned Puerto Ricans, he says, “they dress different.” It strikes me that on this small island there are still enough mountains and valleys to create shelters of culture and distances between the “other.” When my birth family arrived at my then very white childhood hometown of Goshen, Indiana in 1979, my father remarked that there was only one other man like him in town, the postmaster. Despite the fact that the postmaster was a black man from Northern Indiana and my father a Latino from the Caribbean, they were joined by the commonality of racial difference. Says my father, “I never knew the concept of minority until I came to the mainland.” There is no race in Puerto Rico, only Puerto Ricans. Could we say, “There is no race in our theater, only artists?” To not take race into account in the theater would be an almost inconceivable notion. In my chosen profession, as a theater director, race is a constant factor. The casting room has the potential to be the most racist room in America. Likewise, if we apply ourselves as directors, I believe that the casting room may also have the potential to be one of the most anti-​racist.

To Reclaim An Identity Two years ago, I directed a play by José Rivera, Cloud Tectonics, where the protagonist, Aníbal de la Luna, on a fateful night in the middle of the rainstorm of the century, picks up a mysterious pregnant hitchhiker. As he falls in love with Celestina del Sol, he learns that this avatar of love is somehow unstuck in time, and all of the uncertainties of his identity, his past, come spilling out.

6

Spanish for “Indian,” or a colonial misnaming of an othered people which comes with all the baggage.

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“Don’t you speak any Spanish?” Celestina asks, and Aníbal replies, “I don’t.” CELESTINA: You don’t? ANÍBAL: I don’t CELESTINA: Why not? ANÍBAL: Sometimes … I don’t know … you forget things … CELESTINA: But how do you forget a language? ANÍBAL: It happened, Celestina. It’s not nice and I’m not proud of it, but it happened.7

Rivera, in this play, speaks both of the loss of identity and the loss of love; the former resonates for this hexadecaroon suspended between worlds of cultural identity. Aníbal wrestles with the need to rediscover his community. He expresses this need and his vulnerability as a man lost between cultures while he struggles to reclaim the words that are just at the edge of his psyche. Who owns identity? Those who are observed or those who watch? It seems ouroboros-​like in the spirit of the great zen question, “If a tree falls in a woods, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?” Does the actor decide what they can play, or does a director’s presumption of an audience’s sensibilities dictate who they can be? However, this question is a bit of a misdirection, because believability is not identity. Identity belongs to you, “the observed,” and judging believability belongs to “those who watch.”

The Colorism Paradox So, if race is a construct created by culture and context (as illustrated by this particular Hexadecaroon), what about colorism? Our conceptions of race may be abstract, but skin color and hair texture are observable features to which cultures assign value. Lori Tharpes, an author whose writings intersect “race and real life,” speaks to this in The Difference Between Racism and Colorism: Skin color matters because we are a visual species, and we respond to one another based on the way we physically present. Add to that the “like belongs with like” beliefs most people harbor, and the race-​based prejudices human beings have attached to certain skin colors, and we come to present-​day society, where skin color becomes a loaded signifier of identity and value.8 7 8

Rivera, Jose, “Cloud Tectonics,” in Marisol and Other Plays (New York: Theatre Communications Group, 1997), 162–​3. Tharps, Lori L. “The Difference Between Racism and Colorism,” Time, October 16, 2016. https://​t ime.com/​4512​430/​color​ism-​in-​a mer​ica/​.

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Identity and value are two factors that directors energetically scribble about in the margins of our scripts. If a play was a “paint by number experience,” power dynamics would be the outlines that provide structure that contain carefully filled-​in shades of identity. Dramatic conflict is often driven by status; power dynamics are measured in identity and value. As a director, to blindly ignore audience perceptions of how skin color will be perceived for a particular actor in a role would be at best a misstep. Sarah Bellamy, Artistic Director of the Penumbra Theatre Company in Minneapolis recently wrote in The Paris Review: “As a director I do not practice “color-​blind” casting. Bodies arrive written with racial scripts that inform the meaning of gesture, stillness, and movement onstage.”9 In September 2020, despite the challenge of opening during a global pandemic, the world saw a first. A translation of Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun opened in Beijing with an all-​Chinese cast. The director, Ying Da, wrestled with the tradition of Chinese theater using makeup to transform skin color and wigs to approximate the stereotypical racial characteristics. The racially charged practice of minstrel shows and blackface is taboo in the U.S., but in China the practice is “done as a sign of empathy and realism.” Ying settled on a solution to suggest more than approximate by lightly bronzing the actor’s faces with makeup, supplemented with wigs of curls and cornrows. The one white character sports a white wig.10 As strange and horrifying as this choice may sound to Americans, this production starkly illustrates a challenge that a casting director must face. The color of a cast’s skin provides important information to the audience regarding identity and value of a given character. Ignoring the fact that one of the characters is white in a world primarily about a black family in 1950s Chicago would be to ignore important story points about social-​economic status and agency in the play. A color-​blind casting choice would effectively undermine the important societal messages that the play has to convey. But going the other direction, and fiercely defending skin color (and race) as an essential part of the storytelling introduces other complexities. In 2018 a highly anticipated remount of the Arthur Miller classic All My Sons starring Annette Bening and Tracy Letts was in the works. Although the principal cast members in the original late-​1940s production were white, 9 Bellamy, Sarah. “Performing Whiteness,” The Paris Review, June 8 2020. https://​ www.theparisreview.org/​blog/​2020/​06/​08/​t he-​performance-​of-​white-​bodies/​ 10 Feng, Emily. “First Chinese-​L anguage Production Of ‘A Raisin In The Sun’ Is Staged In Beijing,” National Public Radio, September 3, 2020. https://​w ww.npr. org/​2020/​0 9/​03/​908274​058/​fi rst-​chin​ese-​langu​age-​pro​duct​ion-​of-​a-​rai​sin-​i n-​ the-​sun-​is-​sta​ged-​in-​beij​ing.

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director Gregory Mosher had decided to cast one of the primary characters as black. When Mr. Mosher went about trying to find a black actress to play the sister, Rebecca Miller, the film director and screenwriter who runs her father’s estate, stepped in. Ms. Miller questioned the choice of making one family black when the play’s other central family had already been cast as white. Since there was a romance between the families, in Ms. Miller’s eyes, believability was in question. “My concern was that to cast the Deevers as Black puts a burden on the play to justify the relationship in the historical context,” Ms. Miller said. Since the script does not address race, she said, “I was worried that it would whitewash the racism that really was in existence in that period by creating this pretend-​Valhalla-​special family where no one would mention this.” Mr. Mosher found that the disagreement put him in an impossible bind. “I was auditioning black actresses, which means the black acting community in New York knew I was doing it,” he said. “I didn’t know what to say to these actors. I’ve decided to hire a white girl? I couldn’t find somebody? What am I supposed to say? It was a kind of breaking faith with a community that I didn’t want to break faith with,” he continued. “I’m afraid it comes rather quickly to ‘you just have the wrong skin color for this part.’ ” Mr. Mosher ended up leaving the production as a result of the disagreement.11 The challenge here to the casting director is complex. Do you cast disregarding the ugliness of past racism/​colorism as a factor in the reality you are creating on stage, or do you perpetuate the societal ill by denying BIPOC actors’ opportunities? Or, when looking at the longer goal of how to break systemic stereotype, how do we train audiences to question—​or even suspend—​t heir own racial assumptions?

The Believable Lie In the casting room, there are often spirited conversations about the believability of an actor playing a given role. Questions come up that anywhere else would sound callous at best, and, if overheard, could easily annihilate someone’s sense of identity—​for example, does he “read” as too Latino to play a Black man? A casting director must walk a careful and treacherous line when creating a visual world built on the assumed bias of their audience.

11 Harris, Elizabeth A. “Director Quits ‘All My Sons’ Amid Dispute Over Cast’s Racial Makeup,” The New York Times, December 18, 2018. https://​w ww.nyti​mes.com/​ 2018/​12/​19/​t hea​ter/​a ll-​my-​sons-​d irec​tor-​quits.html.

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How can we attempt to dismantle the systemic chains that hold back people of color, while at the same time stay in tune with the race and colorist constructs that our audiences hold as “truth”—​the believability? Or is this need to be beholden to audience constructs a believable lie in and of itself? When looking closely at these conversations, we discover that no one truly holds the objective truth on believability; at best we do shorthand approximations of what we think the audience will experience. But what if we believed that we had the power to transform our audience’s sense of believability with our casting decisions?

Appropriation and the Hexadecaroon At S&S, we debate the merit of certain stories when selecting a season. “Should this play be done?” we ask. We encounter plays, even in the canon, that depend on outdated or racist power dynamics, weighted down by stereotypes on race or skin color.12 We steer clear of those plays, not because we shy away from a challenge, but mainly due to the sheer volume of other plays that we feel deserve to be done that do not suffer from such deficiencies. As we step away from older tried and true scripts, herein lies a challenge. In a time where cultural appropriation is a valid concern, responsible directors strive to make sure “we do the research” to ensure that the cultural context of a story representing a particular ethnic or racial group is understood by their audience. Some stories are not a fit for all. “Is it essential that I tell this particular story or is this a story for someone else?” is an important question to be asked by a director. However, for of this hexadecaroon director, this question becomes nebulous in a very personal way. When I search the American canon of plays—​the “ugly old dead white guys” as the head of my graduate program, Egla Birmingham Hassan, liked to say: none of their stories are about my culture or people. Likewise, when I open and read my Puerto Rican anthologies, the stories often feel both familiar and alien. None are a perfect fit. I went to study with Egla two decades ago because I felt that this Black Panamanian Mennonite woman shared more in common with me than the ugly old dead white guys ever did. Looking back, I think I sensed that she knew what it was like to be an artist and stand between cultures.

12 On a side note, some would argue that the inspiration for the title of this essay, a play called “The Octoroon” a melodrama by Dion Boucicault that dates back to 1859, fits into this category.

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The question of my identity doesn’t keep me up at night, but how I present, my believability, is a regular concern. It would be detrimental to my organization, my cast, and the creative process should others declare me unfit to meet some sort of cultural threshold. Feeling stranded between groups is a very familiar state for me and dates back to my childhood. My Iowa side claimed I looked like my father; my Puerto Rico side claimed I looked like my mother. For whatever threshold that would allow me to be a member of each particular team, I failed. Within recent history, quite a bit of controversy was generated around presidential candidate Elizabeth Warren’s claim of Cherokee heritage, and the story felt close to home for me. Ms. Warren’s approach angered the Cherokee Nation, since she was far from even being the Native American equivalent of a hexadecaroon. Not unexpectedly, the opposing political machine tore her apart. Republican strategist Chuck Warren reflected on the impact of her claim when “…you’re dishonest about the most fundamental thing, who you were and how you got to your positions.”13 It is a fair critique that a distant connection in Ms. Warren’s ancestry was leveraged by both her and others to pitch a particular advantageous narrative. She didn’t meet a nebulous and unspoken threshold and she failed the believability test. It resonated as false to “those who watch.” What culture, race or ethnic background do I claim when choosing the stories I tell? Cultural appropriation presumes a homogenous understanding of the world. Questions abound for me. My Puerto Rican folktales come from African roots. My Spanish is not strong, even though my father is a Professor of Spanish, and I tell stories in English through my theater company for a largely English-​speaking audience. Do I own the stories enough to be the storyteller? Do I need to go find a browner, more fluent, thus more “authentic” Puerto Rican to tell my stories? Do I meet THE threshold? During my time in high school in Puerto Rico, there were three of us “English speakers” that hung out together. The other boys in my class called us the “gringos,” which was probably more based on the quality of our Spanish than the blood in our veins. They messed with us, the “outsiders.” On the first day of school, they underestimated my Spanish vocabulary,14 as they “kindly” encouraged me to introduce myself to a particularly cute member of my class with “Hola, me llamo Bryan, dame la chingada.”15 The 13 Scher, Bill, “‘Pocahontas’ Could Still Be Elizabeth Warren’s Biggest Vulnerability,” Politico Magazine, August 27, 2019. https://​w ww.polit​ico.com/​magaz​ine/​story/​ 2019/​08/​27/​poc​a hon​tas-​elizab​eth-​warr​ens-​bigg​est-​v ulner​abil​ity-​227​912. 14 Which was much more comprehensive than my powers of conjugation. 15 The translation of which I will decline to provide here.

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three of us had wildly different personalities, and if we hadn’t been in a small parochial school in a small Puerto Rican town, we would never have been a trio. We were a community because we were just less “Puerto Rican” than the other boys in the class. We were just “the other.”

The Anti-​R acist Casting Room In theater, all casting choices must acknowledge stereotypes, for better or worse, but the director has some latitude on how to work within those parameters. Assuming that the selection of the play itself does not force the entrenching of a narrow and potentially hurtful stereotype, directors should ask themselves three questions with regard to casting every role. Is there an opportunity in this casting choice to: • Subvert “traditional casting” stereotypes around race, color, gender, age, and ethnicity? Does this role need to be played as it has been traditionally played, or can it be reinvented to provide new opportunities to the underrepresented? • Reject a shallow stereotype and extend it into a new space as a “living breathing character”? If you acknowledge the stereotype as essential to the fabric of the play, look for bait-​and-​switch opportunities that open up breadth and depth that extend beyond the stereotype. • Embrace a stereotype, but use it as a way to illustrate and educate? Even if the play calls for the stereotype to be kept as a blunt tool in the play, there are opportunities to comment and draw attention to the shortcomings of the stereotype at a meta level. Each opportunity requires careful thought and directorial decisions may not please all. What is too much change for some casting directors can be too little for others. Taking on cultural conventions is always a risk, but necessary if we want to see true change around systemic racism in society. At S&S we have a long ways to go, but an anti-​racist casting room is a vision that we strive to make real. This year we have reinvented our season selection process to include a play-​reading rubric to ensure that we provide plenty of compelling opportunities for artists of color and tell stories from a wide variety of perspectives. We have a commitment to an inclusive casting room by welcoming in directors of color to ensure that our individual bias and systemic stereotype will more likely be challenged. Our casting team meets regularly to establish a

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framework for inclusive casting so that as we welcome new directors, no matter their ethnicity or background, we have a shared approach. Through a series of interviews about inclusive casting with other Tucson theater companies we learned that many theater leaders in our community shared the perception that it was hard to find artists of color, which has prevented them from offering a more diverse season of plays. Artists of color have shared that there are very few opportunities for them in Tucson. As a step toward overcoming these barriers, our in-​house talent has built an inclusive casting actor database for Tucson theaters (my past life in web development came in handy). We are also collaborating with BIPOC organizations on this project to help ensure that the data is collected, represented, and shared in such a way that will continue to serve the interests of our BIPOC theater community. In order to make solid decisions in the casting room the director must be both rooted in the past and looking to the future; specifically, the future that we want to live in. Understanding the historic journey that brought us to our current problematic constructs of race, color, and identity is essential. Likewise, understanding the cultural, social economic and political pressures that shore up the status quo is key to breaking the chains surrounding perceptions of identity and value in today’s world. The scale of the human social challenges ahead of us often feel like an impossible thing to solve, but we at S&S are committed to “keep failing towards perfection.”

What We Believe Believability is to some extent out of our control; we were born with what we have—​our eyes, our hair, our names—​a ll these traits contribute to the roles we play. We are judged and cast in these roles each day by everyone we meet. Sometimes we meet people who are willing to believe in us to change the stereotypes and reinvent the roles, but such intervention is beautiful and rare. In Cloud Tectonics our lost protagonist, Aníbal rediscovers for a moment the identity he has forgotten, expressed through the language of his ancestors. And at one point in the evening, I heard the sound of Spanish, as love assumed the language my parents spoke the night I was conceived, the language I had forgotten …16

Our identity contains and also runs deeper than language, color, or family names. It courses under our skin, in our blood. It is rabia y fuego en 16 Rivera, Jose, “Cloud Tectonics,” in Marisol and Other Plays (New York: Theatre Communications Group, 1997), 183.

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nuestras venas. The stories of our ancestors form us—​what we remember as fact, what we believe as legend, and what we yearn to be true. After Don Monche’s funeral, the family gathered in the driveway of my grandfather’s home across the street from the Mennonite church. They planned to accompany his body to the family plot in the small Puerto Rican mountain town where he had lived most of his life, the same town where I was born. A man strangely familiar, but unknown to them, showed up at the gate. My father asked him what he wanted and who he was. “I’ve come to pay my respects to my father,” he said. “I’m your brother from the next town over. I may be a stranger to you, but I’ve known of you all my life.” Together the family carried Ramón Falcón to the cemetery, and side-​by-​ side walked his sons, the newfound half-​brothers of same blood but different name, all the while sharing the legend of their father and their stories of whence they came.

Bibliography Bellamy, Sarah. “Performing Whiteness.” The Paris Review, June 8, 2020, https://​w ww. theparisreview.org/​blog/​2020/​06/​08/​t he-​performance-​of-​white-​bodies/​ Coats, Ta-​Nehisi. “What We Mean When We Say ‘Race Is a Social Construct.’ ” The Atlantic, May 15, 2013. https://​w ww.theatlantic.com/​national/​a rchive/​2013/​05/​ what-​we-​mean-​when-​we-​say-​race-​is-​a-​social-​construct/​275872/​ Feng, Emily. “First Chinese-​Language Production Of ‘A Raisin In The Sun’ Is Staged In Beijing.” National Public Radio, September 3, 2020. https://​w ww.npr.org/​2020/​ 09/​03/​908274058/​f irst-​chinese-​language-​production-​of-​a-​raisin-​i n-​t he-​sun-​i s-​ staged-​in-​beijing Harris, Elizabeth A. “Director Quits ‘All My Sons’ Amid Dispute Over Cast’s Racial Makeup.” The New York Times, December 18, 2018. https://​w ww.nytimes.com/​ 2018/​12/​19/​t heater/​a ll-​my-​sons-​d irector-​quits.html Rivera, Jose. “Cloud Tectonics.” In Marisol and Other Plays. New York: Theatre Communications Group, 2002. Scher, Bill. “ ‘Pocahontas’ Could Still Be Elizabeth Warren’s Biggest Vulnerability.” Politico Magazine, edited by Matthew Kaminski, August 27, 2019. https://​w ww.politico.com/​ magazine/​story/​2019/​08/​27/​pocahontas-​elizabeth-​warrens-​biggest-​v ulnerability-​ 227912 Tharps, Lori L. “The Difference Between Racism and Colorism.” Time, October 16, 2016. https://​ time.com/​4512430/​colorism-​in-​a merica/​ Woodson, Carter G. and Charles H. Wesley. The Story of the Negro Retold. Washington, D.C.: Wildside Press, LLC, 2008.

Chapter 10  Liberating Anabaptist Music K atie G r aber

Imagining Anabaptist Music Several years after Hymnal: A Worship Book (1992) was published, committee members Marlene Kropf and Kenneth Nafziger conducted surveys about singing and compiled the book Singing: A Mennonite Voice. Its chapters include beautiful, heartfelt descriptions of the ways faith and community are enacted in the physical act of singing. At the same time, the book’s central question—​ “What happens when we sing?”—​does not interrogate what that community is, or who the “we” in the question includes. This was not the goal of their research twenty years ago, but as Mennonite and Anabaptist groups continue to become more racially, ethnically, and culturally diverse, we must be vigilant about the ways we construct ideas of community. Singing is one potent, embodied way we do this. Denominational hymnals and song books (or those we consider to be Mennonite) have historically framed the way we imagine our collective singing. Voices Together (2020) is the most recent of these publications, commissioned by MCUSA and Mennonite Church Canada, and compiled and edited by a 13-​member committee. From 2016 to 2020, I was part of that committee, building on the labor of previous hymnal committees and working to expand our denominational repertoires and imaginations of Mennonite music. We recognized that published collections are limited and finite, and that they cannot encompass a whole body of a diverse community’s music. Creators and users of hymnals must also acknowledge how our conception of Mennonite music is tied to our ideas of our collective ethnic makeup. Austin McCabe Juhnke has written about how singing was used throughout the 20th century to establish both cultural cohesion and exclusion in

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Mennonite denominations.1 He describes the publication of The Mennonite Hymnal (1969) as a project that consolidated a conception of white ethnic Mennonite identity in part by emphasizing four-​part singing and its connection to the past. The 1969 hymnal committee included (Old) Mennonite and General Conference Mennonite groups, who disagreed about the use of organ in worship but decided they could work together: “the minutes of their meeting recorded that ‘Both GC and MC have as their aim the continued emphasis on four-​part singing.’ The use of instrumental accompaniment was thus considered ‘a matter of secondary importance.’ ” McCabe Juhnke contrasts the committee’s emphasis on four-​part hymnody to its devaluation of gospel songs, and he contrasts the reception of the hymnal to relative silence about Latino and African American Mennonite choirs in the 1970s. These choirs performed at other Mennonite churches and made recordings of songs and instrumental accompaniments influenced by popular and gospel styles. The disparity in value given to these musical styles relies on an underlying association of four-​part arrangements with European classical music (as refined and intellectual) over against popular music (low-​brow, corporeal, arising from African American musical traditions). This dichotomy is a bias still found in many arguments against contemporary worship music today. Hymnal: A Worship Book (1992) and the supplements Sing the Journey (2005) and Sing the Story (2007) expanded conceptions of Mennonite music by broadening the scope of geographical origin and recent compositions. These collections included a significant number of African American spirituals and two songs from the Cheyenne songbook Tsese-​Ma’heone-​Nemeotȯtse used in Cheyenne Mennonite congregations: “Ehane he’ama” (Hymnal: A Worship Book #78) and “Jesus A, Nahetotaetanome” (Hymnal: A Worship Book #9). However, beyond those examples from the United States, the representation of racial, ethnic, and linguistic diversity in these books tended to come from outside of North America. This reflected the growing population of the Mennonite World Conference but did not reflect diversity at home. As we compiled and edited Voices Together (2020), we knew it would be logistically impossible to publish a book that would be useful to every congregation even within the two relatively small denominations MCUSA and MC Canada—​in addition to the host of social and theological diversities, there are over two dozen languages used by these communities. Even the 49 Spanish songs in Voices Together, the most of any non-​English language, is not enough to resource a congregation that primarily uses Spanish in worship 1 Austin McCabe Juhnke, “Music and the Mennonite Ethnic Imagination” (PhD diss., The Ohio State University, 2019), 55.

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services. Still, we strove to provide resources that would enable Mennonites to sing in a variety of languages at local, regional, national, and international gatherings. Local communities and area conferences have internal compositions that may reflect linguistic and cultural diversity, or external connections they want to be able to celebrate through song.

Representing Diverse Anabaptist Music In addition to resourcing various groups and events in the denomination, we hoped the collection would represent the diversity of Mennonite and Christian music around the world. The racial-​ethnic diversity among Anabaptists in North American and around the world must be part of our conception of “Anabaptist music” in order for it to be whole and true. The racial, cultural, and linguistic diversity of Mennonites continues to grow, evidenced in the United States by MCUSA using both Spanish and English for many official publications and events, as well as recognizing racial/​ethnic constituency groups that can send representatives to denominational meetings. Beyond North America, of course, Anabaptists of European descent are in the minority. Mennonite singing reflects this diversity, even within MCUSA and MC Canada. During three years of collection building for Voices Together, the committee conducted a variety of surveys and church visits that confirmed a broad range of musical practices: the four-​part singing tradition celebrated in the mid-​20th century is still present, sometimes a cappella and sometimes with instrumental accompaniment. Organs and pianos are common, as well as other instrumental accompaniment inspired by or embracing a range of styles: jazz, gospel, folk, and contemporary worship. Many communities that worship in languages other than English sing a combination of traditional Western hymns in translation and contemporary music in translation or originally written in their languages. Some communities have songwriters among their members, and some sing older songs from their cultures of origin. Voices Together is meant to resource and represent both the musical diversity among English-​ speaking Mennonites (the primary audience for this hymnal) and a broad variety of music from beyond European-​influenced traditions. To build the intercultural breadth of material, we sought to include a balance of traditional songs (some of which are not commonly sung in their communities of origin today), ecumenically known and loved “world music,” and songs that are sung in Mennonite communities in languages other than English. A few examples of this spectrum include “Kombo na Yesu” (Voices Together #648, written by Stockwell Massamba, an immigrant

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from The Congo and member of a Mennonite church in California), “O phi nong oei” (Voices Together #525 a Lao song based on a folk tune), and “Oceans (Océanos)” (Voices Together #456, a contemporary worship song listed as a heart song by several Spanish speaking Mennonite congregations). After choosing the songs, the Voices Together committee had to make decisions about how to present the songs on the page. Musicians know that scores—​written music—​are incomplete translations of sound to sight. Performers must learn how to bring the marks on a page to life, knowing that not all the breaths, swells, and emotions can be notated. Crossing cultural boundaries with musical transcription is even more fraught; ethnomusicologists from Western traditions have long agonized over how to visually represent non-​Western music for performance and study. How can we write down notes that fall between the lines and spaces of a grand staff? How can we represent timbres, ornaments, and musical textures for readers who may have never heard them? How can we write down songs from oral traditions without appropriating and Westernizing the texts and tunes? Even within the same or closely related cultures, songs regularly change over time as they are shared and passed down—​purposely or inadvertently simplified, ornamented, or otherwise varied. Mennonites who grew up singing the German “Gott ist die Liebe” (rather than the English “For God So Loved Us,” Hymnal: A Worship Book #167) have told me they know it more as a lullaby than the march-​like tune I have internalized. Once when I was singing this song under my breath a friend told me, “You’re humming that in English.” I do not know what histories caused this divergence in musical practice; often, there is no clear answer to such questions. Sometimes people want to identify essential differences in cultures that produce these changes, but that is a dangerous road (historically undergirded by pseudo-​scientific racism). For Voices Together, we revised the English translation (now “I Know God Loves Me,” Voices Together #158) to reflect the simplicity and repetition of the German stanzas. Time will tell if this textual modification will have any effect on the musical feel of the song. As the Voices Together hymnal committee added new non-​English and non-​Western songs to this denominational collection, we faced additional daunting questions of translating texts and tunes. Words, poetry, and images—​ set to music and meant to evoke an unimaginable divine—​ can become clunky when taken from their home culture and language. A new(-​ to-​us) example is a Chinese song “Golden breaks the Dawn” (Voices Together #498). If we were to sing a literal translation of the first line, 清早起來看, 紅日 出東方, the poetry would be lost: “get up early in the morning to see the red eastern sunrise.” The versified English “golden breaks the dawn/​comes the

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eastern sun” is not very grammatical, but it presents a vibrant image that resonates with Westerners (who tend to call the sun yellow rather than red). The second Chinese line continues, literally, “majesty like a warrior, beauty like a bridegroom,” images that are quite foreign to plain(ish) pacifist Mennonites. Furthermore, out of a desire for a rhyme, previous translators have tried “like a man of brawn” or “like a rider strong” for the warrior phrase. The rest of the first stanza is lovely in this metered and rhymed translation: “birds above us fly/​flowers bloom below. Through the earth and sky/​God’s great mercies flow.” The tune of “Golden breaks the dawn” is simple and sweet to my ear; others may also find it charming, or they may dismiss it as boring or even peculiar. Vocal and instrumental accompaniments could be rendered in a variety of ways that would accentuate either the Chinese-​ness or the similarities to Western tunes. As the committee decided to include this song, we had to determine how many cultural, musical, and linguistic translations are feasible and necessary to make it meaningful and useful for mostly Anglo North American Mennonite congregations who would use Voices Together. And, of course, this would need to be done without obliterating or disrespecting the source material. In the accompaniment edition we included a keyboard accompaniment with common practice Western harmony, a tradition typical in China since the early-​to-​mid 20th century. An equally typical accompaniment might have included strings or flutes, but time and page counts limited the varieties of sounds we were able to introduce. Another issue we debated was including Western style music that comes from, or has been incorporated into, non-​ Western musical communities. One example is a Congolese version of “What a Friend We have in Jesus” included in the Voices Together accompaniment edition (#628): this tune, written by U.S. American Charles Converse in 1868 and familiar to many North American Christians, is layered with African harmonies and vocal interjections in French. It is a reappropriation, a loop of colonizing mission (that expected converts to learn Western songs along with religion) leading to North American Christians receiving back this syncretic expression. Some might say this song is not “truly African” or that the Voices Together collection should include more “authentic” music. However, choosing a narrowly defined traditional set of music disregards huge sound worlds in every continent. It would be essentially just as colonial of us to define what another culture’s music ought to be in this way—​to patronizingly imply that it really would be better for them to reject any Western music they may have come to love.

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I hope I am not implying that I believe Voices Together has it all right. I know there are mistakes, compromises, and decisions that will seem misguided in years to come. We made choices between options that seemed equally right and wrong, such as to remove the song “Twas in the Moon of Wintertime.” As we explained in a blog post in 2019, the song has a history of colonization and misrepresentation, but it also tells a history of cooperation and learning between Indigenous and Settler people. Some Indigenous people today value the song for its use of Indigenous language and images, and others see these elements as misappropriation and find it troubling and hurtful. The decision to include or not to include the song had no clear right answer. We decided to remove the text and keep the tune for the song “The Garden Needs our Tending Now” (Voices Together #788) so as not to erase the history—​and even that seems a fraught decision. What if congregations sing that as a way to keep alive a painful past, or to gloss over racial justice? What if other songs in the collection are used in ways that are hurtful?

Engaging the Paradox of Singing Diversity In a culturally and linguistically diverse hymnal, each individual and congregation will encounter some familiar traditions, as well as some unknown to them. English speakers can learn about some non-​English texts from native speakers in their community or area conference, but what happens when a song leader doesn’t personally know a native speaker? Trying a new song from a different culture without help, grasping (or even guessing) at pronunciation and performance practice, easily becomes a caricature or worse. Furthermore, even when the intent is to experience God and share community, what does it really mean for a white U.S. American to sing a song that is said to have been sung by Muscogee (Creek) people on the Trail of Tears (“Halleluiah,” Voices Together #85), or a spiritual from enslaved people (Voices Together includes over a dozen African American spirituals)? I agree when people argue that there are shared human emotions that we can access through song, but we must also add that there are power structures that make some performances more responsible or appropriate than others. White North Americans need to think carefully about how to approach songs that have been translated into their musical languages and written into their stories and songbooks. White people are not accustomed to facing impossible situations: damned if you do, damned if you do not. As a white woman, even within the context of cisgender propriety, I do know this kind of tightrope—​between coming across as too feminine (when people will not take you seriously) and too masculine (when people see you as bossy or rude).

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Perhaps you have seen the cartoon diagram of skirt lengths, with a series of derogatory descriptions ranging from dowdy to slutty with no happy medium. Any individual from a stereotyped group faces an analogous paradox of being seen as confirming a cliché or trying to be something they are not. As a white person, though, I am not usually confronted by those kinds of confounding questions of identity. One place I do feel it is when I am choosing songs for my predominantly white Mennonite congregation, and even more acutely when I was reviewing songs for Voices Together. If our hymnal only contained music written by white European and North American people, that would be a ridiculous, incorrect, even white supremacist representation of Mennonite identity and singing practices. Damned if you do not. However, in order to represent the world of sacred music sung by Mennonites and our ecumenical siblings, we will be pushed beyond our knowledge and experience. When we try to sing a culturally or linguistically unfamiliar song, we are bound to misrepresent and make mistakes. Damned if you do. As we built the Voices Together collection, we knew it would primarily be used by white English-​speaking Mennonites, many of whom earnestly want to acknowledge and embrace a world-​w ide Mennonite diversity. For people from a dominant culture, this work of valuing diversity and finding common ground is something we need to grapple with ourselves—​a native of another culture cannot simply make it ok for us to inhabit their music. In singing a song that is not “ours,” that dialectic of ok and not-​ok will always persist. I do not know a way out of this paradox, but I believe we should not let it paralyze us. Even as we accept that we are going to make mistakes, we cannot let that inevitability allow us to be careless, uncritical, or immobilized. Although music is not a universal language (most people would agree they have heard music they do not understand), languages can be learned. Engaging other cultures, encountering people who are different—​but also the same—​is difficult work, but it is important for cultivating respect and enacting justice. We need to make the effort to learn about a variety of musical traditions in order to understand other humans as human rather than quaint or primitive versions of our own cultures. Song leaders can research language pronunciation and musical practices; they can share stories and draw congregations into feeling the contradictions of ours and not-​ours. Singers can lean into the tension of finding common ground without erasing difference. All should be willing to try and fail, mindful that the line between replication and sonic stereotyping is thin. Despite musical, linguistic, and cultural differences, the physical act of singing and making music can unite people. If I respectfully (even if imperfectly) learn the music of an “other,” we have the potential to communicate

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and share an experience. Even if I never actually sing a particular song with a native speaker, I can still metaphorically enact my connection to that person. Our entanglement, each of us animated by God’s breath, comes to life in song. Or, as Becca J. R. Lachman wrote in “Could It Be That God Is Singing” (Voices Together #42), “if music is God breathing, take a holy breath and sing!” We must keep singing the diversity of Anabaptist music, even as we must hold lightly to the conflicting expectations of being humbled and finding holy ground.

Bibliography Mary Oyer, ed. “Hymnal: A Worship Book.” Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1992. MaCabe Juhnke, Austin. “Kropf, Marlene, ed. Singing: A Mennonite Voice, edited by Marlene Kropf. Scottdale: PA: Herald Press, 2001. Tzu-​chen Chao, "Golden Breaks the Dawn," trans. Frank W. Price, Voices Together, Bradley Kauffman, ed. Harrisonburg, VA: MennoMedia, 2020. Vernon Neufeld, ed. “The Mennonite Hymnal.” Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1960. Martin, J. ed. “Voices Together,” edited by J. Martin. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 2015.

Part V  Pilgrimage, Trauma, and Renewal The Anabaptist/​Mennonite journey includes a variety of challenging and painful narratives. These may include episodes of sexual manipulation and abuse which Altaras reveals or when cultural clashes result in death threats as in Peters’ narrative. The road to renewal is often a treacherous one with many, additional painful episodes. Ruth Krall provides a map for wholeness amid a world of brokenness and Kaufman asks for a similar commitment to heal rural communities. Schumm is candid about her struggles with limited vision in world that often ignores or is ill equipped to understand those realities.

Chapter 11  Voice of the Residue: The Reckoning of Intergenerational Female Wounding C ameron A ltar as

“The more pious it seems, the worse the betrayal.”1

It is a nefarious use of theology, to teach a woman that the salvation of her soul depends upon her living up to an approved image of a good Christian woman. If the desire to live as her true self proves incompatible with that particular image, then her choice is either live a Christian life as a false self or a life of sin as an authentic self. When the approved-​of-​image is defined in a patriarchal context where men hold power and women do not, then even if a woman does live that false self as prescribed, while she might achieve approval as a good Christian woman, she still has no power to direct and define her own life, because as “a false self, an adapted self [she] lives according to other people’s expectations.”2 Under such conditions, a woman becomes alienated from who she really is. Living this way becomes a harmful pattern that is passed to the next generation. In this chapter, I will discuss this intergenerational harm, perpetrated under conditions shaped by a patriarchal Anabaptist 1 2

Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj, I Am That: Talks with Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj, trans. Maurice Frydman, ed. Sudhakar S. Dikshit (Durham, NC; The Acorn Press, 1973), 262. Carroll Saussy, God Images and Self Esteem: Empowering Women in a Patriarchal Society (Louisville, KY: Westminster/​John Knox Press, 1991), in Sarah Ann Bixler, “The Self Unveiled: The Dis-​integration of Mennonite Women’s Head Coverings,” in Abuse: Power in the Church, eds. Cameron Altaras and Carol Penner (Elkhart, IN: IMS, Forthcoming).

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theology, which undermine a woman’s well-​being and prove inimical to her ability to develop a self with integrity. Two terms essential to this discussion are “patriarchy” and “integrity.” First, a definition of “patriarchy”: “an anthropological term denoting families or societies ruled by fathers. It sets up a hierarchy—​a rule of priests—​in which the priest, the hieros, is a father, pater. As an order of living, it elevates some men over other men and all men over women.”3 Life understood through a patriarchal lens, privileges the power of and entrenches the dominance of male over female. Rather than bringing people together, this socially constructed top-​down structure causes division between those with power and those with less or none at all. This chapter focuses on identifying as female in such a context—​experience I have lived and from which I write.4 Developing integrity “involves a capacity to respond to change in one’s values or circumstances, a kind of continual remaking of the self … and to take responsibility for one’s work and thought.”5 If “[u]‌nderstanding integrity involves taking the self to be always in process, rather than static and unchanging,”6 then to insist that a woman live in accordance with a static heteronomous image, not only denies her autonomy to develop and grow as a self, but also restricts her ability to naturally change along the journey of her life, seek inner balance among the possibilities she encounters and form herself as a being of integrity. Thoughts and desires which surface within her consciousness to throw off the weight of what is false, are potential harbingers of her development of integrity as a self. Each denial of a yearning to be or think something different, causes a violation to the self. As each violation is absorbed, rationalized and accepted, integrity is lost. Words are not spoken. Dreams are not realized. Lives are not lived. Frustrations and anger are bottled up and manifest as anxiety, depression, even physical illness. The repressed wound festers and the next generation is raised with the residue. When a woman becomes cognizant of her alienation from herself and recognizes her complicity in causing harm to herself through the willful

3 Carol Gilligan and David A. J. Richards, Darkness Now Visible: Patriarchy’s Resurgence and Feminist Resistance (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 10. 4 In using the term “patriarchy,” I limit this discussion to privilege and oppression based on gender. Beyond the scope of this discussion is the intersectionality of a complex social order that institutionalizes privilege and oppressive systems based also on, for example, race, class, sexual orientation, (dis)ability and education. 5 Damian Cox, Marguerite La Case and Michael P. Levine, Integrity and the Fragile Self (Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2003), 41. 6 Ibid.

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self-​deception required of her, she faces a dilemma: to what self is she to be true? As Dostoyevsky, warns: “Above all, do not lie to yourself.”7 To blame others for her predicament, does not bring her any closer to achieving integrity as a self, for blaming continues to place the power to bring about a life of well-​being in the hands of someone else—​i.e., if only they would do something different, I could do something different. We suffer until we decide we don’t want to suffer any longer, which then requires the will to do something different. My journey through an Anabaptist social and theological maze to get to this point shapes the present discussion. To illustrate, I refer to stories from the lives of my mother and myself (we both grew up in an Amish Mennonite community in Ontario, Canada) as well as to two of my scripts. Instead of pursing a life in the arts, which started with exposure to literature, poetry and drama in high school and blossomed on the stage at Goshen College, I laid aside my “unreasonable” dream, dove into the serious work of grad school and then worked in the corporate world. While I do not regret the learning from my experiences, I realize that in so doing I denied anything of the imagination. Life became lived along the logical and the practical and within a very narrow definition of what qualified as in service to others and to God. Anything remotely related to art did not fit. Without the imagination engendered by and through the arts, little beyond what I could see became possible. The confines of my world shrunk. As Rumi noted, my intellect said there “are limits: there is no way out.”8 And I believed it.

Stories and Scripts: “If you want to work on your art, work on your life.” –​A nton Chekov In complete rebuttal of the path I did go down, I have discovered that one of the best ways to work on my life, is to work on my art, hereby reversing the wisdom of Chekov. Written twenty-​five years apart, two of my artistic

7

“Above all, don’t lie to yourself. [One] who lies to [one’s] self and listens to [one’s] own lie comes to a point that [one] cannot distinguish the truth within [one’s self], or around [one’s self], and so loses all respect for [one’s self] and for others. And having no respect, [one] ceases to love.”—​Fyodor Dostoyevsky. 8 “The intellect says: “The six directions are limits: there is no way out.” Love says: “There is a way. I have traveled it thousands of times.” The intellect saw a market and started to haggle; Love saw thousands of markets beyond that market.”—​ Jalal-​ud-​Din Rumi.

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endeavors deal specifically with the theme of the damage done to a woman’s sense of self by patriarchal Anabaptist theology. The 1995 script, “Quietly Landed?”—​a “musical/​dramatic work based on writings of women of Mennonite background”9 —​ was a collaborative effort. We asked Mennonite women across North America for prose or poetry and, in response, “got all these little pieces of people’s lives,”10 from women between the ages of 20 and 70+​. In addition to contemporary stories, we also highlighted early Anabaptist women; we “agreed, there must be a place for the voices of those early women, some persecuted and subjugated in their own time, who could no longer speak for themselves.”11 The long line of women’s stories, stretching from the sixteenth through the twentieth centuries, were threaded together by the common question: “did we choose to be the quiet in the land, or have we been quietened?” Most stories had never been told because “[a]‌ll too often, we as Mennonites, both men and women, have not counted the women of our heritage among the important voices.”12 The scene opens with lines from stories and poems featured in their entirety later in the script: We are silencers of hope And other times we are the quiet in the land … Why did I hear so little about her?… I can hardly talk I longed to talk … Is she holding her mouth shut? Are her lips sealed so she does not say anything?… Her seldom used voice ….13

9 Carol Ann Weaver, Carol Penner and Cheryl Nafziger-​L eis (my previous name), Quietly Landed? A musical/​dramatic work based on writings of women of Mennonite background. Written for and first performed at the conference titled “The Quiet in the Land? Women of Anabaptist Traditions in Historical Perspective,” Millersville University, Millersville, PA, June 10, 1995. Also performed at the St. Jacobs Schoolhouse Theatre, St. Jacobs, ON, Nov. 3–​4, 1995. 10 Carol Penner, quoted in Ferne Burkhardt, “Artists shape women’s stories into music/​ drama for conference,” Mennonite Reporter 25, no. 4 (February 20, 1995): 11. 11 Pauline Finch-​Durichen, “Theatre-​documentary tells story of Mennonite women in own words,” The Record (Kitchener, ON: November 1, 1995): E7. 12 This quote was from the April 5, 1995 letter I wrote to donors. One line of the script: “Why did I hear so little about her?” underlined the need for the project: “[t]‌ime and time again we have been told by Mennonite women who have heard of or read of this project, that this is something they have been waiting for.” 13 Penner, et al., Op. cit., 1–​5.

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In 2020, I wrote a deeply personal script, titled “Voice of the Residue” (recorded as an audio performance piece),14 in which I came to terms with three “reckonings” of how I bought into and succumbed to a patriarchal worldview at the expense of my voice and true self. The script incorporates multiple audio tracks to portray the voices of many generations narrating condemning, weeping and sometimes representing the craziness in one head, all the while handing down the pain of wounds endured as women. With this script, I acknowledge that I am but one in a long line of females, grating against and finally giving in to a life limited by the confines determined by the men with the power. The script opens with female voices franticly whispering: “The men are busy!” A synthesized deeper voice explains that the men are busy ordering their emotions and wives and daughters, in “boxes and boxes to maintain control.” There is also a long line of male ancestors—​going right back to sixteenth century Anabaptist beginnings and the seventeenth century Amish roots—​under the feet of Jakob Ammann. To ensure Ordnung—​church discipline—​among Anabaptists over whom he wielded power, Ammann, who was illiterate,15 created rules, which generations of Amish women have balked at, railed against and finally submitted themselves to the line of men from Ammann continued right up to and including the twentieth century morally despicable theological and ethical machinations of John Howard Yoder and the men who had an unhealthy idolization of him. Such “Yoder-​ites” learned from him to disallow dissent toward the refined formulae they posited as truths from their pulpits and then used as bait to lure women and manipulate men.16 14 The recording is available at: https://​w ww.vocem-​redis​uum.com/​rec​ordi​ngs. 15 Ammann could not write his name and had to have documents read to him. Cf. https://​en.wikipe​d ia.org/​w iki/ ​Jakob​_ ​A mm​a nn. Accessed May 31, 2020. 16 A prominent leader in the Ontario Mennonite church who knew well the Mennonite pastor to whom I fell victim, said he’d had “an unhealthy idolization of Yoder.” Another survivor of his abuse told me that he presented her with one of Yoder’s unpublished papers supporting sex between unmarried “brothers and sisters in Christ,” to convince her that what he was doing was sanctioned by God. I have covered clergy sexual abuse in: “Bearing Witness for Molly and Me: Two Stories of Clergy Sexual Abuse,” in Altaras and Penner, eds. Op. Cit.; Cameron Altaras, “Can Sex with a Pastor Be an Affair?” Canadian Mennonite 19, Issue 17 (August 26, 2015): 4–​6. https://​canadi​a nme​n non​ite.org/​rea​der/​5407; Cameron Altaras, “Naming Mennonite Harvey Weinsteins: When Resilience Requires Community.” The Mennonite (March 2018): 25–​27; Cameron Altaras, “Sex With a Pastor is Never an Affair.” 2015 SNAP (Survivors’ Network of those Abused by Priests) annual conference. Arlington, VA: August 2, 2015. https://​w ww.yout​ube. com/​watch?v=​32iV​yVVt​a 2s&t=​13s.

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The notion that power belongs in the hands of men was entrenched through the exclusively male language for God and church leadership in The Schleitheim Confession of the early Anabaptists, the Anabaptist vision, as articulated by Harold S. Bender, and the theological hierarchy of God-​Christ-​Man-​ Woman as symbolized by the ordinance of women’s head-​coverings thanks to both John S. Coffman and Daniel Kauffman and further advocated by J. C. Wenger. I’ve had the undeniable feeling for a long time that at least within the purview of my Anabaptist world, with me this has to change. There comes along a generation wherein continuing as the genetic line which came before is so intolerable, that one either gives up one’s life entirely or jumps off the line’s trajectory and changes course. The image of a river changing course hit me one day in a powerful surge! From this occurrence grew the 2020 script. During a mediation session on my way out of a marriage that no matter how many ways I looked at it, could never have been saved, a marriage to the father of my children—​a man also of Amish Mennonite stock—​I suddenly felt and saw and heard behind me several long lines of women, shouting at me, begging me to speak for them. Or as articulated in the script: “Voice for me what I could never speak!” I remember during that mediation session, feeling this burden becoming real, this responsibility to absolutely unleash! I have no idea what all spilled out of my mouth, but it felt like more than the complaints of injustice in just one life. In one fell swoop, the river raging through my psychic DNA plowed over its banks, swept me up in its currents and changed its course. What surprised me the most was not the change of course itself, but the fact that the greatest curses lodged against that change came from women. Despite the curses and to reclaim my life, I broke a commitment I had made for life. The choice to do so was neither easy nor quick and yet I have learned through this that “[i]‌ntegrity is as much, if not more, about when to break certain commitments as it is about when to keep them.”17 It felt like I was walking off a cliff with no support. In the script, this is the second moment of reckoning (I shall talk about the first later). I quote from a poem by Margaret Avison to express my angst in the face of the existential realization that I am alone and afraid, I don’t know what anything means anymore, and I don’t know where I am going: ‘This is the whirlpool then”18 [SILENCE] 17 Cox, et al., Op. Cit., 2. 18 From “The Swimmer’s Moment,” a poem by Margaret Avison. https://​canpoe​t ry.libr​ ary.utoro​nto.ca/​avi​son/​poem7.htm. Accessed June 13, 2020.

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The emptiness that follows. And the fear that tries to fill it. And the feat to undertake to move right through it.

I have come to understand through stories my mother told me of growing up Beachy Amish, that it is not unusual for women to curse each other. Having been raised with a theology which keeps them powerless, often it is, in fact, the women who condone or condemn to keep one another in line—​in complete disregard for their own rights. A woman in this context becomes “an accomplice … a mere instrument for”19 the theology which has shaped her. In the script, the voices of women warn each other to drop their “crazy, futile notions.” And the women succumb to the pressure and: shape their lives and their notions to fit the shape of the box into which they have been put.

But their anger about having to do so, goes inside. It becomes self-​loathing and depression, sometimes annihilating the will to go on living. The un-​ raged rage and unfulfilled dreams are transmitted to subsequent generations.

Theology’s Doctrinal Sulfur Somewhere along the way, I came across the term: “the mother-​line.” It haunted me. All those ancestral women’s voices reverberated through my conscious mind and visited me in my sleep. My growing up years were filled with stories steeped in bottled anger from my mother and grandmothers, none of whom were allowed an education beyond the eighth grade.20 There were female complaints overheard at family reunions of having to wear braids as kids or plain dresses with ugly fussy useless capes and the worst thing: the head covering. By the time I came along, my parents had switched to a more liberal Amish Mennonite congregation, so none of these particularities applied to me. Nevertheless, I felt the effects. Sarah Ann Bixler explains this well; like me, she is “a Mennonite woman of Swiss-​German descent who has inherited the inter-​generational impact of a religious practice that, though

19 Marilyn A. Friedman, “Integrity and the Deferential Wife,” Philosophical Studies 47 (1985), 147. Content downloaded from 141.216.78.40 on Mon., 29 Jun 2020. 20 This aspect of my mother’s story was featured in Quietly Landed? She wrote it and performed it. Cf. Penner, et al., Op. cit., 15.

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I do not practice it now, still bears upon me in some way … at the level of the self.”21 Theology as an insidious force to be reckoned with appeared in everyday events that blew up into traumatizing occurrences. My paternal grandmother shared her many opinions about the theological umbrella overshadowing our lives and declared who digressed from it, how they had done so and what the results would be. The case which comes most clearly to mind is that of her daughter-​in-​law, my mother … because of me and my thread thin hair. Its blond tangles caused no end of consternation. Even though I didn’t have to wear the Amish braids Mom had had to, my fine, limp follicles refused to cooperate. The easiest solution was just to cut it off. Short-​ shorn-​ hair-​ four-​ year-​ old me sat on Grandma’s wooden piano bench, almost hiding behind the huge fern, but not quite because she saw me first thing when she entered the room. The look of shock completely changed her face from the grandmother I knew to a mean and sinister female version of the Bishops she despised. She shouted at my mother for cutting my hair! Instantly, the flames of hell shot hot fear up through my feet and branded my forehead with the mark of the beast. I tasted theology’s doctrinal sulfur: every action is potentially a sin! Already at four I gained the visceral knowing that if I were not vigilant, I would end up in hell! Even my mother’s frustration-​cum-​mistakes in defiance of I Corinthians 11 would send me there.22 My mother’s early experience of theological condemnation female-​style hit her on the head—​literally—​at the hands of another child. “When I was six,” she told me, “my older sister made me a beautiful skirt. I wanted to wear it to school, but Mom wouldn’t let me because I was not supposed to be wearing a skirt and blouse, only a dress. I begged to wear it because it was so beautiful. Mom finally relented on the condition that I wear a long sweater over it so you couldn’t tell it was a skirt. At school, a 14-​year-​old girl from our church saw I had on something new and wanted to see it. She yanked my sweater up and exclaimed in horror: “Ach, you have a skirt on!!!” Then when it was time for lunch, we all had to go down to the basement to get our 21 Bixler, Op. cit. 22 The demand that women’s hair remained uncut “arose from literal readings of scripture. Many Mennonites who took strict positions on women’s hairstyles pointed to I Corinthians 11:1–​16, as a clear guideline: ‘But every woman that prays or prophesies with her head uncovered dishonors her head; for that is even as if she were shaven. For it is a shame for a woman to be shorn or shaven, let her be covered.’ [v. 5–​6]” Marlene Epp, Mennonite Women in Canada: A History (Winnipeg: MB: University of Manitoba Press, 2008), 198.

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lunchboxes. That girl made a beeline for me. I was reaching for my lunchbox and she took my head in her hands and banged it on the shelf this way and that way and this way and that way. It hurt so much. No one did anything. I didn’t tell the teacher. I did tell Mom and she was pretty upset but I don’t think she did anything about it.” A 14-​year-​old took it upon herself to punish an infraction of dress mandates, and effectively traumatized another child. Historian Marlene Epp notes that within many religious traditions it has frequently been the females who bear “the cultural markers” such as dress, which are “in a sense the physical signposts that differentiate and separate their sectarian group from the rest of society.”23 The critical part of dressing in a way which separates one from the world, to ensure one “is ‘nonconformed’ to the rest of the world,” explains Epp, was based on an interpretation of Romans 12:2 and was “deemed necessary for a truly holy and Christian life.”24 The skirt story was one of many where theological community pressure shaped her mother’s warnings, as well as carved lasting scars on the personhood of my mother. She remembers “so many instances of: ‘I don’t want you to wear that because So-​and-​So will see and it’s not right’.” Along with the no-​skirt-​rule, there was the no-​pants-​rule; this included, she told me, no snow pants: “I wore snow pants outside at home. But girls weren’t supposed to wear pants. One Saturday, when I was about eight, I was going to town with Dad and it was cold, and I wanted to wear my snow pants. Mom didn’t want me to because she was worried someone from the church might see me. She finally gave in if I would take them off before we went into the store. When we got to the store, I didn’t take them off because it was so cold. Dad saw and he didn’t say anything. In the store, he told me to wait in one spot while he went to get something. All of a sudden, I saw the Bishop’s wife. I felt so guilty and so afraid. She came over and talked to me and was very kind. I was living in fear for so long after that because I was afraid she would talk to Mom and tell her that I had my snow pants on in the store. But Mom never said anything, so I guess the Bishop’s wife never told her.” How to dress was serious stuff, “akin to church doctrine,” and provided an important way to “maintain patriarchal authority” and, as my mother found out, “social control.”25 The most distinctive aspect of the dress code, 23 Epp, Op. cit., 180. 24 Ibid., 181–​82. 25 Linda B. Arthur, “Introduction: dress and the Social Control of the Body,” and Beth Grabill and Linda B. Aruth, “The Social Control of Women’s Bodies in Two Mennonite Communities,” in Religion, Dress and the Body, ed. Arthur (Oxford, UK: 1999), 1–​7, 9–​29, cited in Epp, Op. cit., 183–​84.

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in the lives of Amish and Mennonite women which “represents an expression of a patriarchal ideology,”26 has been and remains the head-​covering: that “visible symbol of submission to the divine order of headship, always reminding women of their inferior place.”27 Based again on an interpretation of I Corinthians 11, “this divinely instituted order places God as the head of Christ, Christ as the head of the man and the man as the head of the woman. The covering, then, functions as a sign of the woman’s place in this order.”28 Because my grandmothers and great-​grandmothers wore them, both Mom and I were surprised to learn that, the religious mandate for women to cover their heads is a relatively recent phenomenon in Mennonite history.… In the 1890s, evangelist John S. Coffman took married women’s common custom of wearing a cap for worship and reframed it as a ‘prayer head covering’ for all baptized women at all times, citing Paul’s instructions in I Corinthians 11:2–​16.29

In 1898, Daniel Kauffman listed the “woman’s prayer-​head-​covering” as “one of seven ordinances.”30 Harold S. Bender offered a blatantly patriarchal justification: “The entire question is not one of moral or religious nature, but social. The covering of the head is not a necessity to make God hear the woman’s prayers, or to recognize as valid her contribution to the religious life of the community—​it is a necessity to preserve the divinely ordained social order from disruption and to enforce the lesson of woman’s submission to man.”31 The men at the front of the church, like Bender, locate the woman 26 Bixler, Op. cit. 27 Ibid. 28 Richard C. Detweiler, The Christian Woman’s Head-​Veiling: A Study of I Corinthians 11:2–​16 (Lancaster, PA: The Christian Education Board of the Lancaster Mennonite Conference, 1972), 4, cited in Ibid. 29 Brenda Martin Hurst, The Articulation of Mennonite Beliefs about Sexuality, 1890–​ 1930, PhD Dissertation (Richmond, VA: Union Theological Seminary, 2003), 91–​ 92., cited in Ibid. 30 Kauffman defines an ordinance as “an act or ceremony instituted by someone who has authority to do so. An ordinance is not a sacrament in the sense that the original meaning of the word sacrament implies.” Daniel Kauffman, Manual of Bible Doctrines: Setting Forth the General Principles of the Plan of Salvation, Explaining the Symbolical Meaning and Practical Use of the Ordinances Instituted by Christ and His Apostles, and Pointing Out Specifically Some of the Restrictions Which the New Testament Scriptures Enjoined upon Believers (Elkhart, IN: Mennonite Publishing Co., 1898), 150, cited in Bixler, Op. Cit. The remaining ordinances were: “baptism, communion, feet-​washing, salutation of the holy kiss, anointing with oil and marriage.” Ibid., 160. 31 Harold S. Bender, “An Exegesis of I Cor. 11:1–​16” (paper, 1922), 19. Mennonite Historical Library, Goshen, Indiana, cited in Epp, Op. cit., 186–​7.

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in the place of least importance within the hierarchical schemata of the very theology they teach her. Even as a baby, Mom wore a white covering tied under her chin when she went to church: “That’s just the way it was and I never thought anything different. You didn’t question those things. We were told the Bible said women’s heads were to be covered.” Her transition to no longer wear the covering happened over time: “Some Sundays I just forgot and felt a little guilty when I realized I forgot. I talked to my pastor and he said: ‘I can’t tell you what to do. You need to decide what is right for you.’ Many other women at church had stopped. Even when I didn’t wear it to my own church anymore, I still kept one for funerals at my parents’ church, out of respect for them. When I finally didn’t wear it anymore, I felt free. I just decided I don’t need this anymore. I am my SELF, my own person.” An enlightened male Mennonite pastor helped Mom finally see her way clear to drop an external marker that was getting in the way of her finding her true self.

To Save One’s Soul as a Matter of Integrity It is precisely this issue of a woman’s self around which questions of developing integrity spiral and the type of social environment, which is conducive to developing integrity, that the three reckonings represent in my 2020 script. Accordingly, “[t]‌he kind of society which is likely to be more conducive to integrity is one which enables people to develop and make use of their capacity for critical reflection, one which does not force people to take up particular roles because of their sex or race or any other reason, and one which does not encourage individuals to betray each other, either to escape prison or to advance their career.”32 The Amish Mennonite world fails women on several counts. First, my mother and those before her were not permitted education beyond eight primary years (this continues in many Amish communities33), thus hampering their ability to develop critical reflection skills. They were “deprived of the conditions for developing integrity—​t he freedom to makes choices how to act and think.”34 Second, even as young girls, my mother and the other females of her community understood all too well the theological gravitas of sticking to their female roles. Third, the betrayal my mother experienced at the hands of another Amish child and later, her mother-​in-​law,

32 Cox et al., Op. cit., 152. 33 See Torah Bontrager, “The Amish, Education and Child Abuse: One Woman’s Response to the Crisis,” in Altaras and Penner, eds. Op. cit. 34 Cox et al., Op. cit., 150–​51.

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did not occur because people wanted to avoid prison or advance their career, but because of something much more serious: they wanted to save their soul! Both communal and learned self-​imposition of guilt and shame undermined their ability to think critically and develop integrity. Or, as Friedman argues, in her discussion of “the deferential wife,” if “one essential constituent of whole moral personhood is the ongoing tendency … to critically assess those preferences which one acts to satisfy,” then when a woman is never given the opportunity to learn to think critically about what she is taught to think, or comes to believe that her very soul is at stake should she think otherwise, then she will “fail to achieve whole moral personhood; she lacks moral integrity.”35 Instead of morally discerning how to act in her own best interest, she simply “defer[s] uncritically to the preferences of”36 her theological community. Damage to an individual’s sense of self is inevitable in such a social context. When it is “structured in such a way that it undermines people’s attempt at either knowing or acting upon their commitments, values and desires, then such a structure is inimical to integrity. And if integrity is connected to well-​ being, then adverse social … conditions are a threat—​not merely an ultimate threat, but also a daily threat—​to well-​being.”37 Alienation from one’s self is the result “when people … take on roles they mistakenly believe they want or deceive themselves about wanting.”38 It doesn’t take a lot of self-​deception to convince one’s self to steamroll over one’s inner conflict, to avoid the fires of hell. “[P]‌eople can convince themselves that they are making free and self-​ determined choices as their integrity is gradually eroded by conditions that seem to have no human source.”39 The use of divine scripture effectively conceals the very human assertions of men like J. C. Wenger, that good Christian women, must “align their inner attitudes with the outward sign worn on their heads.”40 It is irrelevant if a woman agrees with that outward symbol of submission, or—​completely ignoring Dostoyevsky’s warning—​if she has to lie to herself about why she wears it. In contrast, Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj states that “[h]‌armony between the inner and the outer is happiness. On the other hand, self-​identification with the outer is suffering.”41 It follows that in Wenger’s worldview, it is acceptable 35 Friedman, Op. cit., 147. 36 Ibid. 149. 37 Cox et al., Op. cit., 150–​51. 38 Ibid., 150. 39 Ibid. 40 John Christian Wenger, Separated unto God: A Plea for Christian Simplicity of Life and for a Scriptural Nonconformity to the World (Scottdale, PA: Mennonite Publishing House, 1951), 212, cited in Bixler, Op. cit. 41 Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj, Op. cit., 98.

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to deny a woman her happiness and instead, suffer disharmony between her inner and outer selves. Against all internal yearnings to think otherwise, Wenger insists she convince herself of the important theological reason why she must comply. No wonder if took my mother years to stop wearing a head-​ covering. It was in fact, when she finally did decide to act in alignment with her own thinking, that my mother did act with integrity, for “[i]ntegrity involves a frequent, if not constant, reordering or reprioritizing of commitments..… One will, and should, grow out of certain commitments as one’s experiences, understanding, desires and expectations change.”42 Although she had made a commitment at her baptism to wear the head-​covering, just as I had made a commitment in my first marriage, my mother found powerful enough reasons within her own heart, to break that commitment.

The Long Line of Anabaptist Theological Machinations What my mother did wonder was why only men were leaders in the church: “We were taught that it’s not right for women to preach in church. But I could never figure out why there were women in the Bible who were leaders, like Debra and Lydia. It didn’t make sense.” This theme also surfaced in the Quietly Landed? script, where one woman related her experience: “Last evening, sitting at the church supper, I was immersed in the sounds and smells of tradition.… I wanted to talk. I longed to talk. But I didn’t. 250 people in the congregational survey said women already have ample opportunity to serve in the church; women do not need to be leaders. Some say they would withdraw their membership if women were elected. Then point to scripture against women serving as pastors.”43

In spite of the radical nature of their theology, and in spite of the fact that just as in the early Christian church, there were women in significant leadership roles among the early Anabaptists, their confession of faith—​the Schleitheim Confession—​simply conformed to the patriarchal society around them. Not only does that Confession refer to God in exclusively male language: May joy, peace, mercy from our Father, through the atonement …”, it also only uses the male pronoun for church leadership: “He shall be supported, wherein he has need, by the congregation which has chosen him, so that he who serves the gospel can also live therefrom, as the Lord has ordered.” 44 42 Cox, et al., Op. cit., 4. 43 Penner, et al., Op. cit., 27. 44 https://​a na​bapt ​istw ​i ki.org/​mediaw ​i ki/​i ndex.php?title= ​Schl​eith​eim_​C onf​essi​on_​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ (sou​rce. Accessed on May 26, 2020).

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It is utterly inexcusable that male names like Conrad Grebel, Ulrich Zwingli, Menno Simons and Dirk Willems overshadow the stories of early Anabaptist women. The story of Willems, held up as the paragon of pacifist theology because he saved his pursuer from drowning and was promptly burned at the stake, has not been a helpful one for women. Instead of referring to the story of Helena von Fryeburg, for example, a woman, who used her money and her smarts to outwit authorities in several cities, as she preached and gave shelter to new converts, women are told to turn the other cheek like Willems, not resist those who are abusing them or attempting to thwart their efforts to become a whole self and quickly forgive.45 This re-​writing of Anabaptist history by leaving out the names of women is no different from any of the other re-​writings of history, such as colonialist narratives of the “discovery” of the “new world” by Columbus. It wasn’t until the 1996 publication of Profiles of Anabaptist Women: Sixteenth-​Century Reforming Pioneers,46 that most people had access to these stories. No wonder my mother didn’t know stories from her own tradition to refer to, in order to challenge the notion that only men could lead the church. In light of the revelations of the manipulation of Anabaptist theology and ethics by one of the most notable recent Anabaptists, John Howard Yoder, to justify his acts of abuse of power, whether sexual, intellectual or just plain bullying, if we are to have integrity—​and in this case, not only women but also men—​we must examine and change our thinking about and our living out of that theology and those ethics. In 1585, the Council of Berne, wrote a “mandate against the Swiss Brethren, [i.e. Anabaptists]” which according to H. S. Bender, “states that offensive sins and vices were common among the preachers and the membership of the Reformed Church, adding, ‘And this is the greatest reason that many pious, God-​fearing people who seek Christ from their heart are offended and forsake our church [to unite with the Brethren.]’ ”47 Those of us who are offended at Yoder’s hypocrisy, are, 45 Carol Penner and I were amazed at how many chapters submitted for Abuse: Power in the Church, referred to how the Dirk Willems story has made it permissible to accept the perpetuation of various forms of abuse. 46 C. Arnold Snyder and Linda A. Huebert Hecht, eds., Profiles of Anabaptist Women: Sixteenth-​Century Reforming Pioneers, Studies in Religion, Vol. 3 (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1996). My chapter was about a woman who inherited a printing press from her father and printed many early Anabaptist documents. Because she was a woman, the guilds would neither permit her the title “printer,” nor ownership of the press. The only way to keep it was to hand over ownership to her husband. She outlived three and the press was hers only when she was a widow, but to keep it, she had to re-​marry. Cf.: “Margarethe Prüss of Strasbourg,” in Snyder and Hecht, eds., Op. cit., 258–​72. 47 Harold S. Bender, TAV (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1944), 24.

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in the footsteps of our Anabaptist ancestors, forsaking our church. When I withdrew my name from the Mennonite church in light of being abused by a “Yoder-​ite,” I was surprised that the male pastor with whom I spoke named this as an act of integrity.48 Frankly, I wonder if Yoder himself believed in the principles of Anabaptism. Recent researchers, such as Krall,49 Goossen,50 Guth,51 and Villegas52 have had access to Yoder’s personal files and found his notes indicating he purposely constructed a theological and ethical framework with the intention to justify his sexual exploitations of women. His premeditation makes his abominable actions all the more egregious and undermines the integrity of his writings. Conrad Grebel wrote: “every man wants to be saved by superficial faith, without fruits of faith … and wants to persist in all the old fashion of personal vices.”53 Yoder’s confrontational suppression of all dissenters—​male or female—​and aggressive sexual domination of women, provides merely a recent example of a long history of Anabaptist actions which perpetuate the old fashion personal vices of patriarchy. Conforming to the patriarchal society around him, Yoder’s blatant ethical malpractice “reveals the structural, cultural, and institutional scope of the problem, drawing attention to a culture that allows for violence against women.…”54 Anabaptism has proved no different than the many “traditions of socialization which have long prepared women for submissive roles.”55 Yoder knew that—​so did those who preceded him and those who followed his example. We line them all up, the men at Schleitheim to Yoder, and see justification in blaming them for a lot of harm done to women. Yet, if blaming others simply continues the pattern of handing over one’s power and thus not escaping 48 The pastor I met with said: “You have more integrity than most people who show up Sunday morning because they’ve just always shown up Sunday morning, or because their parents insist they continue to show up Sunday morning, or because it’s good for their status in the community to show up Sunday morning. Yes, I understand.” 49 Ruth Krall, The Elephants in God’s Living Room, Vol. 3. The Mennonite Church and John Howard Yoder. Available at: https://​r uthkr​a ll.com/​downl​oada​ble-​books/​ the-​elepha​nts-​in-​gods-​l iv​ing-​room-​ser​ies/​. Accessed July 11, 2020. 50 Rachel Waltner Goossen, “ ‘Defanging the Beast’: Mennonite Responses to John Howard Yoder’s Sexual Abuse,” MQR 89 (January 2015). 51 Karen V. Guth, “Moral Injury, Feminist and Womanist Ethics and Tainted Legacies,” Journal of the Society of Christian Ethics 38, no. 1 (2018). 52 Isaac Samuel Villegas, “The Ecclesial Ethics of John Howard Yoder’s Abuse,” Modern Theology 0:0 Month 2020 ISSN 1468-​0 025 (online). 53 Bender, TAV, 14–​15. 54 Guth, Op. cit., 173. 55 Friedman, Op. cit., 149.

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an imposed submission, what is one to do? All too quickly we are told to forgive those who have done us wrong—​t here’s Dirk Willems again! In the 2020 script, though, I figured out that who I really need to forgive is myself. That is the real challenge, and this is the script’s third reckoning: it is myself I must forgive. This neither excuses the intergenerational harmful wounding, nor does it mean I just forget about it. What it means, is that I no longer allow the harm done to direct or drain my life. Just as “you shall love your neighbor as yourself,”56 depends upon loving yourself to have any validity, you can only forgive others to the extent that you can forgive yourself. Self-​forgiveness is no easy matter. How can I forgive myself for falling into the same traps as my ancestors, and living along the lines of a submissive self in contradiction to my own well-​being? Such awareness brings one face to face with one’s complicity in one’s own un-​doing—​which also brings one face to face with Dostoyevsky’s warning about not lying to one’s self. This is the first reckoning of the script, the one which sets the whole in motion. At a moment such as this, one has a choice to continue defining oneself by one’s wounding and continue to play into the socially constructed hierarchy in a patriarchal world that supports on-​going wounding, or as articulated in the script: “Scream the scream I never screamed Now I must scream: I AM! I am Where the river changes Course, with me the meek Submissive covered head no Longer bows in shame ….”

The false self—​the socially-​theologically constructed image of a self—​ must be thrown off so that the true self can finally emerge and declare: I AM! In the script, it is a blood-​curdling scream which echoes into sustained silence. That declaration unleashes the anger, brings the pattern to a halt, throws off the mantle of submission and sets a new course to reclaim one’s true self.

56 Mark 12:31 NRSV.

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“You are the dream of all your ancestors.” –​Bert Hellinger It’s time to give up the giving up of self. Our generation of Anabaptist descendants ought to replace the tired martyr male image of Dirk Willems with images of female strength, integrity and resolute self-​d iscernment, like a Helena von Freyburg. There is no longer any need for us to step back onto a cracking frozen patch of ice and hand ourselves over to be burned at the stake of our own un-​doing. We have already done that—​for almost five centuries, we’ve done that. Now it’s time to glean the wisdom from our wounds and move the course of history forward in a different direction. Instead of uncritically deferring to contemporary iterations of Ammann or Coffman, Kauffman, Bender, or Wenger, we can quote the following as attributed to Jesus: “Beyond what I have already given you, do not lay down any further rules nor issue laws as the Lawgiver, lest you too be dominated by them.”57 This is from the more recently discovered but contemporaneous to the other Gospels, the Gospel of Mary Magdalene, which was not chosen by the early Church fathers as they compiled the New Testament canon—​another example of the re-​writing of history! Instead of falling for the continued patterning of women handing over their power just to be wounded in the repulsive soiled hands of men like Yoder, we can say: ENOUGH! Enough of the hierarchy of God-​Christ-​Man-​Woman which would have a woman believe she must submit to whatever misappropriation of scripture might be disguised as theological ethics or church doctrine. The early Anabaptists held as an important tenet of faith, a “priesthood of all believers,” a community of believers with no need of a priest to intercede on our behalf before God. Yet, as we look at how Anabaptism evolved, we see that this priesthood was assiduously doled out, to use Bender’s words, “to preserve the divinely ordained social order from disruption and to enforce the lesson of woman’s submission to man.”58 This carefully managed doling out was shaped by a patriarchal worldview which deemed females unfit to handle the power of priesthood. The concept of a priesthood of all believers was only that, a concept. While there have been valiant efforts in some corners of Anabaptism, in reality it never existed for many and still does not exist for

57 Cynthia Bourgeault, The Meaning of Mary Magdalene: Discovering the Woman at the Heart of Christianity (Boston, MA: Shambhala, 2010), 47. 58 Bender, “An Exegesis of I Cor. 11:1–​16,” cited in Epp, Op. cit., 186–​7.

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those who suffer sanctions if they identify as female or LGBTQ+​.59 The promise of the early Anabaptist “priesthood of all believers” is a broken promise. Women wore the external markers of the broken promise and women bore the internal markings as wounding. As the imbalance of power has become exceedingly more visible and especially when hypocrisies as exhibited by the likes of Yoder are revealed, there’s bound to be a response angry enough to blow open the lid on the Pandora’s box of Anabaptism. There is truth to the statement that: “The more pious it seems, the worse the betrayal.”60 And the betrayal goes deep, especially as manifested in the harm this betrayal has brought about at the level of the self for generations of women. In his Anabaptist Vision, Bender argues that “Luther never completely and consistently adopted the concept of a church of earnest Christians only,” instead he “retained the contradictory concept of the church functioning as a ‘corpus regens,’ that is, as an institution of social control.… The retention [of which] is an evidence of the carry-​over of medievalism in Luther’s thought.”61 In contrast to Luther, insists Bender, the Anabaptists “preferred to make a radical break with 1,500 years of history and culture if necessary, rather than to break with the New Testament.”62 However, as I have demonstrated, that radical break did not really happen. Instead, Anabaptism as it has been lived out, has, to use Bender’s phrasing “retained the contradictory concept of the church functioning as … an institution of social control.” As a reminder, it was, ironically, Bender, himself, who wrote that the reasons for the insistence upon the head-​covering were not of “moral or religious nature, but social.”63 Using scripture as their tool, Anabaptist leaders placed women on the lowest rung of a theologically constructed God-​Christ-​Man-​Woman hierarchy, again, to use Bender’s own words, “to preserve the divinely ordained social order from disruption and to enforce the lesson of woman’s submission to man.”64 To keep her there, ordinances and doctrines were externally imposed, regarding how she must live, what she must wear and how she must align her thinking with the symbol of submission on her head. This retention, again in Bender’s words, “is an evidence of the carry-​over of” patriarchal culture in 59 Individuals continue to experience harm by Mennonite institutions which place higher value on patriarchal authority and loyalty among those with power, than on justice for the individual. Cf. Lisa Schirch, “Sexual Harms in Mennonite Contexts,” in Altaras and Penner, eds., Op. Cit. 60 Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj, Op. cit., 262. 61 Bender, TAV, (endnote 24), 39. 62 Ibid., 19. 63 Bender, “An Exegesis of I Cor. 11:1–​16,” cited in Epp, Op. cit., 186–​7. 64 Ibid.

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Anabaptism. The “radical” Anabaptists have really not been radical at all, nor have they been “non-​conformed” to the world around them. It is time to no longer tolerate anything that drains the life from the beautiful vision of what could be if we were to really live as a priesthood of all believers, a community of equals among equals. Equal does not mean all are the same. It means, instead of insisting that power remain in the hands of those at the top of a hierarchy and revering certain ones and their stories over everyone else, we dismantle the hierarchy, do away with entrenched oppression and, living in right relationship with one another, treat all with reverence. There are generations of Anabaptist women who have been forgotten, whose voices have been snuffed out, whose stories have been overshadowed by the stories of men. When I wrote to potential donors to raise funds for the 1995 production of Quietly Landed? I asked them to “share … in this venture, so that future generations of Mennonites will not keep wondering why they have heard so little about the Mennonite women who came before them.”65 Generations of Anabaptist women had no chance to ever develop a self with integrity because they internalized the oppressive theology of the church into which they were born and then raised and then joined. The wounding of lives never lived, the scars of dreams never realized, and the residue of screams never screamed were passed along to the next generation. Might not these ancestors dream that someday there will be a generation who will stop the wounding, end the pattern of harm and recognize that it is more important that a woman live a life of integrity than align herself with some heteronomous, imposed theologically constructed image—​ in other words, lie to herself to save her soul? Surely, we have learned by now that “moulding [sic] oneself to a pattern is a grievous waste of time.”66 In the words of e. e. cummings, “to become alive, or one’s self, means everything.”67 That road to developing integrity of the self, which means everything, can also mean giving up everything one knows and with deep internal happiness, re-​ordering and re-​prioritizing one’s commitments and values, in order to get there.

65 Letter to donors, April 5, 1995. 66 Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj, Op. cit., 290. 67 e. e. cummings, “The Agony of the Artist (with a capital A),” in A Miscellany Revised, ed. George Firmage (New York, NY: October House, 1958, 1965), 193.

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Bibliography Altaras, Cameron. “Bearing Witness for Molly and Me: Two Stories of Clergy Sexual Abuse.” In Abuse: Power in the Church, edited by Cameron Altaras and Carol Penner. Elkhart, IN: IMS, forthcoming. —​—​—​. “Can Sex With a Pastor Be an Affair?” Canadian Mennonite 19, Issue 17 (August 26, 2015): 4–​ 6. https://​canadi​a nme​n non​ite.org/​rea​der/​5407. Accessed May 31, 2020. —​ —​ —​ . “Naming Mennonite Harvey Weinsteins: When Resilience Requires Community.” The Mennonite 21 (March 2018): 25–​27. —​—​—​. “Sex With a Pastor is Never an Affair.” 2015 SNAP (Survivors’ Network of those Abused by Priests) annual conference. Arlington, VA: August 2, 2015. Bender, Harold S. TAV. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1944. Bixler, Sarah Ann. “The Self Unveiled: The Dis-​integration of Mennonite Women’s Head Coverings.” In Abuse: Power in the Church, edited by Cameron Altaras and Carol Penner. Elkhart, IN: IMS, forthcoming. Bontrager, Torah. “The Amish, Education and Child Abuse: One Woman’s Response to the Crisis.” In Abuse: Power in the Church, edited by Cameron Altaras and Carol Penner. Elkhart, IN: IMS, forthcoming. Bourgeault, Cynthia. The Meaning of Mary Magdalene: Discovering the Woman at the Heart of Christianity. Boston, MA: Shambhala, 2010. Burkhardt, Ferne. “Artists shape women’s stories into music/​d rama for conference.” Mennonite Reporter 25, no. 4 (February 20, 1995): 11. Cox, Damian, Marguerite La Case, and Michael P. Levine. Integrity and the Fragile Self. Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2003. cummings, e. e. “The Agony of the Artist (with a capital A).” In A Miscellany Revised, edited by George Firmage. New York, NY: October House, 1958, 1965. Epp, Marlene. Mennonite Women in Canada: A History. Winnipeg, MB: University of Manitoba Press, 2008. Finch-​Durichen, Pauline. “Theatre-​documentary tells story of Mennonite women in own words.” The Record. Kitchener, ON: November 1, 1995: E7. Friedman, Marilyn A. “Integrity and the Deferential Wife.” Philosophical Studies 47 (1985): 141–​150. Content downloaded from 141.216.78.40 on Mon., 29 Jun 2020. Gilligan, Carol and David A. J. Richards. Darkness Now Visible: Patriarchy’s Resurgence and Feminist Resistance. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2018. Goossen, Rachel Waltner. “ ‘Defanging the Beast’: Mennonite Responses to John Howard Yoder’s Sexual Abuse.” MQR 89 (January 2015): 7–​80. Guth, Karen V. “Moral Injury, Feminist and Womanist Ethics and Tainted Legacies.” Journal of the Society of Christian Ethics 38, no. 1 (2018): 167–​86. https://​w ww.yout​ube.com/​watch?v=​32iV​yVVt​a 2s&t=​13s. Acces​sed May 31, 2020. “Jakob Ammann.” https://​en.wikipe​d ia.org/​w iki/ ​Jakob​_ ​A mm​a nn. Accessed May 31, 2020.

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Krall, Ruth. The Elephants in God’s Living Room. Vol. 3. The Mennonite Church and John Howard Yoder. Available at: https://​r uthkr​a ll.com/​downl​oada​ble-​books/​t he-​elepha​ nts-​in-​gods-​l iv​ing-​room-​ser​ies/​. Accessed July 11, 2020. Maharaj, Sri Nisargadatta. I Am That: Talks with Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj, translated by Maurice Frydman, edited by Sudhakar S. Dikshit. Durham, NC: The Acorn Press, 1973. Penner, Carol, Carol Ann Weaver, and Cheryl Nafziger-​L eis. Quietly Landed? A musical/​dramatic work based on writings of women of Mennonite background. Written for and first performed at the conference titled “The Quiet in the Land? Women of Anabaptist Traditions in Historical Perspective,” Millersville University, Millersville, PA, June 10, 1995. Also performed at the St. Jacobs Schoolhouse Theatre, St. Jacobs, ON, Nov. 3–​4, 1995. Schirch, Lisa. “Sexual Harms in Mennonite Contexts.” In Abuse: Power in the Church, edited by Cameron Altaras and Carol Penner. Elkhart, IN: IMS, forthcoming. “Schleitheim Confession.” https://​a na​bapt ​istw ​i ki.org/​mediaw ​i ki/​index. php?title=​ Schleitheim_​Confession_​(source). Accessed on May 26, 2020. Snyder, C. Arnold and Linda A. Huebert Hecht, editors. Profiles of Anabaptist Women: Sixteenth-​Century Reforming Pioneers. Studies in Religion, Vol 3. Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1996. Villegas, Isaac Samuel. “The Ecclesial Ethics of John Howard Yoder’s Abuse.” Modern Theology. May 11, 2020: 1–​22. https://​online​l ibr​a ry.wiley.com/​doi/​abs/​10.1111/​ moth.12623. Accessed May 15, 2020.

Chapter 12  Healing the Wounds of a Violated World Ruth E. K r all1

Introductory Comment “Life will go on as long as there is someone to sing, to dance, to tell stories, and to listen.” —​Oren Lyons2

As my contribution to this book of essays, I want to re-​tell four stories which have guided me, my inner life, and my decision making for many years. I think of these as wisdom stories. Wisdom stories are those stories that the aged elders pass forward to new generations just as once upon a time these stories were told to them by their ancestral spiritual teachers, mentors and healers. We can think of these stories as guideposts, maps, road markers or rocky cairns. My context for re-​telling these stories is this book’s foundational question: what does it mean to be a Mennonite peacemaker or a Mennonite healer 1

A pastoral theologian and a retired psychiatric-​community mental health nurse specialist, Dr. Ruth Krall is Professor Emerita of Psychology, Religion, and Nursing and Program Director Emerita of Peace, Justice and Conflict Studies at Goshen College, Goshen, IN. Baptized at age eleven, she is an ethnic Old Mennonite who grew up in the Lancaster Conference Mennonite Church in Eastern Pennsylvania. Unlike most of her Mennonite friends she grew up inside a family in which her father was a member of the American Lutheran Church (now ELCA) and her mother belonged to the Old Mennonite Church. As she looks back on her life, she realizes that the primary residue of her Anabaptist-​Mennonite and Lutheran upbringing is a strong presumption: Nachfolge Christi (the faithful following of the faithful Christ) involves a discipleship of active compassion towards the self and others –​seeking to prevent and repair the traumatic ravages of a violent world culture. 2 A Native American, Oren Lyons is the Faith Keeper of the Turtle Clan of the Onondaga-​Seneca Nation of the Iroquois Confederacy.

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in this current century? All of us reading this book live in a century in which all kinds of communal and interpersonal violence, violation, and social disruptions demand our attention. War (and our varied nations’ omnipresent preparation for future wars) is one example. Drive-​by shootings in cities, towns, and rural villages are another. Schoolyard bullying is another. Racial, religious, and ethnic hate-​caused terrorism is yet another. The enforced caging of Latin American children and adolescents and the coerced separation of babies from their parents on the United States’ international border with Mexico: these stories fill our newspapers and electric media. Disregarded, overlooked, unaddressed, unprotested and, in general, ignored and untended, these children’s plight hardens our hearts. Their emotional pain and trauma and their physical isolation makes them invisible. We know they are there, but we feel helpless and, consequently, we divert our eyes. The place to stop the war and the place the battle stops is in ourselves every day. –​Jack Kornfield

In ancient mythology, acts of injustice released the furies (spirits of vengeance, malice, jealousy, and hate). American clinical psychologist and Buddhist spiritual teacher Jack Kornfield notes that when the furies are released, they can’t be stopped. The only path forward, if we seek to bring peace and to heal the traumatic wounds of violence, is to bring them into our compassionate awareness and to acknowledge their presence.3 In short, we must claim them as our own. Even if we do not create and enforce our various cultures’ systemic forms of violence, our non-​resisting acquiescence to them makes us a complicit bystander. We may not have started the sequence of violations but neither did we seek to end it. Conversely, our awareness of these multiple forms of individual and systemic violence can also open an individual and communal spirit of generosity and compassion. We can learn how to bear witness to the world’s suffering in ways which protest and resist the collective violation of individuals and entire communities done by our various religious and secular cultures. We can learn the path of compassion. We can choose to live with gentleness and a healing spirit. We can teach ourselves how to be part of our world’s solutions rather than part of its troubling problems. In short, we can teach ourselves (and others) how to hear, how to see and how to respond appropriately. 3

J. Kornfield, “Wisdom, Compassion, Courage in Uncertain Times,” (2017). Accessed April 2, 2020 from https://​w ww.yout​ube.com/​watch?v=​1UQq​K VpW​X JQ.

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One-​way various ancestral cultures do this awareness-​raising and healing work is by ritual, ceremony, dance, and by storytelling. These are not cultural markers of historical Anabaptism which has relied more on historical criticism and philosophical theology. Rather than becoming enablers of the violence around us by diverting our attention and by walking away from those who are most affected, we can teach ourselves (and others) how to be peacemakers and healers. Paul’s letter to the Romans calls for us to be transformed by the renewal of our minds (Romans 12:2. NIV). In my life experience, to date, this transformation has been more emotional than cognitive. When my empathic barriers are open, I see and understand that just as I suffer so too do others suffer. Our sufferings are not equivalent –​nor can they ever be –​but the principle of having compassion for others’ suffering inevitably leads one to the principle that one must also develop a spirit of compassion towards the self. In the world’s mystical spiritual traditions, the self and the other are not separated. Instead, they form a unity or a whole. The more fragmented the self, the more unable one becomes to see the suffering of others. That, which violates the self, violates others; what violates others violates the self. A person of courage may never need weapons but they may need bail. —​L ewis Mumford4

A more subtle kind of violence is systemic –​the economic violence of societies which abandon individuals and entire groups of people as expendable. While war and randomized inner-​city gun violence are easily recognizable as violence, systemic poverty and homelessness, for one example, are often blamed on the homeless individual. The systemic roots of homelessness go unrecognized and unacknowledged and consequently its collective injustice also goes unaddressed. When, individually or collectively, we engage in victim-​ blaming, we refuse to recognize and address the impact and implications of economic displacement as a form of systemic violence. Our task as peacemakers is to resist the violence while continuing to recognize the full humanity of all of the individuals caught up in these stories. Our task is to develop the compassionate heart which then mandates that we find ways to resist violation and violence –​on a personal scale as in family violence or on a collective and global scale such as war and environmental destruction.

4

Quoted by Jack Kornfield, op. cit.

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Anabaptist Theology and Praxis: A Violence Dilemma Very troubling to me, for many years, has been the mostly unaddressed presence of affinity violence, i.e., rape, physical abuse, and battering, inside many Anabaptist communities and families.5 In 2006 the MCUSA authorized a survey of Mennonites from their own membership profiles and the final report was called The 2006 Mennonite Church Survey.6 The survey’s findings included:

• 21% of surveyed women and 5.6% of surveyed men reported that they had experienced sexual violation; the data was then broken down into age groups for further analysis. • 11.9% of women and 3.5% of men reported this violence was experienced as a child. • 7.8% of women and 3.5% of men reported this violence was experienced as a teenager. • 4.2% of the women and 0.5% of men reported this violence was experienced as an adult.

In comparison, the Center for Disease Control (USA Government) reported the following statistics.

5

• 1 in 3 women and 1 in 4 men have experienced sexual violence involving physical contact during their lifetimes. • 1 in 5 woman and 1 in 38 men have experienced attempted or completed rape. • 1 in 14 men was forced to penetrate or to attempt to penetrate someone. • 1 in 3 female rape victims experienced rape between 11 and 17 years of age

While consanguinity refers to blood relationships—​which may have genetic consequences—​a ffinity is a broader conceptual term which refers to relationships which are primarily social such as a stepparent or a family friend. Intra-​family violence is a form of violence which can occur between blood relatives or between relatives and friends for which there is no genetic relationship. When a biological grandfather rapes a grandchild, there can be genetic consequences if a pregnancy results. There will almost certainly be long-​lasting traumatic consequences in the ongoing life of the victimized child. There will also be intra-​family consequences which may last generations due to intergenerational transmission of trauma. 6 The survey’s analysis was done by sociologist Dr. Conrad Kanagy of the Young Center for the Study of Anabaptist and Pietist Groups at Elizabethtown College. The analysis of sexual violence was funded by the Mennonite Central Committee USA Women’s Advocacy Program.

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• 1 in 8 female rape victims reported the rape occurred before the age of 10. • 1 in 4 male rape victims experienced rape between 11 and 17 years of age • 1 in 4 male rape victims reported the rape occurred before the age of 107

R AINN statistics for collegiate and graduate student women (ages 18–​24) sexual violence experiences are equally stark:

• 11.2% of all students (male and female; graduate and undergraduate) experience rape or sexual assault through physical violence, force or physical incapacitation • Among graduate students 8.8% of females and 2.2% of males through violence, force or incapacitation • Among undergraduate students 23.1% of females and 5.4% of males experience rape or sexual assault through physical violence, force or physical incapacitation. • 4.2% of students have experienced stalking since entering college or university settings.8

The National Domestic Violence Hotline statistics include the following types of information.

• 14.8% of women and 10% of men have been injured by severe physical violence done by their partner during their lifetime. • Inter-​partner violence affects more than 12 million people in any calendar year. • 48.4% of women and 48.8% of men have experienced psychological aggression by a partner in their lifetime.9

National Childhood Alliance statistics for the United States reveal the following.

7

Center for Disease Control and Prevention. Preventing Sexual Violence. https://​ www.cdc.gov/​v io​lenc​epre​vent​ion/​sex​ualv​iole​nce/​fastf​act.html. Accessed April 2, 2020. 8 R AINN: https://​w ww.rainn.org/​sta​t ist​ics/​cam​pus-​sex​ual-​v iole​nce. Accessed April 2, 2020. 9 National Domestic Violence Hotline. https://​w ww.the​hotl​ine.org/​resour​ces/​sta​ tist​ics/​. Accessed April 2, 2020.

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• Nearly 700,000 children are abused on an annual basis. • More than 3 million children were investigated by child protection services. • Children in the first year of life had a victimization rate of 24.2 per 1000. • In the general category of maltreatment, approximately 75% experienced neglect; 17.2% suffered physical abuse; 8.4% suffered sexual abuse. • 4 out of 5 abusers are the child’s parents.

The presence of physical and sexual violence and violation inside the theological and sociological boundaries of Anabaptist-​Mennonite communities is a little-​reported phenomenon. In this respect, in seems to me, Anabaptist-​ Mennonite communities reflect their cultural embedding within the larger cultures of violence and violation. Most of that intra-​community violence among Anabaptists is the violence done by people who are known by the victim(s) of their abuse –​date rape, spouse rape, spouse battering, child abuse, elder abuse, religious leader abuse, educator abuse, medical caretaker abuse, etc. These kinds of abuse include incest, sexual violence, physical battering, emotional and verbal abuse, as well as neglect or physical and psychological abandonment. The troubling presence of affinity violence inside the boundaries of any faith community is one form or type of betrayal violence.10 For Anabaptists whose theology witnesses against the organized violence of the political state, intra-​community violence is a form of organized and socially acceptable hypocrisy. Given Anabaptist theologies of non-​resistance11 and nonviolence, the statistical presence of sexual and physical violence inside Mennonite homes and Mennonite communities is a theological and sociological non sequitur. In these theologies and community praxis, participation in armed force –​as in military or police operations –​is forbidden to baptized member of the community. I know of no theological prohibition of affinity violation (the physical beating of a child; the physical or verbal abuse of a spouse, the rape of a partner, etc.). I know that in the last sixty years of my life, I have never 10 J. J. Freyd, Betrayal Trauma: The Legacy of Forgetting Childhood Abuse (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996). 11 G. F. Hershberger, War, Peace and Nonresistance, 5th edn (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 2005); J. H. Yoder, The Politics of Jesus (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1972); G. F. Hershberger, ed., Recovery of the Anabaptist Vision: A Sixtieth Anniversary Tribute to H. S. Bender (Paris, AR: The Baptist Standard Bearer, Inc., 2001).

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heard a Sunday morning sermon about an Anabaptist prohibition of these kinds of abuse nor have I witnessed (or participated in) a communal liturgy of repentance and confession. Affinity violence is a category or form of violence in which people who know each other violate the physical, economic, emotional, or interpersonal boundaries and safety of the other –​that vulnerable other who is personally known to them. One deeply traumatic aspect of affinity abuse is the betrayal of trust and the destruction of a sense of personal safety. When human beings are violently assaulted by people they know and are dependent upon in some way or another, basic human assumptions about the predictability of life are destroyed.12 Sociologists, clinicians, and social psychologists identify one of the lasting damages of affinity violence as a shattering of assumptive realities, for example, the belief or unspoken inner assumption that the world is a predictable and safe place; that the family is a secure home in the world; that a church or religious group is a safe place to educate children about God and the people of God. When these assumptions are interrupted or destroyed by intra-​community events of violence and violation, individuals are traumatized.13

Voices from the Inside The more I have thought about this set of inside-​t he-​Mennonite-​community sexual violence data, the clearer I have become in my thinking about non-​ violent Anabaptist peace theologies. Our intra-​community encounters with the sexual violation of children, teens, and adults have something to teach us about violence. They have something to teach us about the need for resistance to evil. Our communal non-​awareness and non-​responses to intra-​community affinity violence guts and destroys the credibility our anti-​war theologies of non-​resistance and non-​violent resistance.

First Story The first story is a biblical story –​a parable from Christian scriptures. Today, we know this story as the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke10:25–​37). In this story the human Jesus describes a situation in which a man was robbed on an isolated road and left alone to die. Jewish religious leaders, passersby 12 J. Kauffman, ed., Loss of the Assumptive World: A Theory of Traumatic Loss (New York, NY: Routledge, 2014). 13 Ibid.

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on the road, saw the badly wounded man and did not stop to help. Finally, a culturally hated Samaritan passed by. Seeing the dying man, he stopped to help him –​cleaning and dressing his wounds and carrying him to shelter and safety. When Jesus asked his inquisitor, Who was the neighbor to the wounded man? The inquisitor was forced to reply that the Samaritan who helped the dying man was the true neighbor. Jesus’s summation was that his followers were to go and do likewise, i.e., help the wounded ones whom they encountered. While Jesus did not use these words, his parable addresses the destructive and deeply connected issues of bystander denial and apathy. Bystander denial apathy and its subsequent refusal to help those in danger by reasons of interpersonal violence are, in my opinion, also a form of violence. When I am in a position to help and I refuse to help, I am guilty of negligence. Individual and/​or entire communities who refuse to acknowledge the presence of violence and the wounds of the violated one(s) participate in the wounding of the world by violence.14

Second Story The second story was presented by physician-​oncologist Rachel Naomi Remen in a clinical workshop for physicians and nurses. In this narrative, Dr. Remen told us about a conversation she had with one of her dying patients. He was, she informed us, a very successful adult, a warm and generous man. In the months she knew him and provided care to him, she had grown to admire him. Knowing that his early life history included growing up in a physically and emotionally abusive family, Dr. Remen asked him: Given your early life experiences in an abusive home, how did you become the person you have become? How did you become a loving and compassionate human being –​an accomplished man who served others; a family man who built a very successful life? The man paused a long time before answering –​clearly thinking about her question. And then he replied: You see, Rachel, there was the family dog, and I knew that she loved me. Allowing her story to sink in, Remen continued: my client’s lesson to us as healers is this: it only takes one of us to be a healer of deep wounds.

Third Story I no longer remember who taught me the following story, but it too has been important to me as I consider my life as an Anabaptist-​informed disciple of 14 S. Cohen, States of Denial: Knowing about Atrocities and Suffering (Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 2001).

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the human Jesus –​a member of the uncountable community which, throughout Christian history, has sought to discern the Jesus path or the Jesus way in times of outright oppression, conflict, and violence. The story begins like this: two men were walking alongside a river when they noticed a number of small children struggling to stay afloat. Each of these children was in danger of drowning. Both men waded into the water and began to rescue the struggling and drowning children. They pulled child after child out of the water, but more children kept floating downstream. One of the men started running upstream. His companion yelled after him: You can’t leave me here alone; I can’t rescue all of these children.

His friend called back: I am going upstream to find out who is throwing these children into the river and I am going to stop them.

Fourth Story In Henry Nouwen’s book, The Wounded Healer15, he retells a story from the Talmud in which Rabbi Yoshua ben Levi asks the prophet Elijah when the Messiah will come. Elijah tells him to ask the Messiah who now sits at the city’s gates. Rabbi Yoshua ben Levi then asks how he will recognize the Messiah because there are so many people crowding the gates of the city. Elijah replies, “He (the Messiah) is sitting among the poor covered with wounds. The others unbind all their wounds at the same time and then bind them up again. But he unbinds one wound at a time and then binds it up again, saying to himself, perhaps I shall be needed. If so, I must always be ready so as not to delay for a minute”.16

The Healer’s Dilemma When I was 19, my teacher said to me, “Yo: you haven’t found your voice.” I think my voice is in finding the needs of others and then representing them. —​Yo Yo Ma17 15 https://​w ww.faceb​o ok.com/​stmark​slr/​posts/​i n-​h is-​b ook-​t he-​woun​ded-​hea​ler-​ henri-​nou​wen-​recou​nts-​a-​story-​t hat-​was-​told-​in-​t h/​4030​9693​9700​881/​. Accessed April 1, 2020. 16 Ibid. 17 Yo Yo Ma (March 18, 2020) PBS News Hour Arts and Culture Series with Jeffrey Brown. Retrieved March 23, 2020 from https://​w ww.pbs.org/​v ideo/​songs-​of-​ comf​ort-​158​4567​629/​. Yo Ma was a child prodigy and is now one of the world’s most well-​known musicians, a cellist.

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The healer’s dilemma is quite simple: violence-​created trauma is omnipresent in all world cultures. There is the violence of armed conflict; the violence of inter-​cultural and inter-​religious hatreds; the violence inside families; the violence of refugee camps, the violence of the self against the self and the violence of nature itself. Roman Catholic priest Henri Nouwen in the last century reminded us that none of us escapes violence and violation –​not even the healers themselves.18 Harvard Psychiatrist Judith Herman19 reminds her readers that therapists must proactively take care of themselves even as they are providing care to the survivors of violation and violence. Refusing to take protective care of the self, the therapist does violence against his or her own self. Herman and her Harvard colleagues strongly suggest that every therapist (or other professional helper) who specializes in trauma work must build a supportive community for her or his work.20

The Peacemaker’s Dilemma The peacemaker’s dilemma is similar to the healer’s dilemma, but it is more complex. Not only does it involve the impulse to resolve the suffering of others. It also involves the need to address systemic issues as well as individual ones. It usually involves entering conflict zones of interaction. And it may well involve speaking truth to those in power who do not want to hear the truth. In addition, it may involve becoming victimized and colonized by violence as one seeks to help others. Finally, the peacemaker’s personal experiences of violence and violation may colonize the peacemaker’s own personality, and, in this situation, the peacemaker becomes one more aspect or participant in the violence. Offended by injustice and seeking to make a difference in the world, the peacemaker is called to action. Sooner or later, she or he will discover that a major aspect of their work is telling people things they don’t want to hear.

18 H. J. M. Nouwen, The Wounded Healer: Ministry in Contemporary Society (Garden City, NY: Doubleday and Company, 1972). 19 J. L. Herman, Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence from Domestic Abuse to Political Terror (New York, NY: Basic Books, 1972). 20 M. Mendelsohn, J. L., et al., The Trauma Recovery Group: A Guide for Practitioners (New York, NY: Guilford Press, 2011).

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The Anabaptist Dilemma As a community of faith, Anabaptism is both an automatic ethnic identity inherited from our parents and a chosen spiritual community or tradition. In its twentieth-​century manifestation, Anabaptist theology, tradition, and praxis focused on the inherited aspects of religious identity. In revivalism it focused on the interior life of individuals rather than the collective social and religious life of the community. In a century in which two world wars and multiple regional wars dominated its American/​United States version of Anabaptism, resistance to warfare and a refusal to participate in authorized state violence was its primary behavioral characteristic. A chief theological theme was non-​participatory non-​resistance to the evil of violence and a principled refusal to retaliate. Resistance to participating in militarized violence included denominational negotiations with the state to provide alternative service models for young men of a military age. Mennonite men (or Anabaptist men more generally) needed to go before their draft boards and testify to their conscientious objection to organized military violence. Once the draft ended and an all-​volunteer military emerged, Mennonite young men were relieved of the demand that they do alternative service. Social acculturation to the non-​ethnic, other-​t han-​A nabaptist community accelerated. The Civil Rights movement of mid-​century introduced the concept of non-​violent resistance to political oppression (as in Gandhian non-​violence). Some Anabaptists participated in the American Civil Rights movement for black Americans, but most did not. Some of the church’s theologians, ethicists, and denominational bureaucrats actively resisted the movement –​seeing it as unfaithful to the original Anabaptist movement of the sixteenth century. Active nonviolence seemed on the surface to contradict the more passive concept of non-​resistance. Entering the twenty-​fi rst century many ethnic Anabaptists resisted ideas and practices of full equality for people of color, for people with a wide diversity of sexual orientations, and for women and girls. As I watched, I witnessed entire communities demand instantaneous forgiveness for intra-​community violence. There was no demand for full accountability from violent individuals or from violent community praxis. Twenty years into the current century, I can ascertain no Anabaptist theology or Anabaptist praxis that combines a theology of non-​violence with a theology of non-​judgmental compassion for the self and other with a robust theology of full accountability from perpetrators of violence.

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The Anabaptist dilemma can be summarized: How do we faithfully practice discipleship to the human Jesus in the current century? Who are we as a sociological and ethnic community? Who is included in the Anabaptist version of the people of God? Who is excluded? And why?

Bibliography Center for Disease Control and Prevention. Preventing Sexual Violence. https://​w ww. cdc.gov/​v io​lenc​epre​vent​ion/​sex​ualv​iole​nce/​fastf​act.html. Accessed April 2, 2020. Cohen, S. States of Denial: Knowing about Atrocities and Suffering. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 2001. Freyd, J. J. Betrayal Trauma: The Legacy of Forgetting Childhood Abuse. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996. Herman, J. L. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence from Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. New York, NY: Basic Books, 1972. Hershberger, G. F. War, Peace and Nonresistance, 5th edn. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 2005; Yoder, J. H. The Politics of Jesus. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1972 and Hershberger, G. F., ed. TRAV: A Sixtieth Anniversary Tribute to H. S. Bender. Paris, AR: The Baptist Standard Bearer, Inc., 2001. Kauffman, J., ed. Loss of the Assumptive World: A Theory of Traumatic Loss. New York, NY: Routledge, 2014. Kornfield, J. Wisdom, Compassion, Courage in Uncertain Times. Accessed April 2, 2020 from https://​w ww.yout​ube.com/​watch?v=​1UQq​K VpW​X JQ, 2017. Mendelsohn, M., Herman, J. L., Schatzoa, E., Coco, M., Kallivayalii, D., and Levitan, J. The Trauma Recovery Group: A Guide for Practitioners. New York, NY: Guilford Press, 2011. National Domestic Violence Hotline. https://​w ww.the​hotl​ine.org/​resour​ces/​sta​t ist​ics/​ . Accessed April 2, 2020. Nouwen, H. J. M. The Wounded Healer: Ministry in Contemporary Society. Garden City, NY: Doubleday and Company, 1972. R AINN: https://​w ww.rainn.org/​sta​t ist​ics/​ cam​pus-​sex​ual-​v iole​nce. Accessed April 2, 2020. Yo Yo Ma (March 18, 2020) PBS News Hour Arts and Culture Series with Jeffrey Brown. Retrieved March 23, 2020 from https://​w ww.pbs.org/​v ideo/​songs-​of-​comf​ort-​158​ 4567​629/​. Yo Yo Ma was a child prodigy and is now one of the world’s most well-​ known musicians, a cellist.

Chapter 13  I Will Kill Him First! L or in P eters

I grew up in the aftermath of World War II. Mom and Dad were traditional Republicans. Everyone assumed that, although war was tragic, it was sometimes necessary. In 1960, when I started in physics at UC Berkeley, two years of military training were mandatory for all male students, including wearing a military uniform to classes once a week. No one, including me, objected—​ most young Americans still assumed that war was necessary, if not glorious. The first university rebellion in America, the Free Speech Movement, occurred at Berkeley in 1964, my last year—​students, demanding the right to hear a communist speaker, were arrested for sitting-​in, in the administration building, Sproul Hall.1 One week out of Berkeley, I had joined the Peace Corps. I was put in charge of the construction of a water treatment plant for a large village in Thailand. I worked hard in the tropical heat, humidity, and mosquitoes. I contracted amoebic dysentery and tropical sprue, and lost 50 lb., but kept going. After two years, I met a beautiful Thai woman who took pity on me. We married. By 1968, the project was almost done. But then the money disappeared. The Kamnan, the headman of the township, was in charge of the money collected from the villagers to purchase materials for the project. He was gruff, and formidable—​four inches shorter than I, but 100 pounds heavier, with teeth totally black from a lifetime of 1

Editor’s note: the “Free Speech” movement addressed a number of issues that came to the forefront in the 1960s. They included, (1) lack of any student representation on any governing committees, (2) lack of a student managed and edited newspaper, (3) paying students minimum wage for on-​campus jobs, (4) condemning the “loyalty oath” all faculty were forced to sign, and (5) the right to on-​campus peaceful protest. Some mark the beginning of the Free Speech Movement as October 1, 1964 when Jack Weinberg was arrested for distributing civil rights literature on campus.

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chewing betel nut (a mild narcotic), and one incredible dark indigo tattoo that completely encased his body from his neck to his knees—​from a distance it was impossible to tell whether or not he was wearing anything. I was upset because this meant all my work and sickness was wasted. The villagers were upset because it was their money. A dozen of them came to me, to plead, earnestly and passionately, that I do something. So, on the next occasion when I was alone with the Kamnan, I expressed my feelings, and those of the people who had come to me, without directly accusing him of taking the money. I knew I was violating the Thai taboo on criticizing one’s elders. But given the fact that I was not Thai, I thought it might work. When I finished, he sat motionless. After an awkward silence, I excused myself and left. Several weeks later an evening meeting was scheduled. As Lacksana and I approached the village on our motor-​scooter, we were waved down by a provincial officer with whom I had often talked. The meeting had just been canceled. But then he indicated, quietly, there was something else he wanted to say, but not with other people around. We followed his jeep several miles back toward town, until he stopped along a dark section of road, so dark I could not see my hand in front of my face. But I could hear his words. “The Kamnan wants to kill you.” Instantly enraged, I said, “I will kill him first!” The explicit will to kill soon passed, but a deep anger remained. I found my teeth grinding involuntarily. My jaw clinched, until it ached, for days on end. I began to fear. The smallest sounds began to awaken me at night. Our house, like most in Thailand, was built six or seven feet off the ground on stilts. I found myself holding my breath, listening with my whole body for the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside our bedroom window. Shadows on the curtains swaying in a breeze became at times a source of terror. On at least one occasion it was all I could do to choke back a scream. After a few days I began to invent schemes to revenge myself. I would go to the village in the middle of the night with a rifle and put a bullet through his house, not to hurt anyone, but to frighten him into taking his opponents more seriously. I soon realized such an action would be too obvious. So, a more devious scheme came to mind—​I would go to the village in the night, but put the bullet through the house of the leader of the opposing clan. A week later, I had a dream. I saw, from a distance, two figures walking the dirt road back into the village, unarmed. One was me. When I realized the other was Jesus, the meaning was instantly clear. I was to carry no gun. I was to enter in broad daylight and put my life into the hands of the man

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who wanted to kill me. This is the way of God. He was not guaranteeing my survival, only that, no matter what happened, he would be present with me. I eventually went back to the village openly. The fact that nothing had happened to me, in the weeks since the threat, made going back easier. A year later, when more money had been collected from the villagers, and the project was done and we were preparing to come to America, the Kamnan approached my wife and asked if she would accept one of his daughters and take her with us, as a second wife for me (he himself had four wives). For two years I wondered why I had never heard this dream message in church. Finally, someone said, “You need to read Gandhi.” As soon as I did, I was electrified! I was not the only one. In fact, Gandhi was way ahead of me. I had a companion, and an incredible guide. This experience changed my whole life. Jesus became more and more real to me, as I imagined him walking with me. After all these years, it is clear to me that Gandhi was sent to demonstrate and remind us that what Jesus taught actually works. In 2003, when I told this story to my Christian Peacemaker Team (CPT)2 training class, the founder of CPT, Gene Stoltzfus said, “You just proved Carl Jung’s theory of the collective subconscious.” Our ancestors were Mennonite pacifists. When they were persecuted for their faith, they remained nonviolent. More than a thousand were burned at the stake, or drowned or hung, for their faith, by Catholics and by Protestants alike. Their tradition of nonviolence became part of their culture and their identity. My dream apparently came from that collective subconscious, even though my father never told me about their nonviolence. In 2012, I was asked to be a driver for Jadot Said, a profoundly nonviolent Muslim scholar and mystic from Syria. In 1965 he had published the first totally nonviolent interpretation of the Koran. He and a number of his followers have been tortured by the Syrian government. Several died. But when Jadot himself was tortured, the strength of his faith and love for those who were torturing him finally won their respect. When we met, his first question was, “How did you discover nonviolence?” When I told him this story, he replied, “Allah sends such a dream to very few. You have been chosen.” In 2015, Ajahn (Professor) Mark Tamthai mentioned that he had been sent to investigate a mass murder in Chaiyaphum province, where I had worked 50 years earlier. The Kamnan of a nearby township had executed his 2

Kathleen Kern. In Harm’s Way: A History of Christian Peacemaker Teams (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2009). The Christian Peacemaker Teams organization changed its name to Community Peacemaker Teams in 2022.

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entire committee after they accused him of corruption. Ajahn Mark found that all the Kamnans in that district believe they would be justified in killing anyone who blew the whistle on them. I realize now that my plan to fire a warning shot through my Kamnan’s house would very likely have backfired: the village dogs would have howled as I approached. My Kamnan may well have had a weapon and would likely have fired back at me. That dream very probably saved my life. Pace e bene

Bibliography Kern, Kathleen. In Harm’s Way: A History of Christian Peacemaker Teams. Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2009.

Chapter 14  Musings from a Blind Mennonite Misfit: When Disability Theory and Anabaptist Identity Intersect Dar la S chumm

The décor in my office tells part of the story of who I am and how I arrived here. If one knows how to read my walls and decode the meanings underlying the objects scattered around the room, one can begin to discover the winding plot of my personal and professional story. A Mennonite-​made quilted hanging adorns one wall; a picture of a Tibetan sand mandala greets people as they enter the room; my Ph.D. diploma from Vanderbilt University is sandwiched between a Palestinian textile and a poster that says “peace” in multiple languages; a Bose Bluetooth speaker and a picture of my son sit on my window sill; various religious artifacts rest atop my bookshelf; a desk with a computer dominates the main part of the room; two comfortable chairs frame the front of the desk; and a white cane leans against the door jam, while on most days a guide dog quietly snores in the corner. What do these mundane objects reveal about me? They signify that, among other things, Mennonite blood runs through my veins, I love music, I am a proud mom, I place a high value on education, I welcome visitors and good conversation, I studied and now teach world religions, I am curious about cultures and worldviews other than my own, and I am blind. Walking into my office will not tell you everything there is to know about me, but the astute observer gleans a lot about my story with just a quick glance around the room. Almost without fail, the two aspects of my identity that colleagues, friends, and strangers alike find the most intriguing are that I grew up Mennonite and that I have a disability. Perhaps fascination with my religious background

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and blindness are most easily explained by the fact that usually these are the components of my identity that few people in my current orbit share. On the surface, being blind and Mennonite do not appear to have all that much in common. Yet, as I have reflected over the years, I noticed that many of the challenges posed, lessons learned, and insights gained from being Mennonite and being blind intersect in surprising and often delightful ways. In the pages that follow, I probe several of these intersections, using concepts from disability theory to illuminate the connections between an Anabaptist heritage and life with a disability. More specifically, I explore themes of interdependence, normalcy, and fitting and misfitting to uncover the ties that bind these seemingly disparate aspects of my identity. Before I delve into the nitty-​gritty of this essay, it is important to explore the term disability. It is virtually impossible to pinpoint one characteristic or trait that encapsulates what it means to be disabled. Disability cuts across all strata of race, class, gender, or sexual orientation, and includes people from every age group. The United Nations Fact Sheet on Persons with Disabilities reports that fifteen percent of the world’s population, or approximately one billion people live with some form of disability, making people with disabilities the largest minority group worldwide.1 Even the expansive variety of physical and/​or mental conditions, diseases, diagnoses, or descriptors typically affiliated with disability fail to capture many of the complex realities of living with a disability. Nevertheless, efforts to neatly define and categorize disability persist. Several models of disability emerged out of activist and scholarly communities in an attempt to capture a comprehensive definition of disability. For example, the medical model, one of the earliest models, locates disability squarely in the “failure” of the individual impaired body, situating it as a pathology to eliminate or cure. The religious model is similar to the medical model in that it also views disability as a failure or flaw in the individual body, but the religious model adds a layer by asserting that disability often results from sin, bad karma, or immorality. For the religious model, “cure,” not only relies on medical or scientific intervention, but also must incorporate some type of spiritual reckoning. In contrast to models fixated on the inadequacy of the individual body, the social, or what some call the minority model of disability starts with the physical impairment as a neutral descriptor. From this perspective, disability 1

“Factsheet on Persons with Disabilities.” United Nations. Accessed September 25, 2020. https://​w ww.un.org/​deve​lopm​ent/​desa/​d isab​i lit​ies/​resour​ces/​factsh​eet-​on-​ pers​ons-​w ith-​d isab​i lit​ies.html.

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results, in large part, from unjust social structures and barriers.2 For example, a blind person is physically impaired because she cannot see, but she is disabled when reasonable accommodations are not made to ensure her equal and full access to printed material in school or at work.3 Offered as a “friendly departure” to the social model, feminist, queer, and crip theorist Alison Kafer proposes the political/​ relational model. Intersectional in nature, the political/​relational model firmly plants disability in the realm of the political and emphasizes a desire for coalition building and collective imagining. The political/​relational model incorporates the day-​to-​day realities of disability with a call to action and justice.4 None of these models adequately describe the experiences of millions of people living with disabilities. And, while there are some common features of living with a disability, disability experience often varies greatly from one person to the next. Thus, when I refer to disability in this essay, I write from my own perspective as a blind woman who lives with daily challenges because I cannot see, but who also enjoys a significant amount of privilege as a result of being white, well educated, upper-​middle class, heterosexual, cisgender, and perhaps most importantly, well-​loved and supported by friends and family. My understanding and definition of disability align most neatly with the political/​relational model because I cannot separate the realities of physical, mental, and emotional impairment from my understanding of my disabled identity as a call to justice and coalition building.

From Independence to Interdependence As I plodded my way through graduate school, I romanticized a future where I lived in a quaint college town, walking every day along tree-​lined streets to my job in the hallowed halls of academe. Not surprisingly, my current reality does not precisely match my imagined future. I do teach on a beautiful college campus nestled in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains. But my beautiful campus is flanked on one side by the unattractive Interstate 81, and on the other side by an equally unappealing busy business corridor. My commute does not involve serine serene strolls on tree-​lined streets; rather it is a twenty-​minute commute on four-​lane highways. 2

For an early critique of the social model see Morris, Pride Against Prejudice, 10; see also Scully, Disability Bioethics; and Siebers, Disability Theory. 3 For more explanation of the medical, religious, and social/​ m inority models of disability as articulated in disability studies, see Schumm and Stoltzfus, “Editor’s Introduction,” xiii–​x v. 4 Kafer, Feminist, Queer, Crip.

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A relatively short drive to work is not particularly noteworthy until you consider that as a blind person, I cannot drive. Suddenly a basic life task—​ going to and from work—​becomes a major hurdle to overcome. In the era of Uber and Lyft, this hurdle is easier to negotiate, yet I often rely on the good will of my friends, colleagues, and partner for transport. Navigating transportation to work is one of many small examples of how blindness forces me to ask for help and to depend on the generosity of others. In a capitalistic economic system insistent on the able-​bodied values of self-​mastery, independence, individualism, control, power, and strength, dependence on others typically connotes weakness and inferiority. Disability theory offers a critique and an alternative to the dominant western narrative asserting that dogged independence is the supreme goal. Instead, disability scholars and activists recast the narrative that depending on others equals weakness and celebrate interdependence as a powerful conceptual antidote to the western idolization of independent individualism. The late disability historian Paul Longmore describes the contrast between disability theory and western capitalism when he observes that people with disabilities, “prize not self-​sufficiency but self-​determination, not independence but interdependence, not functional separateness but personal connection, not physical autonomy but human community.”5 When I began exploring disability theory for personal as well as professional insights, the values of self-​determination, interdependence, personal connection, and human community reverberated throughout my body. These were among the core values of my Mennonite upbringing and were as familiar to me as my name and birth date. I learned about the power of personal connection and human community before I fully possessed the language to comprehend or describe these concepts. When I was seven, I began having trouble reading the blackboard in school. Countless trips from my home in Indiana to the University of Michigan Medical Center over the course of a year eventually resulted in the less scary of several scary potential diagnoses. I remember the prayers for me, my parents, and the doctors offered regularly by our church community. I remember my aunts and uncles helping to pay for expensive magnifying glasses. I remember the friends and relatives who celebrated with me and my parents when we received the least problematic diagnosis. I remember the myriad ways that teachers, administrators, and classmates at the Mennonite schools (high school and college) I attended graciously adapted to ensure that the learning environment was inclusive and accessible. These experiences (and others too numerous to name) taught me 5

Paul Longmore as quoted in Fries, Staring Back, 9.

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what it means to be in community. At its core, living in community requires knowing when to provide care for others, and equally importantly, knowing how to ask for and receive care from others. When I encountered theoretical discussions in disability studies literature emphasizing interdependence as a critical term necessary for reorienting problematic thinking about independence and dependence, I recognized the lessons I learned about the centrality of community and, in turn, interdependence from my Mennonite upbringing. I do not mean to suggest that Mennonites or Anabaptists are the only groups, religious or otherwise, who know something about community. This is simply not true. Yet, as the Mennonite Church has undergone degrees of assimilation with the broader culture, phases of disagreement and dispute about social issues, or experiences of rupture and division resulting from unresolved conflict, a palpable sense of belonging to a community that cares for and is cared for by its members persists. I read the theories of interdependence that described my embodied disabled experience—​I recognized the truth of that theory at a cellular level not only because I was disabled, but also because as a Mennonite, I have a lifetime of witness to its truth.

The “Hegemony of Normalcy” Growing up with a disability and as a Mennonite set me apart from my peers. I was accustomed to being “different,” or outside the range of what was deemed “normal,” even though as a child I did not consciously process what that meant. In fact, although I attended public schools until high school, I was so immersed in Mennonite community and culture that I did not fully realize how distinctive being Mennonite was until I graduated from college and moved from Goshen, Indiana to Washington, DC, where Mennonites were definitely not the “norm.” Being blind, in contrast, stood out as a distinctive aspect of my identity and I was always aware that it marked me as other, or “abnormal.” While much of the time, my disabled difference was packaged by those around me as “special,” it nevertheless left me beyond the scope of what was considered “normal.” Ideas of the norm permeate all arenas of culture and society. Intelligence is measured by the IQ test with scores falling above, below, or within the “normal” range. Young children make annual treks to the doctor for well-​visits where their height and weight are checked, and parents learn if their child is growing at a “normal” rate. Conversations about everyday matters abound in all corners of domestic and professional life where comments like “that behavior is just not normal,” “that is not a normal response,” or “I just want

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to be normal” can be overheard. Whether referring to intelligence, physical attributes, or vague notions of social appropriateness, one thing is certain: we live in a culture propelled by the “hegemony of normalcy.”6 In his now iconic article “Constructing Normalcy: The Bell Curve, The Novel, and The Invention of the Disabled Body,” literary disability theorist Lennard J. Davis argues that the term “disability” emerged in the cultural imagination only after the introduction in the mid-​nineteenth century of the concept “normalcy.” Davis contends that a confluence of scientific theories and ideologies merged at that time to form our contemporary conception of the “norm” or “normal.” First, development of the field of statistics introduced methods for establishing and measuring a standard of the average. Second, the tool of the Bell Curve was introduced as the predominant means for charting how individuals compare to the average and eventually, a hierarchical system was developed for ranking the quartiles of the Bell Curve. This system of hierarchical ranking not only asserted an average, but also produced a category of deviance from the average, or “norm.” Finally, the science of eugenics surfaced as an eerie counterpart to the field of statistics and supplied a means for increasing the average and reducing deviance. Thus, the hegemony of normalcy is propelled in large part by the science of statistics, which established normative and non-​normative populations, and by the science of eugenics, which provided a map for reducing non-​normative populations.7 The definition of non-​normative populations encompasses a wide range of identity markers, including ethnicity, race, nationality, gender expression, sexual orientation, religious affiliation, disability, and so on. History as well as the contemporary political climate in many parts of the world remind us what happens when the science of eugenics is carried to the extreme. It is critically important to confront the ethical ramifications of eugenics. Yet, an ethical examination of eugenics is not the task of this essay; rather, my aim here is to explore how being blind and Mennonite taught me to push against the strong cultural and social currents of the hegemony of normalcy. If I am honest, I often take pride in the non-​normative aspects of my identity, particularly with respect to my disability. This, however, was not always true. Throughout my teenage years and young adulthood, I expended a significant amount of energy attempting to “pass” as a sighted person. I have some sight, so it is not necessarily obvious when you meet me that I am blind. Like many teenagers, I wanted to blend in with the crowd and I was not particularly eager to highlight my difference. As I grew older and 6 7

Davis, “Constructing Normalcy,” 4. Ibid, 15.

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began more fully to integrate disability into my self-​identity, I discovered that being different, or “abnormal,” was a powerful avenue for cultivating characteristics I value such as compassion, empathy, and a commitment to justice, inclusion, and equity for all. Moreover, as feminist disability theorist Rosemarie Garland-​Thompson asserts, I came to embrace disability as one form of human variation, no more or less problematic than any other form of variation.8 In a similar vein, once I moved away from the shelter of my predominantly Mennonite world, I suddenly recognized that many of the Anabaptist values I previously took for granted as the “norm” were counter to the dominant culture. My first exposure to a serious consideration of the validity of the Just War theory, for example, occurred during my first semester in my M.A. program at the Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, California in an introduction to Christian ethics class. To my pacifist shock and horror, the professor presented just war as a reasonable moral option. Even more surprisingly, none of my classmates questioned the ethics of just war. As I boldly argued against any justifiable reason for war or killing of any kind, it quickly became clear that my taken-​for-​granted Anabaptist pacifist standpoint was not the “norm.” The gift of that introduction to Christian ethics class was the opportunity to sharpen my thinking about peace, conflict, and just war. I left that semester with a deeper understanding of the complex constellation of issues surrounding just war, and with a renewed commitment to pacifism. Disability and Mennonite identity position me in a variety of ways to resist the hegemony of normalcy, be it through embodied difference, or counter-​cultural values. Historically, both people with disabilities—​as victims of eugenics—​and Anabaptists—​during the period of the Radical Reformation—​were abused, tortured, and even killed because of their non-​normative status. The consequences of being perceived as “abnormal” can be dangerous and life-​ threatening. Thus, when I declare that I take pride in my difference, I also remain mindful that this is a privileged stance, resulting from my particular social, economic, historic, and cultural context. Being blind presents daily challenges, but I live in a time and place where the most dangerous component of my disabled identity will be crashing into a door jamb and ending up with a large and painful goose-​egg on my head. Proclaiming Anabaptist heritage in the twenty-​fi rst century simply makes me an interesting conversation partner at social gatherings. It does not cost me much to disclose these non-​normative aspects of my identity. Yet, each of these identity markers offer a unique vantage point for constructively critiquing how the hegemony of 8

Garland-​Thomson, “Feminist Disability Studies,” 1558–​87.

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normalcy often yields a cascade of exclusionary, unjust, or potentially dangerous consequences.

The Ad/​vantage of Misfitting Perhaps the commonalities between being blind and growing up Mennonite that I value the most are that both of these experiences provide an ad/​vantage point for reflecting on what it means to belong or not belong, and also for motivating me to discover strategies for ensuring that belonging is available to as many people in as many situations as possible. Feminist disability theorist Rosemarie Garland-​Thompson provides some avenues for reflecting on belongingness when she proposes the critical term “misfitting” for reorienting how we think about disability. Garland-​Thomson describes disability as the encounter between “flesh and the material world.”9 For Garland-​ Thomson, it is the actual encounter that determines the extent to which an impaired body is disabled or not. By focusing on the encounter between body and world, Garland-​Thomson remains attentive to both the embodied experience of physical impairment as well as the ways in which social environments and constructions produce or eliminate disabling conditions. Elaborating on the theoretical shifts introduced in materialist feminism, Garland-​Thomson offers a consideration “of how the particularities of embodiment interact with the environment in the broadest sense, to include both its spatial and temporal aspects,” and proposes the critical terms “misfit” or “misfitting” as a new way for thinking about disability.10 For Garland-​ Thomson, “Fitting and misfitting denote an encounter in which two things come together in either harmony or disjunction.”11 It is the “dynamic encounter between flesh and world.”12 When two things come together in harmony, there is a fit, and when they come together in discord, there is a misfit. Citing the example of trying to put a square peg in a round hole, Garland-​Thomson argues that the problem with a misfit is not with the inherent nature of the two things; rather it is in their juxtaposition, or in the “awkward attempt to put them together.”13 From the perspective of misfitting, I have reoriented how I perceive my disabled body and I have stopped trying to fit the square peg of blindness into the round holes of my world. As a teacher/​scholar, I frequently speak in 9 Garland-​Thomson, “Misfits,” 592. 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid, 593.

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public in the classroom, at conferences, or at other colleges and universities. For years, I memorized all of my lectures and presentations because I am unable to read or refer to an outline, notes, or a fully scripted text while presenting. I endured significant amounts of stress prior to these events because I worried that I would forget something important and/​or simply draw a blank when I took my place behind the lectern. Fortunately, this never happened, but the cost of my anxiety remained high. I thought of my blindness as the “problem” causing my stress and anxiety because I tried to “fit” the mold of how scholarly presentations were delivered. After reading Garland-​ Thompson’s theory of misfitting, however, I altered my presentation style. These days I take my computer to the lectern, which is equipped with screen reading software called “Jaws.” As I give my presentation, I pause to scroll through an outline and listen as Jaws reads the next point of the presentation. I have concluded that even though my presentations are not as smooth flowing as they were when I memorized everything, the apparent “problem” with speaking in public is not actually my disabled body; instead, the “problem” is the expectation, so prevalent in academia, that a presentation will follow a particular disembodied format and style. I now not only talk about my research in disability theory and experience, but I also embody and demonstrate disability via my unique presentation mode. Through my “misfitting,” I raise awareness about living with a disability, but equally importantly, I also decry unquestioned assumptions that there is one, or best way to function as a scholar and to deliver presentations. Fitting and misfitting are value laden. Certain bodies conform to the shape of their environments while other bodies do not. When spatial and temporal realities shift, however, so does the fit, and when the fit shifts, so do the meanings and consequences of the fit. In this way, Garland-​Thomson argues, misfits are not fixed, but inherently unstable because as environments change, or as bodies move in and out of different environments and situations, the fit also changes. To fit, then, is to fill up correctly the space or to be suitable for a particular situation. To misfit, is not to belong, to stand out, or to fill the requirements of the space or environment inappropriately. One of the enduring lessons I carry with me from my Mennonite heritage that intersects with the theory of misfitting is that fitting and misfitting are not static. I can “fit” here, but “misfit” there. Although I, and most of the Mennonites with whom I affiliate visibly blend into the mainstream culture, to a certain extent, values such as simple living or pacifism continue to set Anabaptist communities apart from the dominant American cultural landscape. I have discovered that experiences of moving in and out of fitting and misfitting are remarkably similar, whether because of my disability or because

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of my Mennonite heritage. What I continue to learn from moments of sometimes fitting and other times misfitting is that the ease and comfort of fitting in one context, emboldens me to leverage my misfitting in another situation as a tool for justice. Although always value laden, misfitting is not a negative or limited epistemological stance; rather it produces subjective knowledge that enables, indeed propels political awareness and action. On the one hand, misfitting unearths sites of exclusion and inaccessibility revealing where and how bodies that do not neatly conform to the expected status quo of the environment are at best relegated to the margins, and at worst left out entirely. On the other hand, misfitting aids in creating strategies for accommodating the widest range of bodies for the greatest number of fits (bodies here are not limited to disabled bodies, but include all non-​normative bodies; i.e., women, ethnic and racial minorities, trans and other non-​heteronormative bodies). As Garland-​Thomson suggests, “…the individual and collective experience of misfitting can produce the subjugated knowledge, outsider/​insider standpoint, or privileged epistemic state from which one could launch a liberatory identity politics of the kind suggested by Patricia Hill Collins (2000) or [Linda] Alcoff (2006).”14 In this way, misfitting weds the theoretical with the practical experience of bodies encountering the material world. Disability and Mennonite identity forge the winding path that shape who I am continuously becoming. I am a proud blind Mennonite misfit. I frequently do not “fit” the situation either because my embodied disabled reality highlights how the material environment is designed for able bodies, or because some of the Mennonite values I inherited and internalized run counter to the dominant culture. Viewing my “difference” through the dual lenses of Kafer’s political/​relational model of disability and Garland-​ Thomson’s theoretical conception of misfitting empower me to scrutinize both the concrete built environment as well as the philosophical construction of values as being, in Kafer’s words, “implicated in relations of power and those relations, their assumptions, and their effects are contested and contestable, open to dissent and debate.”15 In other words, in tandem the political/​ relational model of disability and misfitting provide the impetus for examining how structures of power and privilege function to exclude and marginalize non-​normative bodies. Misfitting is a call to justice. Misfitting is an invitation to create the greatest number of fits for the widest range of bodies. 14 Ibid, 601. Garland-​Thomson is referencing Collins, Black Feminist Thought; and Alcoff, Visible Identities. 15 Kafer, Feminist, Queer, Crip, 9.

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I do not always celebrate my disability, and while I cling to my Mennonite heritage, I am no longer an active Mennonite. Nevertheless, being blind and growing up Mennonite molded me into the misfit I am today, fueling my fire for a liberatory identity politics and igniting my passion for justice.

Bibliography Alcoff, Linda Martin. Visible Identities: Race, Gender, and the Self. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Collins, Patricia Hill. Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment. New York: Routledge, 2000. Davis, Lennard J. “Constructing Normalcy: The Bell Curve, The Novel, and The Invention of the Disabled Body.” In The Disability Studies Reader, edited by Lennard Davis, 3–​16. Abingdon-​on-​Thames, England, UK: Routledge, 2013. “Fact Sheet on Persons with Disabilities.” United Nations. Accessed September 25, 2020. https://​w ww.un.org/​development/​desa/​d isabilities/​resources/​factsheet-​on-​ persons-​w ith-​d isabilities.html Fries, Kenny. Staring Back: The Disability Experience from the Inside Out. New York: Plume Books, 1997. Garland-​Thomson, Rosemarie. “Feminist Disability Studies.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 30 (2005): 1558–​87. Garland-​ Thomson, Rosemarie. “Misfits: A Feminist Materialist Disability Concept.” Hypatia 26 (2011): 591–​609. Kafer, Alison. Feminist, Queer, Crip. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2013. Morris, Jenny. Pride Against Prejudice: Transforming Attitudes to Disability. London: The Women’s Press, Ltd., 1991. Schumm, Darla, and Michael Stoltzfus. “Editor’s Introduction.” In Disability in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam: Sacred Texts, Historical Traditions, and Social Analysis, edited by Darla Schumm and Michael Stolzfus, xiii–​x v. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2011. Scully, Jackie Leach. Disability Bioethics: Moral Bodies, Moral Difference. New York: Rowman and Littlefield, 2008. Siebers, Tobin. Disability Theory. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 2008.

Chapter 15  Anabaptism and Its Agrarian Heritage S. R oy K aufman

In the past six or seven decades, MCUSA & Canada along with most other mainstream Mennonite denominations have abandoned their rural, agrarian heritage. They have become acculturated, urban denominations that take their missional cues from the agendas of the dominant culture. They have by and large abandoned any sense of being alternative communities of faith and now are engaged in the project of making American society more Christian, or at least more reflective of Christian values. Overall, this was a necessary transformation for the church that I can support in many ways. But it is a far cry from the denomination I grew up in during the 1950s and 1960s, and whose rural congregations I served as pastor for roughly the last 50 years. That was a denomination preoccupied with maintaining its identity as an alternative community of faith in a world ruled, as it always has been since the dawn of civilization, by imperial power, domination, and exploitation. That was a denomination that, for better or worse, poured its missional energy into foreign missions, rural development, and service to human need. This denominational transformation is evident in many ways, but for me, who as a pastor faithfully attended denominational assemblies throughout my life, it is most clear in the settings of those assemblies. Now these denominational assemblies are held in huge convention centers of major cities across the land. But until around the 1960s, these assemblies were communal affairs hosted by local Mennonite communities, most often in rural settings, and with delegates hosted in the homes of host families. Why, even a rural backwater like the Freeman, South Dakota, community where I live, hosted national assemblies of the General Conference Mennonite Church,

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beginning in 1890, again in 1923, and then again in 1950.1 While unfortunately agrarian issues were not thereby on the agenda of these meetings, these assemblies were exercises in communal discernment and engagement in ways that convention centers fail to provide, for all their convenience. Mostly as a matter of choice, I served rural congregations of the Mennonite church in the Great Plains from Iowa and Illinois and South Dakota and Minnesota to Saskatchewan. In these 50 years of public ministry, I have seen the dismantling and disenfranchisement of these rural communities and the radical decline of their churches. If these Mennonite congregations had a unique agrarian heritage, it did not seem to be operative or able to protect these churches from the triumph of industrial agriculture that has wreaked havoc on rural communities across America and indeed around the world. In any case, I have spent the better part of my pastoral career trying to understand the history and dynamic of the destruction of the rural communities where I lived and throughout the world. The reflections that follow grow out of this long sojourn with rural Mennonite congregations of the Great Plains. These are not so much reflections of how Anabaptism might shape the larger dominant culture in which we live. They are instead reflections on the ways Anabaptism as articulated and practiced in twentieth century America failed to inspire and equip its agrarian cultures (congregations) for living in a post-​modern world of corporate power, dominant empire, and technocracy. And this is even more distressing, since Anabaptism, with its agrarian heritage, does bear the values and faith required for successful agrarian cultures.

The Agrarian Heritage of Anabaptist Churches However, it has been understood and defined in the past century, the Anabaptist vision has been enculturated in agrarian cultures throughout the 500-​year history of Anabaptism. This is to say that Anabaptism was primarily a lived faith, a faith embodied in agrarian cultures. Agrarian cultures typically do not articulate their faith theologically all that much. They are too busy caring for the earth and tending the needs of the community to engage in theological explorations and definitions. And, I would argue, it is precisely this character of agrarian cultures that has shaped what eventually came to be

1

Doris Mendel Schmidt, ed., Handbook of Information, 1998 (Newton, KS: General Conference Mennonite Church, 1997), 187.

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defined in the mid-​t wentieth century as the Anabaptist vision, articulated in its classic formulation by Harold S. Bender.2 Agrarian cultures are small, local, face-​to-​face communities engaged in agricultural pursuits. With the advent of the Agricultural Revolution some 10,000 years ago, agrarian cultures became the dominant mode of human existence around the world. Agrarian cultures, when successful and sustainable, live in a symbiotic relationship with their land. The landscape defines the limitations, constraints, opportunities, and challenges for the human community living on the land even as the human community also changes the natural landscape in significant ways. Agrarian cultures are defined by the particular values, practices, and techniques a local community employs in their utilization of the land on which they live. Agriculture is literally the culture of the άγρός (agros), the field. The mid-​t wentieth century proponents of the Anabaptist vision assumed that it was initially shaped by urban intellectuals in Zurich, Switzerland, but that persecution quickly, indeed almost instantly, drove the movement from the city to the countryside where it was readily embraced by agrarian peasants.3 It was assumed that persecution and the agrarian life style eventually “dulled the missionary edge of the movement,” leading to a “quietistic” attitude toward the government that pleaded to be “left alone to be the ‘quiet in the land.’ ”4 What this typology overlooks are the missional dimensions of being an alternative community of faith as an agrarian culture. Born in the midst of the Peasants’ Revolts of the 1520s, these Anabaptist peasants were quick to see the futility of violent revolt against their oppressive noble overlords with their well-​armored armies, in which more than 100,000 peasants were slaughtered.5 Instead, they found in this new faith a way to subvert the oppression of the dominant culture in the formation of small, rural, agrarian communities of faith, where people might live together in egalitarian and just ways that met the needs of all in the community and served the welfare of the larger social order. “Anabaptist communities … continued to address moral, social, and economic questions as part of their religious reform.”6 2 3 4 5 6

Harold S. Bender, “TAV,” in TRAV, Guy F. Hershberger, ed. (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1957), 29–​54. Fritz Blanke, “Anabaptism and the Reformation,” in TRAV, Guy F. Hershberger, ed. (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1957), 66. Robert Kreider, “The Anabaptists and the State,” in TRAV, Guy F. Hershberger, ed. (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1957), 188. C. Arnold Snyder, Anabaptist History and Theology, Kitchener, ON: Pandora Press, 1995), 32. Ibid., 33.

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Given the agrarian success of Anabaptist communities in the succeeding five centuries, we might add that they also addressed in practical ways ecological or environmental questions as part of their religious reform. Anabaptist communities of faith used their agricultural expertise in Prussia, Ukraine, the Great Plains of North America, and Paraguay (as well as many other places) to settle and make productive previously wild or marginal lands. Unfortunately, they too often unwittingly did this as colonial agents of one or another imperial power, and in the process often lost the cutting edge of their missional witness as alternative agrarian communities of faith. But in countless settings throughout their history, Anabaptist agrarian cultures have persisted in bearing witness to another way, not only of living together peaceably in the midst of a hostile world, but also doing so in sustainable and healthy ways that serve the broader world. A global portrait of Anabaptist churches around the world confirms the agrarian character of Anabaptism. Anabaptism has had its greatest appeal among rural peasants not only in sixteenth century Europe, but around the world. Mennonite missions took root most successfully in countries of Africa, Latin America, and Asia where rural peasant populations and indigenous peoples were being persecuted and threatened.7 There is something about the Anabaptist faith that makes it uniquely appropriate to equip agrarian cultures to live in fully human, Christ-​like ways in the midst of the hostile and oppressive powers operative in the world of dominant cultures.

The Failure of The Anabaptist Vision I’ve already acknowledged that the formerly dominant agrarian communities of the Mennonite Church are no longer reflective of the Anabaptist agrarian heritage. With the exception of a few conservative Mennonite and Amish communities, the remaining rural churches and communities of the Anabaptist agrarian heritage have succumbed to the totalitarian demands of industrial agriculture with its mechanization, monoculture cropping patterns, confined animal feeding operations, reliance on fossil fuels for energy and fertilizer, use of genetically modified organisms, and production of commodities for a global market, all of which must accrue a profit for corporate investors. In such a system, farmers have no freedom to do what is best for the land, even if they are aware of the harm their operations are bringing both to the land and the human community where they live. 7

See my brief review of Mennonite missions in S. Roy Kaufman, Healing God’s Earth (Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2013), 211–​15.

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What has led to this radical loss of an agrarian heritage? Mennonites came to America as immigrant communities seeking a refuge where they might form their communities and practice their faith. They came as agrarian cultures, faith communities, with a long history and cultural identity, and they had no intention of acculturating to American society. My home community was settled by Swiss Amish, Dutch Mennonites, and Moravian Hutterites, representing the three major streams of classic Anabaptism. Each of these local cultures had found their way into the Russian Empire by one or another route and had learned to know each other there. When the Russian Empire threatened to revoke the special privileges given to German colonies in Russia, and when the American Empire was seeking white, European settlers to colonize the lands of the Great Plains stolen from American First Nations, these groups all found their way to Dakota Territory in the 1870s. They were drawn by the promise of free land through the Homestead Act of 1862, and the vague assurance of freedom to practice their Anabaptist faith. With significant communal aid and assistance from established Mennonite communities in the eastern United States and Canada, these agrarian cultures all began to thrive and build a successful and somewhat sustainable rural community. That all changed with the industrialization of agriculture following World War II. The combination of governmental agricultural policies, corporate expansion and control over agriculture, and the application of technocratic agricultural methods came to dominate the community, with the resultant loss of population and the disenfranchisement of small farms in the past 50 years. The process was hastened by the Homestead Act itself, which precluded the establishment of self-​sufficient village economies on the pattern they had known in Europe, which left individual farmers to face the forces of industrial agriculture alone, and in competition with each other.8 Nevertheless, I conclude in my book, The Drama of a Rural Community’s Life Cycle, that the responsibility for the demise of Anabaptist agrarian cultures was the failure of the community to be true to its Anabaptist theology. In most rural American Mennonite communities, the central tenets of Anabaptist faith such as non-​resistance were preserved, and indeed were formative in the growth of the community. But these communities were unable to grasp the theological implications of Anabaptism for their agrarian cultures, despite how formative it was in shaping their rural heritage through the centuries.

8

This is described more fully in S. Roy Kaufman, The Drama of a Rural Community’s Life Cycle (Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2020), especially in c­ hapters 6 and 7.

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Coming to North America as agrarian cultures, they struggled to define who they were here in the milieu of an American society purporting to be democratic and progressive and yet characterized by oppressive imperial policies at home and abroad. In the 1920s and 1930s, many of these congregations (agrarian cultures) were drawn to Fundamentalist theological formulations. While this did not cause them to totally lose their Anabaptist perspectives, the emphasis on correct doctrine (rather than discipleship) and on salvation as eternal life (rather than the formation of the church as God’s new community here on earth), aided in blinding these communities to the agrarian implications of their Anabaptist faith.9 The theological perspectives a community chooses to embrace do have implications for how the community functions and for the kind of culture it creates or fails to create. While this is not a failure of the Anabaptist vision per se, it is a failure of those generations of Mennonite students and scholars and pastors like myself, who articulated the Anabaptist vision as a way of being Christian or the church in the world. I find it ironic that many of the original shapers of the Anabaptist vision in the mid-​t wentieth century were themselves the products of agrarian cultures like those I have been describing here. But they were often first generation theologizers and scholars in their communities, intent on understanding the broad historical implications of Anabaptism, and oblivious to the agrarian implications of the vision they were espousing. Indeed, I have to acknowledge that it took me a lifetime of experience and study of both agrarian life and Mennonite history to begin making these connections. As a result, agrarian cultures (congregations) were bereft of guidance and resources for how they might deal with the onslaught of forces industrial agriculture was foisting upon them.

Anabaptist Theology and Agrarian Culture The three central theological themes of Anabaptism as we have come to define them in the Anabaptist vision are discipleship, community, and the ethic of love.10 Each of these themes are integral to the vitality, health, and sustainability of agrarian cultures, living, as they always do, in a fragile, dependent, and vulnerable relationship to the dominant imperial cultures in which they are embedded. It is an ironic fact of history that while civilization owes its

9 See S. Roy Kaufman, The Drama of a Rural Community’s Life Cycle (Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2020), c­hapter 7, “The Community’s Decline under an Industrial Agriculture,” for a fuller exposition of this theme. 10 Harold S. Bender, Op. Cit., 42–​54.

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origin and life to the development of agrarian cultures in the Agricultural Revolution providing food for urban dwellers, it is always agrarian cultures that are vulnerable to the imperial powers that rule over them. Imperialism is “the loss of sovereignty—​control—​over essential issues and decisions by a largely agricultural society to an industrial metropolis.”11 The emphasis on discipleship gives Christian faith a relentlessly this-​ worldly perspective. This is in contrast to the decidedly other-​worldly perspective of official, dominant Christian faith that emerged already with the influence of Gnosticism and was sealed when Christian faith was made the official religion of the Roman Empire early in the fourth century CE. Religious faiths of every kind have to be domesticated and rendered socially and politically innocuous in order to be co-​opted to bless and sanction the prevailing dominant imperial order. This was done in Christianity by making it an other-​worldly faith perspective concerned with personal eternal salvation, relevant only for eternity and the life to come, but irrelevant to the daily social and political life of it its adherents. Christian faith without discipleship, without following Jesus in daily life, thus becomes a useful tool for blessing the current socio-​political order in power. On the other hand, those who discover the vitality and life-​ giving resource of discipleship, following Jesus in every-​day life, are empowered to build a new community of justice, peace, and love. All their relationships—​ with God, with one another, and with creation—​are now informed by the teaching and example of Jesus. They no longer need to be held captive by the oppressive powers of the dominant, imperial culture in which they live. They go on with the work of being disciples of Jesus, people empowered to rise above the idolatries of the dominant culture around them. In the process they come to embody the church, God’s alternative community of faith, the harbinger of God’s new creation in the midst of a fallen world. But discipleship also transforms the disciple’s relationship with God’s creation. No longer is creation externalized into a collection of natural resources to be discovered, claimed, dominated, and used to advance human power and wealth. Instead, the earth itself is understood to belong to God, as the place God would and could dwell with humankind. So, the earth and all its life and creatures is re-​sacralized, made holy, to be the sphere in which God and humans work together to fashion God’s new creation made possible by Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. Now it matters how one relates to all the creatures of the earth and the earth itself. Now it matters how we till and 11 William Appleman Williams, Empire as a Way of Life (New York: Oxford University Press, 1980), 7.

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keep the earth (Gen 2:15). Now we see ourselves as partners with nature and God in the unfolding of life and creation, the role to which God invited us when the divine image of love was placed within us so that we might reflect that image through all the life we live (Gen 1:26). This is how discipleship informed and shaped Anabaptist agrarian communities throughout their 500-​year history. It was, it must be said, a lived faith, and not one that was articulated theologically. It has not been until recent decades that we have learned to speak theologically about ecology and the environment. This was undoubtedly a weakness of the Anabaptist agrarian cultures. But it would be a travesty to imagine that this faith and other similar religious perspectives of all faiths have not been basic to the formation and life of successful and sustainable agrarian cultures around the world, simply because these perspectives were not articulated theologically the way we are now wont to do. The Anabaptist understanding of community is perhaps the most radical and controversial aspect of the Anabaptist vision. It involves a rejection of the world and an understanding of two kingdoms (realms) in permanent tension with each other that modern Anabaptists often find repugnant. At its root, it represents an ecclesiology, an understanding of the church, that we struggle to appreciate and even more to embody. Having convinced ourselves that the mission and relevance of the church derives from engagement with the world, we cannot abide the idea that we should have nothing to do with the world. But what if the mission of the church does not involve engagement with the world, but instead requires us to be the church as an alternative community of faith living in the midst of the world? Forged in the first, fierce persecution of Anabaptists and written by Michael Sattler, the Schleitheim Confession of 1527 is most unrelenting in its call for separation from the world in Article 4. But it is Article 6, on “The Sword,” that expresses most strongly the Anabaptist rejection of every form of coercion or violence or force or power over others, with the sword being the symbol for all such forms of domination.12 A century later, the Dordrecht Confession of 1632, while maintaining Anabaptist rejection of the use of coercive power over others, expresses an almost fawning acquiescence to the powers of the dominant culture in Article XIII, asking “that the Lord would recompense them (our rulers), here and in eternity, for all the benefits, liberties, and favors which we enjoy under their laudable administration.”13 This 12 “The Schleitheim Confession,” in John H. Leith, ed., Creeds of the Churches (Garden City: Doubleday & Company, 1963), 282–​92. 13 “The Dordrecht Confession,” in John H. Leith, ed., Creeds of the Churches (Garden City: Doubleday & Company, 1963), 304.

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type of expression may be why we today find the historic Anabaptist attitude toward the state so repugnant. This Anabaptist rejection of the use of coercive power exercised by the institutional structures of both the church and the state is paired with a strong emphasis on the “visible Church of God.”14 Anabaptists were insistent on the church as a visible new community of faith, formed by those who have chosen to follow Jesus in daily life. It was this social construct that stood in radical contrast to all the structures of institutional power reflected in both the state and the church of their time. These powers all operated on the assumption that it was both appropriate and necessary to exercise power over others and creation to maintain and order society, and the Anabaptists were out to refute that claim by forming communities based on mutual love and care. That they might not often have succeeded does not alter their intention to form communities of faith as alternatives to the dominant social institutions of power. Early Anabaptists, in other words, lived with a heightened sense of the tension between the powers that rule the world and the kind of life together they envisioned and sometimes incarnated as a community of people redeemed by Jesus Christ. They would have affirmed Walter Wink’s assertions that “The Powers are good,” and “the Powers are fallen.” They would perhaps have been less sure about Wink’s third assertion, that “the Powers will be redeemed.”15 I confess that I have similar reservations, and thus find myself in agreement with the early Anabaptists on the irrevocable tension between the world and its powers and the church, as the new community of God’s new creation. Power over others is too inherently a part of the nature of the institutional fabric of civilization. It is why the social reforms to address and overcome racism and police violence in 2020 have been so intractable. This is not to say that such efforts at reform should not be made and continued. But we should at least recognize that we may be fighting a losing battle, and that for every reform put into place some new manifestations of exploitation and domination are sure to pop up. This is why, it seems to me, Anabaptists persisted in the formation of the church as an alternative community of faith living in the midst of the powers of the world. These new, small, local surrogate family groups of believers would be the context for faithful Christian discipleship, and each local surrogate family group would in turn ally itself with all the other surrogate 14 Ibid., 299. 15 Walter Wink, Engaging the Powers (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), 65.

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families of like faith all around the world, forming a functional network of local communities of diverse ethnicities and nationalities for mutual support and mission in the world.16 These are the harbingers of God’s new creation in Jesus Christ. This, it seems to me, is the genius of the church as a new community of faith, founded on the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, and gathered by God’s Holy Spirit. In the context of this article on Anabaptism and agrarian culture, it should be clear that it was only as alternative communities of faith that the early Anabaptists were able to subvert the oppressive structures of the dominant culture in order to survive and thrive as agrarian cultures. Individuals rarely have the ability on their own to stand alone against the empire, however much such models of individual heroism are extolled in our individualistic culture. Together, as families of faith, these small groups could not only provide for their own and each other’s needs, but also, in the food and products of their farms could serve the needs of the dominant culture, and thus make themselves indispensable to those in power. But community was not simply a way to resist or subvert dominant imperial culture. It was also intrinsic to the agrarian task itself. Farming is never a solitary endeavor, even in our individualistic culture. Indeed, there is no farmer who operates completely outside the constraints and structures of his or her community in the way that the land is cared for (or not). Wendell Berry, the pre-​eminent agrarian thinker and writer of our time, is insistent on the point that a good farmer is the product of generations of communal experience of living on the land. “A good farmer … is a cultural product; he is made by a sort of training, certainly, in what his time imposes or demands, but he is also made by generations of experience. This essential experience can only be accumulated, tested, preserved, handed down in settled households, friendships, and communities that are deliberately and carefully native to their own ground, in which the past has prepared for the present and the present safeguards the future.”17 A healthy agriculture is a cultural, not a technical achievement. So, it is no surprise that Anabaptism was enculturated in agrarian cultures, and that the experience of agrarian cultures shaped the communal theology of the Anabaptist vision, both in its understanding of the church as an alternative community of faith and of the structures of institutional 16 The terminology of “surrogate families” derives from Joseph H. Hellerman, The Ancient Church as Family (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001), 4. See S. Roy Kaufman, Healing God’s Earth, c­ hapter 13, for a fuller exposition of these themes. 17 Wendell Berry, The Unsettling of America (San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1977), 45.

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civilization as the antithesis to God’s intention for the human family and creation. It is no surprise that mutual aid both within and between these agrarian cultures and for those in the larger society are even today the characteristic the world most often recognizes as what it means to be Mennonite. Just as community devolves from discipleship, so the ethic of love is the consequence of both discipleship and community. Nonresistance, or pacifism, or non-​violence, are all ways we have expressed the Anabaptist ethic of love. It is the piece of the Anabaptist vision we have clung to must persistently and fiercely, seeing it ultimately as the one thing that will set us off from other Christians or religious perspectives. But too often we have come to express this ethic primarily in terms of an individual refusal to participate in war and structured violence and removed it from its embeddedness in the communal life of the culture. The vision of Anabaptism is that of a community that eschews all the power dynamics characteristic of the larger institutional structures of society, which inevitably lead to domination, exploitation, and oppression of both human and natural communities of life on earth. It is the vision of an egalitarian community in which the unique value of every person and every form of life is valued because it is the creation of God. It is the vision of a community in which the power inherent in every person as created in God’s image is exercised not to dominate and control others, but to come alongside and empower every human and natural form of life so that it might reach and express its fullest potential as the creation of God. This communal vision, inspired by the example and teaching of Jesus himself, has rarely been embodied very well in the common life of Anabaptist communities of faith, to be sure. As the pastor of five rural congregations, I’m all too aware of the presence of ethnocentrism, sexism, and patriarchy in the agrarian cultures of the Mennonite Church. The exclusion of unique personalities and sexual minorities, the abuse of women and children, the mistreatment of domestic animals, and the narrowness of ethnocentric perspectives are all too easy to document in the lives of rural communities, leading to their reputation as bastions of prejudice and making them anathema to all the liberal, progressive elements of society and the church. On the other hand, I have also seen rural churches respond redemptively to these abuses of power through face-​to-​face communal discipline, using the power of loving admonition. Despite the persistence of sexism and patriarchy, I’ve seen in my own family and the families of my congregations the ways in which the gifts and strengths of all members of the family are released and utilized for the well-​being of the family and the community. The point is that within the context of a local family and community abuses of power are

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recognized as being dysfunctional and inappropriate, and members of the community through mutual love are able to remedy these abuses, in a way reminiscent of the Household Codes of the New Testament (Eph 5:21–​6:9). Meanwhile, within the dominant culture, the only remedy seems to be the engagement of the coercive force of law and court proceedings and professional interventions. The ethic of love is rooted in our human creation in God’s image. The supreme character of the God revealed in the person of Jesus Christ is self-​ sacrificial love, love which gives the self for the other. Being thus made in God’s image, love is what humans are invited and privileged to reflect in all their relationships with other people, with all creation, and with God. In other words, according to the biblical narrative, we have been created to partner with God in the unfolding of life and creation by reflecting the divine image of love placed within us in all our relationships. The implications of this ethic for an agrarian culture are obvious. Not only does it guide the way we relate to one another and build community locally, but it also guides the way we interact with all the other forms of life and forces of creation in the daily tasks of agriculture. Every form of life is seen as having intrinsic worth as the creation of God. If certain forms of life threaten the agricultural endeavor, (weeds and predators of domestic livestock come to mind), it is the responsibility of the farmer to adjust his or her agricultural practices in ways that mitigate the damage caused by these threats. And sometimes, weeds will be pulled, and predators will be shot, but only with the awareness that something is out of kilter in this natural order of things. In the same way, crops will be harvested, and animals will be slaughtered for the tables of the community and the world. Plants and animals will give their lives and be eaten so that we can live. It is the ultimate irony of life—​t hat life depends on life! But always, in sustainable and healthy agrarian cultures, these sacrifices will be personal and sacred, humane and loving, the way Native American hunters understood their prey to be offering their lives to the hunter for the sustenance of the community. Why God formed creation in this way is a mystery. But it seems to reflect God’s own creative process as a triune God of self-​giving love. Out of the giving of one’s self (even on a cross), life emerges and is nourished and continues. This is, after all, a deeply sacramental view of life, and lies at the heart of the Lord’s Supper, which links it to the daily tables of our lives and our communities and our world. As Wendell Berry says in his essay “The Gift of Good Land,” “To live, we must daily break the body and shed the blood of Creation. When we do this knowingly, lovingly, skillfully, reverently, it is a

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sacrament. When we do it ignorantly, greedily, clumsily, destructively, it is a desecration.”18 Was this ethic of love for creation and life always evident in the agrarian cultures of Anabaptism through the ages? Hardly! But it was present enough to give life and vitality, success and sustainability, to countless of these local cultures (congregations) through the centuries. And that in turn shaped and gave form to Anabaptist theology and its ethic of love. These agrarian cultures were again the enculturated vehicles through which the Anabaptist vision was carried down to our time. And now, through ecological and environmental creation care theologies, we are finally able to give voice to how agrarian life has shaped our theological vision through the centuries.

Liberating Anabaptist Vitality in Agrarian Cultures The Anabaptist vision of discipleship, community, and love is still operative in the renewal and revitalization of agrarian cultures today. Even rural communities decimated by decades of exploitation with land that has been abused for decades are beginning to regroup and change. With climate change looming, the global market for agricultural commodities in disarray, the industrial food system collapsing due to the coronavirus pandemic, and the ill-​effects of technological attempts to solve agricultural problems increasingly evident, farmers in rural communities are ready to take a look at a different agricultural paradigm. Whether specifically identified as Anabaptist or not, the values of the Anabaptist vision are the spiritual values that undergird this search for a new way of living on the land. This search for new agricultural paradigms is evident in the formation of local food systems through farmers’ markets, community supported agriculture contracts, and producer/​consumer cooperatives. It is evident in the exploration of new land tenure policies, like community farmland trusts. It is evident in the development of new and innovative regenerative agricultural methods that renew the soil and sequester carbon instead of releasing more carbon into the atmosphere.19 It is seen in the renewed exploration of the original ecosystem of each place, along with an attempt to mimic that ecosystem in the agricultural practices employed. It is seen in the development of urban gardening, particularly those sponsored by urban congregations. It 18 Wendell Berry, The Gift of Good Land (San Francisco: North Point Press, 1981), 281. 19 It would be wearisome to document each of the assertions of this paragraph, but the recent book by Gabe Brown, Dirt to Soil, One Family’s Journey into Regenerative Agriculture (White River Junction, VT: Chelsea Green Publishing, 2018), addresses both this sentence and others.

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is seen in the formation of creation care theological perspectives that inform all these new initiatives. All of these initiatives are occurring in the midst of a dominant culture and industrial agricultural system that however close to collapse nonetheless retains formidable economic, political, and military power. The Anabaptist insistence on being an alternative community of faith capable of subverting and undermining the dominant social order in non-​violent ways is as necessary now as it was in the sixteenth century, for it is only as an alternative community of faith that these new paradigms for the future can emerge. Small, individual operators find it very hard to survive in the current context, involved as they must be in both producing and marketing their produce, and also often holding down an off-​farm job. This highlights a central feature of these new agricultural paradigms. They all return agriculture to its historic and traditional task of raising food for people, for themselves and their communities first of all as subsistence (village) economies, but then also for the residents of the urban centers in their region. This of course is what is meant by a local food system, but it represents a radical departure from the current agricultural paradigm of commodity production for a global market. It makes agriculture again a communal task, involving a lot of human labor, working the land together as families and communities (agrarian cultures). It involves putting the needs of the other and the needs of the community ahead of self-​realization and self-​fulfillment, worthy as these pursuits may sometimes be. This all may sound regressive if not oppressive to the dominant, urban congregations now characterizing Mennonite denominations. Can we not just finally be rid of those ambiguous, conflicted, conservative, agrarian cultures that for so long held power and sway over the denomination? Do we really need to put community ahead of self-​f ulfillment and self-​expression, to which Christian faith is now co-​opted to support in progressive circles of the Mennonite church? Agrarianism may have been the cultural vehicle through which historic Anabaptism came down to us, but does agrarianism still have a place in the modern world? Do we really need to make space in the church and in our minds for the revitalization of agrarian cultures animated and liberated by Anabaptist vitality? What is the rationale for encouraging the revitalization of agrarian cultures? Revitalized agrarian cultures [1]‌(rural congregations) liberated by Anabaptist vitality will re-​incarnate alternative communities of faith as integral to the mission of the church in post-​modern, imperial American society. No, not every Mennonite congregation needs to become an alternative community of faith living against the grain of the dominant culture of

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imperial, oppressive, technocratic, exploitative American society. It is appropriate for urban congregations to form multicultural communities composed of people of many ethnicities and backgrounds who have come to the city and acculturated to the dominant society, but who, in the anonymity of the city are seeking genuine community. These urban congregations will respect and celebrate the unique ethnic identity and heritage of each member but will create a new community built on the values of God’s rule of love. They will be the new “fictive kinship groups” N. T. Wright says were basic to Jesus’ ministry.20 Rural or agrarian congregations, by contrast, have the mission of preserving the ethnic heritage of their past, because it is the vehicle through which the faith comes to the present generation, but also because their life as a rural community depends on possessing the generational agrarian wisdom that make for sustainable agrarian cultures. In other words, it is the unique mission of rural congregations to preserve the diversity of the church as a collection of people groups “from every tribe and language and people and nation” (Rev 5:9). As Wayne Meeks says in his discussion of the differences between rural and urban congregations in the Roman world, “The conservatism of the villages preserved their diversity; changes in the city were in the direction of a common [dominant] Greco-​Roman culture.”21 The villages were and will be always alternative communities of faith living against the grain of the dominant, urban, imperial cultures in which they live. Obviously, such communities need to be secure enough in their own identity that they can avoid ethnocentrism and instead relate cooperatively and affirmatively to all the other agrarian cultures and local communities around them. The global church, as well as every denomination in every country, needs both rural and urban congregations to express the fullness of God’s creation of a new humanity in Christ. Uncomfortable as it is for both rural and urban congregations because of their vastly different cultural perspectives and relationships to the dominant culture, each needs the other to express the fullness of God’s new humanity in Christ. This is particularly important for denominations like MCUSA that have in recent decades urbanized and are now increasingly marginalizing their rural, agrarian minority. Agrarian cultures (rural congregations) need to be revitalized by a liberated Anabaptist vitality so that the church can express the fullness of God’s new humanity in Christ. This is the work of rural churches and communities 20 N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996), 403. 21 Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christian (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 15. See also S. Roy Kaufman, Healing God’s Earth, for a discussion of rural and urban churches, 204–​08.

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themselves. It cannot be done for them by the institutional church or denomination. On the other hand, it would be nice to have the support, counsel, and understanding of the denomination as the process unfolds. And indeed, the professional and academic perspectives of the urban denomination, particularly in the development of a creation care theology, can be a powerful resource for these rural, agrarian cultures (congregations). Revitalized agrarian cultures [2]‌(rural congregations) liberated by Anabaptist vitality are crucial in caring for the earth in this time of global warming and climate change. While agriculture, particularly in its industrial manifestations, has been a major cause of global warming, agricultural systems that are communally-​ based, ecologically-​minded, and engaged in producing food for local communities and regional food needs have the potential for sequestering carbon and ultimately reversing humanly-​induced climate change, as several articles by my brother Maynard document.22 Anthropogenic climate change is far and away the greatest and most imminent challenge to the current world order and indeed the survival of humankind. Sadly, the church, including the Mennonite church, has been slow and ineffective in addressing this challenge. Too often, church members, especially in rural communities, have been among the staunchest climate-​change deniers. The Mennonite church and rural congregations in particular need the liberating Anabaptist vitality of their agrarian heritage to shape their beliefs, values, practices, and lifestyles in ways that enable them to deal with the global climate crisis. The agrarian heritage of Anabaptism has the spiritual perspectives and the practical knowledge that can enable rural and urban congregations alike to become a part of the solution rather than contributing to the global climate crisis. It is critical that MCUSA and Mennonite Church Canada, along with other Mennonite denominations, devote their theological, practical and financial resources to a revitalization of agrarian cultures (rural congregations}, so that this change can occur. Much of this work has already begun in initiatives like Mennonite Creation Care Network,23 and the Rooted and Grounded Conferences of Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary.24 Yet there is often still a disconnect 22 See Maynard Kaufman, Collected Agrarian Writings (Bangor, MI: Helianthus Press, 2020), chapter V: Coping with Climate Change, particularly the essays “Raising Food in a Changing Climate,” “Carbon Sequestration, Naturally,” “Hubris and Humus,” and “Homesteading in a Changing Climate.” 23 Mennonite Creation Care Network, http://​mennoc​reat ​ionc​a re.org. 24 See Ryan D. Harker and Janeen Bertsche Johnson, eds., Rooted and Grounded (Eugene: Pickwick Publications, 2016), for the major papers of the first Rooted and Grounded Conference in 2014.

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between changing environmental practices at a congregational level, and actually changing the agricultural practices of Anabaptist agrarian cultures (rural congregations). Ways must be sought to communicate the urgency of changing agricultural paradigms, and also providing the structures and assistance that enable rural communities to make this change to new agricultural paradigms economically possible and feasible. One of the most intriguing models of agrarian revitalization at a local, community level is Hungry World Farms, a ministry growing out of the former Plow Creek Mennonite Church near the village of Tiskilwa, Illinois. This ministry not only raises food for the local community but also trains volunteers and offers seminars in food production, processing, and preparation.25 Revitalized agrarian cultures [3]‌(rural congregations) liberated by Anabaptist vitality serve the welfare of the wider society by providing food in an age of increasingly dire societal crises. It is time for the church, both rural and urban, to affirm that the mission of rural congregations (agrarian cultures) is to care for the earth in ways that provide healthy and abundant food for society. Of course, rural churches can and should support denominational mission programs of all kinds. But in return, the church at large must also acknowledge that the primary mission of the rural church is to be the church as an alternative community of faith living against the grain of the dominant culture so that it may, in turn, provide the food and materials required for society. The current industrial food system in America is increasingly dysfunctional and vulnerable. Its agricultural methods are ecologically damaging, and the vegetables, fruits, and processed foods are laced with poisons and chemicals and genetically modified residues. The meat has all been produced in confined animal feeding operations (CAFOs). The coronavirus pandemic of early 2020 has exposed the vulnerability of this food system. Milk was drained in the fields, vegetables were left to rot, animals were euthanized, and meat became scarce as monopolizing meat packing plants were shut down by Covid-​19. Not only is the food of the industrial food system unhealthy and often dangerous, but its supply also cannot be guaranteed in times of crisis. All this is not lost on middle-​class urban consumers, who are increasingly turning to organic, local, and regeneratively produced food sources despite their cost, in the form of farmer’s markets, community supported agriculture contracts, and health food stores. However, too often it is an indication of white privilege that makes these options available, as minority communities are left to consume the unhealthy products of the industrial food system. 25 Hungry World Farm, https://​hung​r ywo​rldf​a rm.com.

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It is time for rural congregations (agrarian cultures) to reclaim their mission of raising and providing healthy, local, regenerative food for their own communities and their nearby urban neighbors, and for urban congregations to intentionally become the consumers and also the purveyors of these healthy alternatives in their neighborhoods, through rural/​urban, producer/​ consumer cooperatives and other venues. It is unlikely that the American empire, built as it is on exploitation, domination, and oppression, can survive long into the future. We can anticipate more frequent and desperate crises as attempts are made either to reform or reinforce the existing orders. It should be the business of the church, and of rural congregations in particular, to be prepared to provide healthy food for a society torn by conflict and strife. After all, Jesus came and lived and died and rose again, not primarily to take us out of this world, but to save us from the powers of evil so that we can partner with God in the re-​formation of the earth and human society as God’s new creation (Ro 8:18–​25). Or so, at least, our agrarian Anabaptist heritage would assert. These are at least three reasons why it is important to revitalize Mennonite and other agrarian cultures with the liberation of Anabaptist vitality. We carry in our Anabaptist heritage a precious inheritance of both faith and agrarian wisdom. That agrarian wisdom shaped and strengthened the theological perspectives we have come to identify as Anabaptist. While the work of rural revitalization must be done by those rural communities themselves, they need the encouragement, validation, and sometimes the resources now present in the urban church. While it has been for the most part a good thing for the Mennonite church to have become urban, the urban church must always remember that the full expression of the church as the harbinger of God’s new creation involves both urban and rural communities living in a healthy symbiosis, theologically, structurally, socially, and materially.

Bibliography Berry, Wendell. The Gift of Good Land: Further Essays Cultural and Agricultural. San Francisco: North Point Press, 1981. —​——​. The Unsettling of America: Culture and Agriculture. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1977. Brown, Gabe. Dirt to Soil: One Family’s Journey into Regenerative Agriculture. White River Junction, VT: Chelsea Green Publishing, 2018. Harker, Ryan D., and Janeen Bertsche Johnson, eds. Rooted and Grounded: Essays on Land and Christian Discipleship. Eugene: Pickwick Publications, 2016. Hellerman, Joseph H. The Ancient Church as Family. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001.

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Hershberger, Guy F., ed. TRAV. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1957. Hungry World Farm. https://​hung​r ywo​rldf​a rm.com. Kaufman, Maynard. Collected Agrarian Writings. Bangor, MI: Helianthus Press, 2020. Kaufman, S. Roy. The Drama of a Rural Community’s Life Cycle: The Prehistory, Birth, Growth, Maturation, Decline, and Rebirth of a Rural Community. Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2020. —​—​—​. Healing God’s Earth: Rural Community in the Context of Urban Civilization. Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2013. Lieth, John H., ed. Creeds of the Churches. Garden City: Doubleday & Company, 1963. Meeks, Wayne A. The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983. Mennonite Creation Care Network, http://​mennoc​reat ​ionc​a re.org. Schmidt, Doris Mendel, ed. Handbook of Information. Newton, KS: General Conference Mennonite Church, 1997. Snyder, C. Arnold. Anabaptist History and Theology: An Introduction. Kitchener, ON: Pandora Press, 1995. Williams, William Appleman. Empire as a Way of Life: An Essay on the Causes and Character of America’s Present Predicament Along with a Few Thought About an Alternative. New York: Oxford University Press, 1980. Wink, Walter. Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992. Wright, N. T. Jesus and the Victory of God. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996.

Part VI  Pushing the Boundaries In the past, Mennonites have been in denial, marginalized, or condemned persons with struggle with gender identity and orientation distinctives. All three of the following essayists, Gingerich, Schnupp, and Cruz, reflect on their identities and the different ways they affiliate with or are alienated from the Mennonite community. The beauty (Gingerich), integrity (Schnupp), and vitality (Cruz) of coming to terms with one’s sexual orientation is at the heart of these essays. Their journeys suggest the need to discover new paths for the church on issues of gender and sexual orientation.

Chapter 16  Beauty Happens C har lene G inger ich

Have you ever tried to dissect all the threads that make up your life? What threads have stayed with you since birth? Which ones did you pick up along the way? Which threads have been lost, or frayed, or so inextricably interwoven with others that you cannot even decipher which one it is anymore? This is the first piece that stays with me as I sit down to write. Who am I? I am a woman. I am a mother. I am a partner. I am a woman who loves a woman. I am a musician. I am a knitter. I am a lover of baking. I am a passionate faith-​food-​w ine loving girl (as my twitter bio likes to remind me). I am Mennonite. Whoa … this is where I stop and pause. I. Am. Mennonite. The truth is, I was raised Mennonite. I was baptized as a Mennonite in my late teens and my name sits on a membership roster at a local Mennonite church. However, I have not been an active part of a Mennonite congregation in just under a decade. I have attended a handful of services in that time, but do not—​in any way—​consider myself an active member of any church, let alone Mennonite. In fact, for the last many years on the occasions where I have found myself sitting in the pews of a Mennonite church for a service, I have had the most uneasy and uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. I fought against that feeling for decades because it did not (and still does not) make sense. I love the people I am with and feel comfortable being around them. The words that are preached across the pulpit, for the most part, are not things that I can object to or find fault in. The music is good. And yet … and yet … that feeling in the pit of my stomach. That feeling which I have come to recognize and embrace as a voice to be listened to. And having said all of that, I still identify as Mennonite. Because no matter how hard I try to shake it, that sense of identity cannot be shaken from my bones.

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I grew up in a rural community in Southwestern Ontario. I am the oldest of four girls, and my parents farmed the pork farm that my dad had grown up on. We attended the same Mennonite church that he had grown up in, that many of my aunts, uncles and cousins attended, and that my grandparents had been a part of. Looking back, I see nothing extra special about my life. And yet, at the time, I believed that everything was extra special about my life. Sitting at the front pew of the church every Sunday, surrounded by my parents and siblings, gave me a sense of peace and calm. Seeing the same smiling faces every week that I grew up to know and love created within me a sense of security. I cannot remember much of what was preached growing up. But I can remember the singing. The singing and the music. Magical! Often on Saturday evenings, after the dishes were done and put away, my mom would sit down at the piano to play and sing. Gospel hymns were our constant diet—​t he kind we sang in church on Sunday mornings, as well as Southern Gospel stylings that were more for ‘special entertainment’ than congregational singing. I loved sitting and singing with mom. It is how I first tried out my ear at harmonizing. I would sing soprano along with her—​and then she would sing alto while I would sing soprano—​and then she would sing soprano while I would sing alto—​and then she would sing soprano while I would sing tenor—​and so on. Eventually, as my piano skills increased, I would be the one who would sit down at the piano to sing and play while my mom joined me. In my early teens, the church I loved invited me to start playing during the services. I loved it! It was where I really started to blossom and follow my leanings. I was receiving classical training from my local teacher (an amazing woman who still, to this day even with her passing, often sits beside me whenever I sit down to the piano). But it was at church where my love of playing by ear was really having a chance to blossom. I would write love songs. Whether they were love songs to my latest crush or love songs to Jesus (apparently no one really knew the difference anyways, and I do not know if I did either)—​I had the opportunity to sing them. The encouragement that I received from the church to continue to play was exciting. It became clear to me that I was given a gift. That god gave me a gift, and I knew that I had an obligation to use that gift. Eventually my journey took me on to study piano at a nearby University. Somehow it felt okay and accepted by my community—​as long as I would continue to come back and play piano in the church on Sundays. I remember numerous occasions where I would be involved in a performance at University

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and when people would praise me for my playing, my mother would gently smile and say, “now Charlene, don’t go on getting a big head.” Mennonite humility is its own special kind of pride. Was it my mom’s upbringing that made her pass on those gentle reminders to me? Was it said to her growing up? Was there a message that she received somewhere along the line that made her feel it was very important that—​no matter what talent or achievements her daughter had—​t hat she must ensure that that recognition never ‘goes to her head’? It was probably all of those things. My experience of growing up involved with music in the Mennonite church is that there is a tremendous love of music. It is a tool with which we communicate lyrics. It is a tool which we use to ‘set the mood’ (i.e., prelude music). It is a tool with which we fill in time with ‘wholesome entertainment’ (i.e., ‘special music’). And using music as a tool, as a trolley to guide us along on a certain experience or feeling, has always felt disingenuous to me. Music is a profound gift of beauty. In and of itself. Full stop. For myself as a participator in that, I have certain obligations. First of all, years of training and practicing (or non-​practicing—​because, let’s face it, I’ve never been a great practiser!) have equipped me with the tools and skills to allow the music to be expressed. That is no small feat. I also have an obligation to be present—​to the music and to the moment. I will admit that there has been more than one occasion where I am performing and find myself going through grocery lists in my mind—​but if I did that frequently, I think it would be safe to say that I would not have a job anymore! My experience in the Mennonite church has been that we do not feel beauty is enough. I can remember the first time I was struck by beauty in a profound way. We were visiting St Peter’s Basilica in Rome. I have grown up with a Mennonite awareness of meagre surroundings and understanding that simplicity and unadornments is—​not only practical, but also close to godliness. That opulence was a waste of money that could be used for better purposes, and that the ‘show’ was completely unnecessary. So that was the background that I carried with me as I walked into St. Peter’s. And then, it hit me. I stopped. I was struck. I was struck by beauty. The beauty and vastness of the cathedral. The Divine speaking to me, not through words, but through beauty. Beauty—​w ith a ‘capital B.’ I came back from that trip with an understanding of beauty that I did not have before. Beauty is of god. Beauty IS god. Beauty is GOD. And beauty, in and of itself, is enough. I think that my music making changed from that point on. For the last 15 years, I have had the incredible opportunity of making my career as a professional accompanist. It gives me chances to play in a variety of

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settings, but one of my favorite ways to express myself is to collaborate with singers. The term ‘accompanist’ has been more recently replaced with the term ‘collaborative pianist,’ which is a more accurate reflection of what I do. On the outside, it would appear that my job would be to play my piano part ‘underneath’ of the vocalist. However, this is not an accurate reflection of my role. I see myself as a support alongside the singer. We do not merely create alongside each other. We breathe together. We feel together. We lead cooperatively together. We join in the thrilling dance of embodying the music and breathing life into it. I like to think of accompaniment as ‘soul breathing.’ When my kids were young, I made up a little song that I used to sing to them: “There’s a little bit of God in me And there’s a little bit of God in you And when we get together what good we can do, There’s a whole lot of God in me and you!”

I feel like accompanying gives me the opportunity to join the Divine in ‘me’ with the Divine in the ‘other’—​and together we create. We give birth to something that has never been before and will never be again. Performances can never be replicated. The same notes, texts and inflections can be delivered—​and still the Divine ‘other’ will show up differently every time. Because creation is never static. And that is a powerful phenomenon to be a part of and engage with. Creation IS god. The ‘god’ that is a verb—​creating, evolving, engaging, responding, dancing. The bulk of my work is with music theater. I have spent countless hours in rehearsal halls. And I can tell you one thing I ‘know for sure’ (to quote Oprah)—​rehearsal halls are one of the most sacred spaces on earth. It is where, together, we embark on ‘soul breathing.’ It is where all are called to be vulnerable. To leave a sense of self at the door. And, at the same time, to bring your sense of self with you and merge it with the sense of ‘other’ that you are tasked with. I have seen many courageous actors, actresses, singers, and performers take profound risks in the process of fleshing out a character. Creation uses its own wavelength, and it is not something that can be easily dialled into or turned off. It takes patience. It takes safe spaces, safe people. Safety and care are of primary importance. And once all those pieces are in place and the sense of trust has been established—​t hen, the beauty happens. The sacred is always intertwined with the secular. And I get to see it time and time again in those liminal spaces. There are many days when I sit there in a silent posture of grace and thankfulness for the Divine in our midst.

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That Divine has stayed with me. As I have ventured with one foot outside of the church, and now away from the church, my biggest fear was that somehow, I would slip into a vast oblivion—​devoid of a sense of community or the Divine. I had this sense that god lives through the church—​w ithin its walls and through its people. And of course, I still believe that. And yet—​and yet—​my view of god has grown larger and more glorious and more real and more vibrant than I ever believe it could have grown if I had stayed within the walls of the church. It was by stepping away that I learned the inevitable truth that all of us learn in our lives. That god lives and breathes—​regardless of what systems we manage or maintain. And I get to experience that in profound ways time and time again, and with an intuited sense that I do not think I could have tapped into if I had stayed cozied up in the church walls and even my church community. Without even being aware of it, I was in need of a personal transformation. The perfection, safety and single-​layer notion of faith that had protected me all of those years growing up disappeared on October 12, 1999. We had gone out to the farm to pick up my son from my parents, who were babysitting him from the evening before. It was there that my mom sat alone at the end of our family dinner table and explained to me that her and dad were separating. Marriage breakdowns are not new, and I had certainly known of people who had split up. But this was new. This did not happen to me. To people like me. To the ‘me’ whose parents were family life coordinators at our church. The people who were mentors to so many young couples in the church. The parents who sat in the front pew every Sunday with a mother and daughter who played piano, and four darling hand-​sewn and dress-​smocked girls who sang hymns to Jesus. I have a memory of being 7 years old. I was standing beside my mom at the kitchen sink while she was doing dishes and crying. She had just found out that her parents were separating after her dad made the difficult decision to discontinue their marriage. At that moment, I had an awareness that mom’s tears were because a part of her felt that she would one day follow in her dad’s footsteps and have to make the difficult decision to leave her marriage to my dad. And I had that awareness in the back of my mind that, someday, my future self would also be faced with that same decision to leave my marriage to my future husband. Somehow, my 7-​year-​old body held that sense. Recently, I told my mom what I sensed in that moment to ask if she would have said anything or named it in any way that would have caused me to have that awareness—​for herself, and for my future self. She said she

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probably would have been thinking about it but would not have been able to name it at the time. Somehow, I intuited all of that, at that very young age. And thus, it was to be that 27 years later I would be in that same kitchen hearing my mom tell me that she made the difficult decision to leave her marriage to my dad. And 13 years after that I would be telling my husband the same thing. But this time, it was because I found myself—​unexplainably, and surprisingly—​in love with a woman. And once that door of awareness was opened, there was no way I could not continue going through it. When my parents split up, I felt my sense of self completely rocked from its foundation. It was my parent’s relationship and did not directly affect me (I was already married and a new mom at the time). But my parent’s marriage was tied in with my sense of family, which was tied in with a sense of security, which was tied in with sitting at the front pew of the church, which was tied into a feeling of acceptance, which was tied into a feeling of indestructibility, which was tied into a sense of being untouchable. ‘These kinds of things don’t happen to good families that show up for church every Sunday and sit in the front pew, and they especially don’t happen to the oldest daughter who has lived her life believing everything the church told her, who followed all of the rules and worked hard to do everything ‘right’’ As my parent’s marriage fell apart, so did my sense of self. It was like once one piece of the foundation crumbled, it all started to fall away so incredibly fast. And along with that came my sense of faith. I started questioning things that I had been taught as truths. I remember trying so hard to understand what Jesus Dying on The Cross to Save Us from Our Sins really had to do with me. Like—​really??! Did everyone REALLY believe this?? And was I the only one that was finding it a stretch to see what some supposed man facing a horrible death thousands of years ago really had to do with me now? And what did a ‘love’ of Jesus really mean? How did one take the leap of the love that we experience daily—​w ith the way I felt about my then-​husband, or my children—​to some sense of ‘love’ to a man that I had no real understanding of? I started considering the hymns that I loved growing up. The hymns that I sang repeatedly beside my mom on the piano bench, or during our church services. Do people really relate to the ‘blood of Jesus’? Or is everyone just kind of ‘playing the part of belief’ and going along with it—​in much the same way that we all recreate the nativity story at Christmas time, but very few really believe in a miracle birth happening in a stable on December 25th some 2000 years ago? As I started to dissect my faith and watch it crumble away, I figured it made sense to try atheism. After all, none of the other religious offerings

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seem to feel comfortable to me. They all had big glaring holes in them! I tried atheism for a while. But it was lonely. I felt completely devoid of a foundation and roots. The character Don Quixote in ‘Man of La Mancha’ says it best, ‘I never had the courage to believe in nothing.’ To believe in nothing felt just as inauthentic as believing in everything. It was at this time that what I can only describe as divine relevance started opening up to me. I would meet people, have incredible conversations, have my once blocked ideas start to be stretched and pulled. And the divine was popping up in all of it! That was undeniable. The image that remained in my mind was feeling lost at sea. And when you do not know where you are, every once in a while, you see a buoy floating in the water that you can use as a marker. These markers showed up in my life as ‘Truths.’ When I did not know where I was, or where I was heading, or who I was, I could at the very least articulate one or two Buoys/​Pillars of Truth that would give me a sense of place. What were those truths? They have changed and evolved over time, but here are some of them:





1. Why do I call myself a Christian—​or, at the very least, a Believer in the Sacred? Because the messiness that I have gone through has infused in me a belief and knowing that is unmovable. That knowing that I am being guided lovingly and with the best intentions to my higher self. 2. Knowing that when I am being guided into the messiness, there is always grace and mercy being shown along the way. The knowing that I am so cared for that even the mess cannot hurt me. And the hurts that I feel are for my greater joy. 3. Knowing that music is a saving grace in my life. When music is your career, it is easy to take it for granted. The joy and the spark of it does not always have a chance to shine through the mundane. But when it does—​it is a color so vibrant and healing and soul-​fi lled that you cannot help but believe in grace. Belief in something bigger than ourselves. You cannot help but believe in a god who wants the best for us and is leading us forward. A god that is so enraptured with us that she/​he/​t hey gave us beauty. Beauty. Beauty that holds no purpose but to be adored and admired and change us from the deepest level. It is a beauty that points towards a knowing of the divine, not our minds. We can never think our way into understanding beauty. We can never fully feel our way into understanding beauty. We need to embrace that great in between. The valley of the unknown. Where nothing exists

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so that all can exist. That is the place that music helps us encounter, and in that place, we are all connected and all one. Not just those here with us, but also the music of our ancestors. Those that have gone before us who have raised their voices together, around the kitchen table, around the barn raisings, amongst the church pews, and those who have quietly raised their voices in secret. 4. Music helps us to meet in the unknown place where the Divine resides. And this is the part I cannot shake. No matter how much theologically seems irrational or nonsensical to me. The Divine lives in these places. That I know. That is my Buoy/​Pillar of Truth. I know the unknowable that I cannot un-​k now.

It is in those crevices of the unknown—​in the unexplored and unimagined places—​where I find my life plants its seeds and grows. It is where I breathe. It is in one of those crevices where I discovered and fell in love with my partner. Loving a woman is not anything that I had ever imagined for myself. Or rather—​I imagined it for myself but assumed that it was no different than everyone else imagined for themselves. I came to the realization that I was a lesbian at the age of 39. I was married to my husband who I had been together with for almost 20 years. I loved him—​as a spouse, and as an intimate partner. So how could this part of myself be such a revelation to me? Looking back up until that point, I see how sheltered I had been to my own understanding. I do not remember knowing anyone openly gay growing up. When I went off to university, I would have been surrounded by many who identified as LGBT. I remember that I worked with a choral conductor for a while. He was in his late 30s, single and, looking back on it, I think it is safe to assume he was gay. I thought it was odd that someone like him would be single, but I did not think about it much deeper than that. When I first started dating my husband at the time, his aunt and uncle had just separated because the aunt came out as a lesbian. I remember talking to my brother-​in-​law about it at the time, and he explained it as ‘I think she went down to a woman’s retreat in the states for the weekend, and when she came back home, she decided she was a lesbian.’ At the time, that seemed like a completely rational explanation! I wonder now how I could have been so naive. How could I on the one hand ‘know’ those around me that identified as LGBT—​and yet on the other hand be so ignorant to what that meant in terms of relationships? In my mind, those that were gay simply found their best friend and wanted to share their lives together with them. I knew physically that that would involve sex,

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but to me that did not seem like much of a stretch to love someone and want to share your whole selves with them. How could I know that those around me were gay, and yet still somehow live in a world where I believed they were ‘just friends with some extra sprinkles on top’? This is where those tangled threads that I mentioned at the beginning start to get more intertwined. I have always wondered to what extent my faith and Mennonite upbringing allowed me to have no questioning of those paradoxical beliefs. We are asked to hold ‘beliefs’ about things all the time that don’t necessarily hold up to factual evidence. Easter and Christmas—​t he two most celebrated events on the Christian calendar—​both start with a basic knowledge and adherence to events that may or may not be factually based. A certain amount of ‘suspension of belief’ is essential to our faith. If I can sing ‘Away in a Manger’ about a stable, etc., and yet in the back of my mind make a disconnect and know that I really don’t believe in a physical stable on that night …. Is it that much more of a stretch to factually ‘know’ that I have a desire to share relationships with women that is not necessarily typical, and yet not recognize that sexual fluidity within myself? Many share stories of knowing that they were gay from a very young age and having to struggle to hide it. I feel like my story is the complete opposite. Years before I came to the awareness that I was gay myself, I had an experience that I will never forget. A friend and I were having a talk late one night, when something came to me in such a profound way. The image I had is of being struck diagonally down through my body with a lightning bolt of awareness. A physical vision and experience of light. Something so powerful, yet so confusing at the time. That awareness was that somehow—​and I had not the faintest idea how—​the idea of spirituality and sexuality were connected for me in a powerful way. Saying that now, it still sounds wacky! Spirituality and sexuality? I had definitely been on a huge spiritual growth curve at that point in my life, and I felt that the Divine was breaking me open more and more every day. But to connect it with sexuality made no sense to me. I was a young mom, married to my husband whom I had been with since the age of 19. What does spirituality and sexuality have to do with me? Now, years later, my understanding of the link between living fully authentic within my own sense of sexuality and how that relates to my understanding of the Divine in all of our lives is profound. The fullness of my spirituality can find its expression in part from the fullness of my sexuality—​and that link is magical. When we can live fully as ourselves, in whatever way that presents itself, the Divine can fully shine through. This is one of the most powerful experiences of the Divine that I can imagine having.

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‘Coming out’ is really a misnomer for the experience I have gone through. It really has felt more like ‘coming in’ to the wholeness of who I am. It is undeniable that coming out/​into the authenticness of my sexuality has ushered me into a fuller sense of the Divine along with it. I wish I could fully express how that can be. From the outside, it may appear that seeing me step away from the church and away from my heterosexual marriage as naturally meaning that I am stepping away from god. Nothing could be farther from the truth. God has become more real and more alive for me through all of this. And continues to live and breathe that way in me. How could it be that the moment that I distanced myself from my faith community and that those relationships changed, was the same moment that I became more aware of the desire to share this incredible and profound spiritual shift in my life? It has been through the messiness of my journey in which my faith has deepened and widened. The rule-​following Mennonite girl that felt that faith meant having to live a life of perfection and doing what was ‘right’ had no clue that she would only catch the tiniest glimpse of the Divine’s shining glory through that safe life. It was through the messiness—​of divorces, relationship breakups, my coming out—​that god could finally shine her/​his/​ their brightest. It is when things break apart into pieces that we would never choose that the Divine can start their work. I remember when I was going through my initial separation. I thought a lot about my marriage vows. The vows that we had both made to each other 16 years earlier. I still believe, to this day, that I entered into my marriage with full intent and passion to take on those vows for life. I know that both of us were god-​led to be standing at that point together. So how can it be that 16 years later, I would feel strongly-​in-​my-​gut god-​led to be leaving that same relationship towards a relationship with another? The truth was, I felt even more god-​led to take this next step of my journey than I did the first time when I was marrying at the age of 24. Was I making a ‘convenient excuse’ for myself, or was god really leading me on this path away from my marriage to my husband into the next step of my journey with a woman? Almost a decade later, my whole being can fully say, with a resounding ‘yes’—​god has led me on this path. What does it say about a god that leads us purposely into messiness? Leads us purposely away from one sacred union into another. I understand that some (many?) may not believe this when I say it, but I have come to know a god who has the strongest desire of wholeness for us. The fact that wish for wholeness for us would supersede any systems of

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marriage/​relationships that have been human designed should not be a surprise. It may, I would even argue, be a cause for celebration and increased faith. A god that cares for us and supports us with a desire to help us live into the fullness of the whole beings that we have been created to become will stop at nothing to help us achieve that once we open ourselves to the possibility of that reality. Does that not deserve a ‘hallelujah’? It is scary to open ourselves to those types of possibilities. That god’s wish for wholeness for us is purely possible, and that along with that may come systems in our life that need to fall away for that to happen. And yet—​ and yet—​I believe fully in the ripple effects of goodness. That when we all live from a place of authenticity and truth—​however that looks, because it is different for everyone—​t hat it is guaranteed to have ripple effects of good. That does not mean that things will be easy in any way. However, it is apparent to me time and time again that when parts of life shift away from us, it is always for our highest good to make room for the next phase of our fulfillment to be ushered in. To me, that is the ‘good news’! God is always creating, just as we are always being invited to create! How does my life in the arts play into this? All of life is an act of creation, whether we believe that to be true or not. There are those who are happy to be bystanders and an audience to that which has been created. And that is great. We need those people. But there are also those that are not content to stand by and merely eat the fruits that are hanging in front of them. We want to test, break apart, examine, savor, taste, submerge and give birth to the wonders of magic that is around us all the time. We want to create. We want to join in the forces of the Divine that is at work in the world and pass ourselves along in the process knowing that others have passed themselves along to us so that we can come to the awareness that we have today. ‘Pregnant with the Promise of God-​K nows-​W hat’ is a phrase that came to me years ago during a meditation. That is a phrase of creation that I have held on to. God lives and breathes through creation. It is not a static entity, but a growing awareness of the larger things at play. We must insist on allowing those strands to seep through and become what they were put upon this earth to become. Our human existence is powerful. And divine. We cannot lose sight of that. Our humility serves no purpose if it keeps us from creation. I believe the Divine delights in that along with us and wants to become a part of that. The offer is extended, and through the invitation we will be stretched, changed, and provided with the opportunity to live into our wholeness in ways that are too magnanimous for us to imagine.

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The River of Life flows towards the good. Following that flow in my life has never steered me wrong. It has led me down some dark paths and through some painful and murky waters—​but it has never left me without glimpses of beauty along the way. We need to have the courage to embrace and believe in a life that wants the best for us, and trust in its current.

Chapter 17  Mennonite Literature’s Queer Decolonial Anabaptist Vision Daniel Shank C ruz

As a student at Goshen College two decades ago, I was obsessed with Harold S. Bender. My obsession began when Julia Spicher Kasdorf gave a lecture about Bender and Marilyn Monroe at Goshen my second semester. I remember the experience vividly. It took place in Newcomer Center 17, where I had many of my Bible and Religion classes, and all of the Goshen heavyweights were there—​J. Lawrence Burkholder, J. R. Burkholder, Theron Schlabach—​ which impressed me. I went to the lecture because I was a fan of Kasdorf’s poetry, having first encountered it at a reading she gave when I was a senior at Lancaster Mennonite High School. To the best of my recollection, I did not know who Bender was at the time; I might have heard his name (it was Goshen, after all), but had no idea what an enormous impact he had made on institutional Mennonitism. Kasdorf’s lecture electrified me because it was unlike anything I had encountered before. The hybridity of it enthralled me. It was part memoir, part church history, part feminist theory. I wanted to own it so I could reread it whenever I desired, but it was not in print yet,1 so I settled for buying a copy of Albert N. Keim’s new biography of Bender, which the Mennonite Historical Society was selling at the event, as a memento of the evening instead. 1

It is included as “Marilyn, H.S. Bender, and Me” in Julia Spicher Kasdorf, The Body and the Book: Writing from a Mennonite Life (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 121–​4 2. Pennsylvania State University Press reprinted the book in 2009, and the essay’s page numbers are the same in that edition. I choose to cite the older, scarcer Johns Hopkins edition for nostalgia’s sake because it is the one I eagerly devoured in college as soon as it came out my senior year.

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After I read Keim’s book, Bender became my idol. I was planning a career as a pastor and found a model to emulate in Bender. I was drawn to what poet Jeff Gundy calls Bender’s style “of autocratic servanthood.”2 Bender felt called to orchestrate the running of various church institutions so that they and the broader Mennonite community would survive in an increasingly secular world. He used his leadership gifts in service to the community. I wanted to be another Bender in terms of becoming a prominent churchman, and his thought loomed large in my own. I sometimes wore a plain suit to church, and I dedicated the chapbook of essays on Mennonite identity that I edited my senior year “to the enduring memory of Harold S. Bender (1897–​1962) and his Vision.”3 Midway through college, partly as a joke but mostly not, I decided to attempt to cite The Anabaptist Vision (TAV) in all of my papers plausibly. I was not successful in this endeavor but did manage to fit it in some places that probably surprised my professors and would have surprised Bender too. I got off to a good start in my churchman career. I completed an enjoyable summer internship at College Mennonite Church in Goshen that included worship leading, preaching, and lots of reading about church leadership, including the 1957 festschrift for Bender, TRAV. I also had my first taste of service at the denominational level when I became part of the Nashville 2001 Mennonite General Assembly planning committee. Observing my zeal for church work, one of my English professors predicted that I would become the president of Mennonite World Conference. However, alongside Bender, feminist theology was the other major influence on my thinking during my Goshen years as a result of a Feminist Theology course I took the beginning of my sophomore year, and it won out. The theologians I read in the course, such as Phyllis Trible, Rosemary Radford Ruether, and Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, were the first voices I encountered that questioned Christianity from a place within it. It took me a while to take their critiques seriously, but in my senior year, after taking another feminist theology course, Spiritual Writings of Women, I decided that I could no longer consider myself a Christian because of the church’s misogyny. I stopped wanting to work in the church and looked for a new direction, ultimately going to graduate school for a PhD in English rather than the MDiv I had planned on. 2 Jeff Gundy, Walker in the Fog: On Mennonite Writing (Telford, PA: Cascadia Publishing House, 2005), 267. Similarly, Kasdorf calls Bender “the benevolent commander-​in-​chief” in “Marilyn, H.S. Bender, and Me,” 122. 3 Daniel Shank Cruz, ed., How Julia Kasdorf Changed My Life: Reflections on Mennonite Identity (Goshen, IN: Pinchpenny Press, 2001), 5.

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Although I no longer want to be him and can now see how his model of leadership was sometimes coercive, like Kasdorf, I remain fascinated with Bender.4 He is a founding figure in the Mennonite academic tradition of which I am a part. Keim explains that Bender “sensed an opportunity … to establish a new definition of Anabaptism” with TAV. Bender’s essay gave the Mennonite community “a new self-​definition of who they were.”5 This new story functioned as a manifesto of Mennonite values that offered a standpoint from which to relate to the world. Bender’s germinal storytelling efforts began with his large role in founding Goshen College’s Mennonite Historical Library and the oldest Mennonite studies journal, MQR, continued with TAV, and culminated in his editorship of the first four volumes of The Mennonite Encyclopedia, which appeared in the last decade of his life between 1955 and 1959 (the final volume appeared in 1990). All of these efforts represent his insistence on preserving the Mennonite story in such a way that it became usable for Mennonite studies and the Mennonite community as a whole. But Bender also believed that this story had use for the world and that some interaction with the world was necessary in order to propagate it. Recall that the first audience for TAV was a non-​Mennonite group, the American Society of Church History. The spirit of his storytelling act remains relevant even though later scholars have correctly critiqued his oversimplified narrative of Anabaptism’s origins, which is now so out of fashion that the title of a 2020 volume, Recovering from the Anabaptist Vision, makes it sound like a disease.6 Just as TAV ’s first audience was non-​Mennonites, Bender wrote in a letter that he was not “interested in conserving Mennonitism for Mennonites,” but that its messages could benefit others. This is a view he held throughout his professional life.7 Mennonite writers now write with this same assumption, 4 5

Kasdorf, “Marilyn, H.S. Bender, and Me,” 121. Albert N. Keim, Harold S. Bender, 1897–​1962 (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1998), 314, 327. 6 See Laura Schmidt Roberts, Paul Martens, and Myron A. Penner, eds., Recovering from the Anabaptist Vision: New Essays in Anabaptist Identity and Theological Method (London: T&T Clark, 2020). The classic critique of Bender’s version of Anabaptist history is James M. Stayer, Werner O. Packull, and Klaus Deppermann, “From Monogenesis to Polygenesis: The Historical Discussion of Anabaptist Origins,” MQR 49, no. 2 (1975): 83–​121. A more recent intervention in the debate is C. Arnold Snyder, “The Birth and Evolution of Swiss Anabaptism (1520–​1530),” MQR 80, no. 4 (2006): 501–​6 45. A recent examination of how Bender’s theology led the field of Mennonite theology astray is Paul Martens, “How Mennonite Theology Became Superfluous in Three Easy Steps: Bender, Yoder, Weaver,” JMS 33 (2015): 149–​66. 7 Keim, Harold S. Bender, 134, 345.

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focusing on a broader audience than Mennonites themselves. Bender’s optimistic attitude has informed the outlook of my scholarly work since college. Although I was attracted to his theological vision in college, I remain fascinated with him because of his storytelling. Therefore, I have started this essay for a collection about Anabaptist8 vitality in the twenty-​fi rst century with Bender because of how he modeled such writing with TAV and because his example of living a life in service to the community sticks with me. I think of my writing as a service to the Mennonite community, as answering a kind of call, even though I am now outside of Mennonite theology’s boundaries. As a queer Latinx scholar of queer theory and Mennonite literature who wants the Mennonite community to be more inclusive of voices that aren’t straight, male, and white so that I and others currently excluded by it can feel safe there, I wonder how we can queer efforts like TAV. How can we decolonize them? The early Anabaptists were radical heretics, so how can we recapture this vision? I offer some possible answers to these questions by looking at how a sampling of Mennonite literature wrestles with them in order to articulate my vision for Anabaptism as it enters the third decade of the twenty-​fi rst century. This turn to literature is not a new idea, although it remains necessary. John L. Ruth called for Mennonites to embrace the arts as a corrective to our refusal to engage the wider world in a 1964 sermon.9 Writers continue to echo this idea. For instance, Di Brandt argues that theological Mennonitism needs to incorporate Mennonite literature to regain its health. Anita Hooley Yoder concurs, asserting that poetry’s ethical outlook “is a crucial element in the quest for peace, inside and outside of our churches.”10 This is certainly the case when considering how diseased institutionalized Mennonitism continues to be in its treatment of people who aren’t straight white men. Literature 8 I use this term because it is the one in this volume’s title, but I admit that I prefer the perhaps less pure, perhaps more worldly term Mennonite. I agree with Theron Schlabach’s wry criticism of how Mennonites use “Anabaptism/​A nabaptist” as a way of papering over institutional Mennonitism’s flaws: “Whate’er we construe, to be good and true, we name the word Anabaptist.” Quoted in Donald B. Kraybill, Eastern Mennonite University: A Century of Countercultural Education (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2017), 326. 9 John L. Ruth, “Revolution and Reverence,” 1964, in From the Mennonite Pulpit: Twenty-​ Six Sermons from Mennonite Ministers, ed. Paul Erb (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1965), 182–​83, 186–​87. 10 Di Brandt, “Paradigms of Re:placement, Re:location, and Re:vision: The Creative Challenge of the New Mennonite Writing of Manitoba (and the World),” JMS 36 (2018): 167; Anita Hooley Yoder, “I’ve Read Too Much Poetry for That: Poetry, Personal Transformation, and Peace,” CrossCurrents 64, no. 4 (2014): 454.

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can be a sideways path toward a healthier community as an alternative to faulty theological efforts. As I show below, this path is a queer one politically (i.e., in the way queer theory often uses the term) in its visions of a radically new society, and sometimes sexually in its affirmation of all sexualities.11 A number of Mennonite writers have recently entered into theological discourse by conversing with the field of theopoetics, stretching its boundaries away from its original task of examining theology as poetry to examine literature theologically.12 In a dinner conversation at a gathering of Mennonite writers at Laurelville Mennonite Camp on 9 June 2018, Britt Kaufmann asserted that the movement from “theopoetics” to “theapoetics” is necessary. Her call for an emphasis on the feminist aspects of the Divine through the use of “thea” (“goddess”) liberates the field from patriarchal language and moves it away from the often-​elitist realm of academic discourse into the broader public sphere that includes space for those both inside and outside the academy. I thus choose to use it because patriarchal religion also oppresses queer men such as myself. None of us at the table had encountered the term before, and this conversation is where I heard it first. However, Molly Remer writes about it in a 2015 book, sharing Kaufmann’s feminist viewpoint to define it as “experiencing the Goddess through direct ‘revelation,’ framed in language.” She also writes that theapoetics views “lived experiences as legitimate sources of direct, or divine, revelation.”13 In other words, theapoetics names 11 Although “queer’s” ideological advocacy of openness makes attempts to define it somewhat paradoxical, note that I use it in at least three ways that queer theory uses it. The first is as an adjective to describe someone (or writing that describes someone) who is LGBTQ2IA+​. The second is as an adjective to describe a political stance that calls for radical societal change in all areas, not just sexuality. The third is as a verb to refer to the action of reinvestigating the foundations of something for the purpose of working toward this radical change. This essay is a queer one, but it does not focus specifically on sexually queer Mennonite literature, which I write about at length elsewhere. See, for instance, Daniel Shank Cruz, “A Brief History and Bibliography of Queer Mennonite Literature,” JMW 10, no. 3 (2018). https://​menno​n ite​w rit​ing. org/​jour​nal/​10/​3/​brief-​h ist​ory-​a nd-​bibli​ogra​phy-​queer-​mennon​ite-​l it/​#all, and Queering Mennonite Literature: Archives, Activism, and the Search for Community (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2019). 12 For instance, see Scott Holland, “Theopoetics is the Rage,” CGR 31, no. 2 (2013): 121–​29; Jean Janzen, “Nine Streams Towards the River of Theopoetics: An Autobiographical Approach,” CGR 31, no. 2 (2013): 143–​47; Jeff Gundy, Songs from an Empty Cage: Poetry, Mystery, Anabaptism, and Peace (Telford, PA: Cascadia Publishing House, 2013); and Anita Hooley Yoder, “I’ve Read Too Much Poetry for That” and “Know Your Place: Writing as Identity,” JMW 11, no. 2 (2019), https://​ menno​n ite​w rit​ing.org/​jour​nal/​11/​2/​k now-​your-​place-​w rit​ing-​ident​ity/​#all. 13 Molly Remer, Earthprayer, Birthprayer, Lifeprayer, Womanprayer (N.P.: CreateSpace, 2015), 8.

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experience as eligible material for theology in the same way that Kasdorf uses it in her essay and I use it here. I find the term theapoetics helpful because it decenters patriarchy and because it looks at theological discourse slantwise. Traditional God language does not work for me (nor, for that matter, does Remer’s “Goddess” language, though it gets closer to what I am looking for), but theapoetics’s model of viewing personal experiences as something more than just having to do with oneself does. Remer also writes that “My thealogy is the earthy, the mundane, the practical,” things that Hooley Yoder calls “the poetry of life.”14 Although she happens to be writing from a spiritual framework, this is a philosophy that works in the secular realm. Remer cites Elizabeth Fisher’s claim “ ‘that the sacred and secular are one.’ ”15 This is an idea present in the queer tradition since at least Walt Whitman’s 1855 poetry collection Leaves of Grass. Writing about Whitman from a secular viewpoint, Mark Doty echoes Remer’s religious language to name writers’ call, avowing that “artists need to live as if revelation is never finished.”16 So theapoetics is one way to queer theopoetics by doing secular theopoetic work, which becomes theapoetic work. My essay is a theapoetic effort that is inspired by the boldness of Bender’s Vision and Kasdorf’s essay. Kasdorf states in her discussion of the foundational text of North American Mennonite literature, Rudy Wiebe’s 1962 novel Peace Shall Destroy Many, that one reason the novel made such an impact is that it “show[ed] that a writer of imaginative literature—​not a church historian or sociologist or theologian—​could also articulate Mennonite identity.”17 We need many literary voices to do this because more perspectives than the straight white male one of which Wiebe is an example are necessary. The availability of these voices in current Mennonite literature helps to illustrate why TAV is no longer especially useful. Bender’s manifesto argues that 14 Remer, Earthprayer, 13, their emphasis; Hooley Yoder, “I’ve Read Too Much Poetry for That,” 462. 15 Remer, Earthprayer, 82. 16 Mark Doty, What is the Grass: Walt Whitman in My Life (New York: W.W. Norton, 2020), 31. 17 Kasdorf, “Marilyn, H.S. Bender, and Me,” 138. The roles Kasdorf contrasts with writers correspond to the roles played by Goshen’s mid-​century “Holy Trinity,” a nickname inspired by their first and middle initials: Harold S. “Holy Spirit” Bender, Guy F. “God the Father” Hershberger, and John C. “Jesus Christ” Wenger, respectively. Kasdorf discusses the problems with assuming any one piece of Mennonite literature gives a complete picture of Mennonite identity in “The Autoethnographic Announcement and the Story,” in After Identity: Mennonite Writing in North America, ed. Robert Zacharias (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2015), 21–​36.

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the only way to be a good Mennonite (and by extension a good Christian) is to practice “discipleship,” “nonconformity,” and an “ethic of love and nonresistance.”18 In contrast, Mennonite literature shows that there are multiple paths to the Divine. Gundy’s concept of “Bad Mennonites” illuminates this reality. Gundy defines the rebels he defends, whose values the work of writers such as Kasdorf, Grace Jantzen, and Sofia Samatar exemplifies, as Mennonites that “may fail to meet the expectations of those who think they know just what it takes to be a Good Mennonite, but their work helps to define and imagine the sort of Mennonites that I believe we need in the world.”19 Whereas Bender epitomized a Good Mennonite and his churchwork attempted to build a strict, impermeable boundary between Good and Bad Mennonites, Gundy argues that Bad Mennonites are necessary for the health of the Mennonite community. Just as Gundy chooses to look to women writers for inspiration, I also focus on literature by women for two reasons. First, to write queerly in the political sense is to write from an intersectional perspective that is feminist and anti-​racist.20 Second, as I argue elsewhere, Mennonite misogyny remains rampant in North America, so it is time for men to take a back seat and for the community to turn to women’s ideas.21 Although I write as a man, I hope readers will take my suggestion to look to women’s and nonbinary folx’s22 voices as the place where a roadmap for change can be found. Janet Kauffman’s fiction is a good starting point for queer Mennonite thinking. Kauffman was the first Mennonite writer from the U.S. to achieve success in the broader literary community, with her books finding homes at prestigious publishers: Alfred A. Knopf published her short story collections Places in the World a Woman Could Walk and Obscene Gestures for Women and her novel Collaborators, and Graywolf Press published her story

18 Harold S. Bender, TAV (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1944), 20, 27, 31. 19 Jeff Gundy, “Bad Mennonites, Raspberry Migrations, and Usable Narratives: Grace Jantzen, Julia Kasdorf, and Sofia Samatar,” MQR 92, no. 3 (2018): 423. 20 One excellent recent example of the feminist/​queer/​people of color intersection in queer theory is Sara Ahmed’s Living a Feminist Life (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017). Susanne Guenther Loewen examines some commonalities between feminist and Mennonite thought in “Living Out the Trinity: A Mennonite-​Feminist Theology of Diversity and Community,” CGR 37, no. 2 (2019): 183–​84. 21 Daniel Shank Cruz, Review of Women Talking, by Miriam Toews, MQR 93, no. 3 (2019): 430. 22 In the queer community, “folx” is preferred to “folks” because the “x” highlights the inclusion of people of color because of its resonance with terms such as “Latinx” and “Chicanx,” which use the x to be gender inclusive.

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collection Characters on the Loose and her novel The Body in Four Parts.23 Both Mennonite and non-​Mennonite literary critics published essays on her work in the 1990s.24 Unfortunately, her work has fallen off the radar in the last 20 years. It is worth reexamining because of how contemporary it seems now. For instance, The Body in Four Parts portrays topics that have become important subjects in queer theory such as gender fluidity, interspecies interactions, and sexual pleasure through a feminist lens. The novel is queer-​as-​in-​ weird in general because its events are so hard to pin down. It is about four adult siblings, but very little of it is straightforward—​t here isn’t really a plot—​ which give the queer-​as-​in-​sexually-​and-​politically bits equal weight with everything else as the novel focuses on playing with language. It acknowledges its abstractness and the fallibility of language in general. The narrator, who is the book’s main character in that she is present for all of its action, but who remains mysterious throughout because she is unnamed and the book gives no details about her other than her relationship to her siblings, observes “words in the air, what are they? Words in the air! Suspended things, like stars … they’re outdated, old when the light reaches us, some of them already long gone” (110). The novel’s resulting lack of solidity makes it feel like a long prose poem. It queers genre. The Body in Four Parts’s treatment of gender mirrors its genre fluidity. The book frequently questions the gender of certain characters. These passages do not take up much space. They are tiny little openings for queerness that are not highlighted by the text but are there haunting it. For instance, a non-​sibling character, Joseph, claims to have been reincarnated many times and says that he can remember some of his previous lives, including as a woman (56). Although he has apparently always been a man in his present incarnation, his memories of his multiple selves dissolve the boundaries of his 23 Janet Kauffman, Places in the World a Woman Could Walk: Stories (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1983), Obscene Gestures for Women: Stories (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1989), Collaborators (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1986), Characters on the Loose: Stories (St. Paul: Graywolf Press, 1997), and The Body in Four Parts (St. Paul: Graywolf Press, 1993). Further references to this novel are given in the text. 24 Mennonite examples include Todd Davis, “Laboring through The Weather Book: The Value of Work in the Poetry of Janet Kauffman,” MQR 72, no. 4 (1998): 639–​48; and Jessica W. Lapp, “Embodied Voices, Imprisoned Bodies: Women and Words in Janet Kauffman’s Collaborators,” MQR 72, no. 4 (1998): 615–​24. Non-​Mennonite examples include Joyce Hinnefeld, “For the Collaborators (Thoughts on Narrative, on the Works of Janet Kauffman, on I and She, on Autobiography, on Suicide or Not),” Denver Quarterly 31, no. 2 (1996): 70–​78; and Amy Hollywood, “On the Materiality of Air: Janet Kauffman’s Bodyfictions,” New Literary History 27, no. 3 (1996): 503–​25.

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corporeal body, queering it. One of the siblings, Jean-​Paul, also has a gender that won’t stand still. Four-​fi fths of the way through the novel, the narrator directly addresses readers about this issue, telling us that we ask, “Is he [Jean-​ Paul] a man?” This is “A good question. How can he be, as he is, housed in a body with girl breasts and woman-​hard heart” (99–​100). Regardless of the use of “he,” the narrator’s answer implies that Jean-​Paul is queer in some way, whether he is intersex, or trans, or nonbinary, or some other term that he chooses not to give us. Part of the lack of plot is that the characters hardly get described, so we do not get a sense of what they might look like, whereas in most other novels the fact that someone named Jean-​Paul has female breasts would be stated early on as an important characteristic. The novel’s lack of physical description means that its hints at queerness are left to stand without further information in one direction or another. Jean-​Paul, who is somehow listening to the conversation between readers and the narrator, dismisses our question, saying “mine is the body you dare not interrogate, dare not, without invitation, touch, and what you don’t touch, sweetheart, you don’t know anything about” (100), reinforcing the novel’s opacity while at the same time asserting that knowledge begins in the body, a queer notion. The narrator then says that Jean-​Paul does have a “penis, balls,” and further complicates things by noting that he is not a native English speaker (although his siblings apparently are, or at least do not have his difficulties with English), so what he says about himself is ambiguous and we cannot trust it (100). Again, we are left with language’s fallibility. This fallibility may induce feelings of helplessness in some readers, but from a queer perspective it indicates an openness that offers space for radical change to occur. The Body in Four Parts pushes the fluidity of its gender portrayals even further by giving some of its characters other-​than-​human attributes. The narrator tells us that her sister Dorothea is “a fluid thing” who may not be human, and that “She had this swamp heritage, I suppose. She was a metamorphoser,” implying that Dorothea might be a mermaid or some other hybrid water creature (3–​4). One way queer theory interrogates societal norms is by conversing with the field of animal studies to question traditional models of human relationship with other species, arguing for a kind of equality that recognizes the benefits of cooperative relationships between humans and other animals.25 Viewed through this lens, Dorothea’s mermaidishness does not make her monstrous, lower than human, but makes her an exemplar of queer 25 Donovan O. Schaefer’s Religious Affects: Animality, Evolution, and Power (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2015) is one work that does this from a religious perspective.

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hybridity, as she is able to inhabit the human realm on land and the piscine realm in water. Indeed, she has superheroic qualities that invite comparisons to Aquaman, as she is able to traverse even the smallest waterways with great speed, apparently by shapeshifting. Although the novel does not spend time analyzing Dorothea’s hybridity, it is significant that the narrator names her aquatic characteristics on the first two pages because it alerts readers to the importance of queer themes throughout the book. We immediately see that we are reading an unconventional story. The novel also blurs the human boundaries of two other siblings, Jack and Jean-​Paul. Jack is similar to another superhero, the Invisible Woman, in that he “is invisible, entirely, he’s nothing but air” (100). Similarly, Jean-​Paul resembles another member of the Fantastic Four, the Human Torch, because his hair is literally “fire” (114, 118). The brothers are hybrids like Dorothea, reminding readers that humans do not exist in a species vacuum. Although each sibling represents one of the basic elements (the “four parts” of the title; the narrator is earth), and thus readers might be tempted to read the descriptions of Dorothea, Jack, and Jean-​Paul as metaphorical, they are described mimetically, so readers are supposed to understand them as being possible within the novel’s world. The Body in Four Parts’s third queer theme is much more concrete than the first two. Its portrayals of sexual pleasure encompass its human and other-​than-​human characters as well as queer and straight sex. The narrator introduces the most significant non-​ sibling character, a fishmonger named Margaretta, early on in the book as a sexual guru for the community. Margaretta “improve[s]‌” the town’s “lovemaking” just by talking with her customers (8). Her own sex life includes partners of multiple genders, and the narrator describes her admiringly as “wholly sexual” because she acknowledges her body, unlike most people (35–​36). Within the queer context of the novel, this is not an essentialist description that reduces her to a sexual object. Instead, it celebrates how she embraces her sexuality as a healthy part of life, refusing patriarchal notions of sexual propriety. There is also a sex scene in a short story by Dorothea (24–​26). This scene is made extra noticeable because of how it is printed. Rather than being set in type, it is handwritten, which is another way the novel plays with genre expectations. Although the scene is between a woman and a man, it takes place in the belly of a whale, so it also replicates the queer human-​animal hybridity Dorothea herself epitomizes and references other queer narratives that also play with genre, such as Moby-​Dick. The sexual elements of The Body in Four Parts might not seem remarkable now, but Kauffman was only the second Mennonite fiction writer to write frankly about sex, and the first to

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do so successfully, as Rudy Wiebe’s 1983 attempt My Lovely Enemy received legendarily poor reviews (The novel did so poorly that it was not reprinted in paperback until 2009 and is now back out of print.) They therefore represent an important touchstone in the genesis of the queer Mennonite writing that has flourished over the past decade or so. They exemplify Remer’s theapoetic “lived experiences as legitimate sources of direct, or divine, revelation,” asking Mennonites to think queerly about gender and sexuality. One way the queer lineage spawned by The Body in Four Parts currently manifests itself in Mennonite literature is in the queer genre of speculative fiction. Queer literary theorist Sami Schalk defines speculative fiction as “any creative writing in which the rules of reality do not fully apply, including magical realism, utopian and dystopian literature, fantasy, science fiction, voodoo, ghost stories, and hybrid genres.”26 Her inclusion of spiritual practices in her list is important because it highlights how theological thinking is speculative in the way that speculative fiction is: it hopes for a better future. In this light, it is beneficial to examine speculative fiction through a theapoetic lens. Samatar, the most influential Mennonite speculative fiction writer from the U.S., argues that “speculative fiction[…is] writing queerly” because “it is the genre of change, of expansion.”27 In other words, even though speculative fiction often takes place in other worlds and is always in some way “unrealistic,” just like queer theory it has a vision that is directly related to the real world because it believes the real world can be better. This is also an Anabaptist ideal. When the first Anabaptists gathered to rebaptize each other in 1525 they did so because they believed it was possible to change society. The same kind of hope is present in The Body in Four Parts, which is speculative fiction because of its other-​than-​human characters and its queering of genre. I share this hope like Bender did 75 years ago. Speculative fiction’s queer envisioning of a new society is especially relevant during a time of pandemic. Although much dystopian speculative fiction works to warn readers what actions are necessary to prevent such dystopias from happening and thus might not feel relevant to this time when the dystopia has come (at least in my U.S. context), Samatar’s short story “Honey Bear” offers a model for how to live in a dystopia in a way that tries to build a better society out of the rubble one action at a time. The story takes place

26 Sami Schalk, Bodyminds Reimagined: (Dis)ability, Race, and Gender in Black Women’s Speculative Fiction (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2018), 17. 27 Sofia Samatar, “Writing Queerly: Three Snapshots,” Uncanny: A Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy, 2015, http://​u nca​n nym​agaz​ine.com/​a rti​cle/​w rit​ing-​quee​rly-​ three-​snapsh​ots/​.

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after the “Fair Folk”28 invade Earth and create a situation with many similarities to the one in which I write in May 2020. For instance, there is no air travel anymore (63), and the Fair Folk’s waste is poisonous in ways that are not fully understood (58), so there is always a fear of contact with them, and humans who live with them are social outcasts who government agents must interact with while wearing masks and hazmat suits (57, 65–​66). Like The Body in Four Parts, “Honey Bear” investigates human hybridity with other species. The Fair Folk invade because “They don’t seem able to raise their own children” and thus need other species to do so (67). For most of the story Honey Bear appears to be a human child, but readers find out she is not when she nurses by biting her human mother’s armpit “with her teeth [while…] her longer, hollow teeth come down and sink in” like a vampire’s (67). Honey Bear’s mother makes a free choice to parent a Fair Folk child despite this painful feeding process and the “decrease in life expectancy” that it entails (62). Her mothering is a disability, but she accepts this change in her body in order to save Honey Bear, rejecting ableism’s deification of long life and becoming a futuristic Anabaptist martyr.29 The story uses her decision and her consistently positive outlook to teach an ethic of care for the Other. The full societal effects of the coronavirus pandemic remain unseen and may cause some kind of societal collapse. But “Honey Bear” reminds us that our treatment of others still makes a difference. This ethic of care is one that institutional Mennonitism can learn from in its treatment of those who are sexually queer and ethnically or bodily Other. Samatar’s 2017 essay “The Scope of This Project” is an essential theapoetic companion to her queer speculative ethics because it shows how Mennonite literary studies can make these ethics decolonial as well. It is an example of Mennonite literary thinking that has relevance for the broader Mennonite community. “The Scope of This Project” develops the concept of “postcolonial Mennonite literature,” which “means work by Mennonite writers of the postcolony. It means work by writers from Asia, Africa, and

28 The story describes the Fair Folk as “fifteen, twenty feet tall” with wings, and says that “they came here” from some unnamed place. Sofia Samatar, “Honey Bear,” in Tender: Stories (Easthampton, MA: Small Beer Press, 2017), 62, 67; further references to this story are given in the text. Therefore, although the story does not explicitly say that they are aliens it is fair to assume that they are something different than the “fair folk” of various fairy tales: fairies, sprites, pixies, and the like. I thank Geraldine Long for a conversation on 10 December 2019 that helped me to articulate this distinction. 29 On disability in Mennonite literature, see Cruz, Queering Mennonite Literature, 65–​71, 89–​90, 94–​95.

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Latin America. It means the literary production of those regions where the Mennonite church is largest. It means the writing of the majority. It also means the work of minority writers in North America, of black, Latinx, and indigenous Mennonites, whom I include in the postcolony, not only because they are marginalized members of settler states but because, historically, they came to the Mennonite community through a process of missionary outreach. Only a constellation of all of these writers would allow us to speak of global Mennonite literature.”30 The essay is ripe for exploration by theologians and literary critics alike. Its emphasis on the global Mennonite community rather than North America is one that North American Mennonites should take heed of because learning to think decolonially would help eradicate this group’s racism. Theologians can especially learn from the above passage because it works just as well with the words “theologians” and “theology” substituted for “writers” and “literature.” Theapoetics reminds us that theologians are themselves writers because theology is a kind of writing,31 so Samatar’s essay asserts itself into Mennonite theological discourse. It does so explicitly by naming “hymns” (by which Samatar means songs sung in church, not more narrowly the genre found in books such as The Mennonite Hymnal)32 as a starting point for the study of postcolonial Mennonite literature because all Mennonite communities use them.33 Hymns epitomize theapoetry because of their literature-​ music hybridity. “The Scope of This Project” is an example of successful 30 Sofia Samatar, “The Scope of This Project,” JMW 9, no. 2 (2017): https://​menno​ nite​w rit​ing.org/​jour​nal/​9/​2/​scope-​proj​ect/​#all, section 1. Some scholars differentiate between the terms “postcolonial,” which names the state of things after the end of political colonization, and the currently in vogue “decolonial,” which puts more emphasis on undoing the effects of colonization rather than rising above them. I view Samatar’s usage of “postcolonial” as basically synonymous with “decolonial,” which was barely in use at her time of writing, and thus treat them as such in my discussion of her essay. 31 My phrasing here is inspired by the title of Peter Dula’s essay, “Theology is a Kind of Reading,” CGR 31, no. 2 (2013): 113–​20. 32 The Mennonite Hymnal (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1969). 33 Samatar, “The Scope of This Project,” section 3. Although neither cites Samatar, Melanie Kampen calls for the decolonization of Mennonite theology in “On the Need for Critical-​Contextual and Trauma-​I nformed Methods in Mennonite Theology,” in Recovering from the Anabaptist Vision: New Essays in Anabaptist Identity and Theological Method, ed. Laura Schmidt Roberts, Paul Martens, and Myron A. Penner (London: T&T Clark, 2020), 93–​102, and Karl Koop names hymns as shared ground for discussing theology historically and globally in “Contours and Possibilities for an Anabaptist Theology,” in Schmidt Roberts, Martens, and Penner, Recovering from the Anabaptist Vision, 22, 25.

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queer decolonial thinking because it offers a clear path for making both Mennonite studies and the Mennonite community as a whole more inclusive. We just need to take it. Among the many Mennonite speculative fiction writers,34 Casey Plett joins Samatar as the most prominent.35 Plett’s short story “Portland, Oregon” is speculative because it is about a talking cat, but I write here about the 2017 short story anthology Meanwhile, Elsewhere: Science Fiction and Fantasy from Transgender Writers, which Plett co-​edited with Cat Fitzpatrick, and which was a finalist in the 2018 Lambda Literary Awards anthology category and won the 2018 American Library Association Stonewall Prize for Literature.36 This success shows that the book was immediately recognized as an important queer text. It is an excellent example of a Mennonite writer interacting with the broader world by utilizing Mennonite principles such as concern for the community and the importance of archiving communal experiences, which are also queer values.37 Fitzpatrick and Plett hope that the anthology “redefin[es] what saving the world looks like” through its portrayals of “small pockets of knowledge, strength, and survival” that show “the heroic everydayness of real trans people’s lives” rather than engaging in traditional speculative fiction narratives about winning a war or saving the galaxy.38 Like “Honey Bear,” Meanwhile, Elsewhere propagates a theapoetic ethic based in day-​to-​day actions to show that radical change can start from the ground up. The anthology’s title also highlights the intersection of queer and Mennonite thinking that Mennonitism must pay more attention to. The emphasis on place and displacement in the phrase “meanwhile, elsewhere” names the other-​worldly speculative locales of some of the stories and indicates a sense of being on the margins and not fitting in with the world. In its trans context the title is meant as a queer one, and Plett’s involvement 34 There is a profusion of Mennonite speculative fiction. For a helpful introduction to the field, see “Speculative Fiction,” ed. Jeff Gundy, special issue, JMW 11, no. 1 (2019): https://​menno​n ite​w rit ​ing.org/​jour​nal/​11/​1/​. See also Cruz, Queering Mennonite Literature, 153n21, for a partial list of texts in the field. 35 Plett’s first two books, A Safe Girl to Love and Little Fish, each won the Lambda Literary Award for Transgender Fiction (in 2015 and 2019, respectively), and Little Fish also won the 2019 Amazon.ca First Novel Award, which came with a $60,000 prize. 36 Casey Plett, “Portland, Oregon,” in A Safe Girl to Love (New York: Topside Press, 2014), 93–​121; Cat Fitzpatrick and Casey Plett, eds., Meanwhile, Elsewhere: Science Fiction and Fantasy from Transgender Writers (New York: Topside Press, 2017). 37 Cruz, Queering Mennonite Literature, 18–​19, 25, 142n3. 38 Cat Fitzpatrick and Casey Plett, afterword to Meanwhile, Elsewhere: Science Fiction and Fantasy from Transgender Writers (New York: Topside Press, 2017), 440.

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makes it a Mennonite one as well. It brings to mind stories of displacement that are individual and communal at the same time, such as the immigrations of Russian Mennonites that Plett’s ancestors were a part of or the immigrations of Swiss Mennonites that Samatar’s ancestors were a part of. Meanwhile, Elsewhere shows that it is possible for Mennonites to interact with the world and experience “worldly” success without abandoning our values. Poetry is another genre where Mennonite writers do theapoetics. Willie Perdomo calls poetry “a decolonial practice” because of “its queerness, its nonbinary they, its sense of lineage, family, tradition.”39 These are Mennonite and queer traits. Like speculative fiction, poetry is a queer kind of writing. It is so because of how it takes other genres into itself—​the term “prose poem” is inherently queer because of its hybridity, for instance—​and because of the space it makes for politically queer thinking through “its strong activist traditions.”40 It is therefore a good place for the intersection of theapoetics, queerness, and decoloniality. The continued flowering of Mennonite poetry in recent years as a new generation has begun producing work examines the theapoetic elements of what Remer calls the “earthy,” “mundane,” “practical” parts of “lived experiences” by manifesting the ethics of care found in Samatar’s and Plett’s work. Hooley Yoder argues that poetry teaches this ethic because it allows readers to inhabit “someone else’s psyche and worldview and rich internal life,” putting us in their shoes and allowing us to sympathize with them.41 Even if we just read poetry for its aesthetic beauty, it makes us more humane. Becca J. R. Lachman is a notable member of the second generation of Mennonite poets.42 Aside from her own two collections, she has engaged in the bridge-​building act of anthologizing like Plett. Lachman’s 2013 A Ritual to Read Together: Poems in Conversation with William Stafford is an example of poetry’s queer archiving of “lineage” and “tradition” that Perdomo highlights.43 A Ritual to Read Together is an exemplary blending of the Mennonite 39 Willie Perdomo, “Breakbeat, Remezcla,” in The BreakBeat Poets Volume 4: LatiNext, ed. Felicia Rose Chavez, José Olivarez, and Willie Perdomo (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2020), 1, their emphasis. 40 Cruz, Queering Mennonite Literature, 141n82. Other hybrid poetry genres include documentary poetry, such as Julia Spicher Kasdorf and Steven Rubin’s Shale Play: Poems and Photographs from the Fracking Fields (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2018), and visual poetry, such as Shira Dentz’s Sisyphusina (N.P.: PANK Books, 2019). 41 Hooley Yoder, “I’ve Read Too Much Poetry for That,” 454. 42 On the distinction between the first and second generations of Mennonite writers, see Cruz, Queering Mennonite Literature, 141n83. 43 Becca J. R. Lachman, The Apple Speaks (Telford, PA: DreamSeeker Books, 2012), and Other Acreage (Boston: Gold Wake Press, 2015); Becca J. R. Lachman, ed.,

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and the worldly because it treats a Mennonite-​adjacent subject, Stafford, who was raised in the Church of the Brethren and was a life-​long pacifist, and it includes poems by six Mennonite writers alongside canonical44 writers such as Robert Bly, Naomi Shihab Nye, and Maxine Hong Kingston. As with Meanwhile, Elsewhere, Lachman’s title emphasizes a Mennonite theme, this time that of community rather than exile. Its inclusion of “ritual” names how the act of reading poetry includes a devotional element, creating a theapoetic cycle that documents everyday life, which brings one to the Divine, which gives one strength to live everyday life, and so on. Abigail Carl-​K lassen’s Shelter Management brings theapoetics into the explicitly activist realm through its portrayal of lives on the border, speaking to the world about injustice there on personal and systemic levels. The title poem portrays people talking at a homeless shelter in “El Paso, Texas,” complaining about the hypocritical Christians who serve there, “Sunday saints and Monday /​a’ints” [sic].45 The poem simultaneously calls for an ethic of care toward the Other and calls out the faith community for faking this ethic by condescending to those it serves, failing to see their full humanity. “State of Texas Homeless Day in Count Survey, El Paso, Texas, 2011 (the Unofficial Results)” portrays this humanity by cataloguing different homeless experiences in a Whitman-​esque, documentary fashion, like Whitman celebrating activities such as sex work as being no less worthy of acknowledgment than any other professional activity one might name.46 As in “Honey Bear,” the poem argues that humane actions remain meaningful in seemingly hopeless situations. “Mandated Reporter” depicts a woman who is “not legal here” being raped by a soldier from the U.S. The poem is decolonial in its call for a de-​militarization of the border on the U.S. side as part of an end to U.S. economic imperialism in Latin America in general. These three examples are representative of the rest of the collection’s politically queer concern for the Other and hope for a new society that recognizes those it portrays as human. A Ritual to Read Together: Poems in Conversation with William Stafford (Topeka, KS: Woodley Press, 2013). 44 I use the literary canon to represent “the world” here because what is more worldly than the mainstream success that the canon represents? As I have said, Mennonites prefer the margins. Even Mennonite writers whom scholars might include in the canon of Canadian literature such as Rudy Wiebe and Miriam Toews write from the perspective of the marginalized. 45 Abigail Carl-​K lassen, Shelter Management (Chicago: Dancing Girl Press, 2017), n.p. Shelter Management is unpaginated, therefore I will not give any further citations of it other than poem titles. It includes twenty poems, so it is easily navigable. 46 See section 15 of “Song of Myself,” in Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (1855; New York: Penguin Books, 1976), 37–​40.

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Although Carl-​K lassen writes the pieces as poems, they read like sermons in the way they instruct readers how to live. As the writing I discuss here illustrates, Mennonite literature shows that it is possible to interact with the world and learn from it while maintaining Anabaptist values. Mennonite writers share Bender’s concern for the community, but they do so in new ways that acknowledge it can profit from the world’s ideas, not just vice versa. The community can benefit from this knowledge by using a theapoetic approach that broadens its vision of what theological thinking can be. My Anabaptist vision is that the Mennonite community will do so, taking Mennonite literature’s queer decolonial teaching to heart.

Bibliography Ahmed, Sara. Living a Feminist Life. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017. Bender, Harold S. TAV. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1944. Brandt, Di. “Paradigms of Re:placement, Re:location, and Re:vision: The Creative Challenge of the New Mennonite Writing of Manitoba (and the World).” JMS 36 (2018): 153–​69. Carl-​K lassen, Abigail. Shelter Management. Chicago: Dancing Girl Press, 2017. Cruz, Daniel Shank. “A Brief History and Bibliography of Queer Mennonite Literature.” JMW 10, no. 3 (2018). https://​menno​n ite​w rit​ing.org/​jour​nal/​10/​3/​brief-​h ist​ory-​ and-​bibli​ogra​phy-​queer-​mennon​ite-​l it/​#all. —​—​—​, ed. How Julia Kasdorf Changed My Life: Reflections on Mennonite Identity. Goshen, IN: Pinchpenny Press, 2001. —​—​—​. Queering Mennonite Literature: Archives, Activism, and the Search for Community. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2019. —​——​. Review of Women Talking, by Miriam Toews. MQR 93, no. 3 (2019): 428–​31. Davis, Todd. “Laboring through The Weather Book: The Value of Work in the Poetry of Janet Kauffman.” MQR 72, no. 4 (1998): 639–​48. Dentz, Shira. Sisyphusina. N.P.: PANK Books, 2019. Doty, Mark. What is the Grass: Walt Whitman in My Life. New York: W.W. Norton, 2020. Dula, Peter. “Theology is a Kind of Reading.” CGR 31, no. 2 (2013): 113–​20. Fitzpatrick, Cat, and Casey Plett, eds. Meanwhile, Elsewhere: Science Fiction and Fantasy from Transgender Writers. New York: Topside Press, 2017. Gundy, Jeff. “Bad Mennonites, Raspberry Migrations, and Usable Narratives: Grace Jantzen, Julia Kasdorf, and Sofia Samatar.” MQR 92, no. 3 (2018): 423–​37. —​——​. Songs from an Empty Cage: Poetry, Mystery, Anabaptism, and Peace. Telford, PA: Cascadia Publishing House, 2013. —​—​—​, ed. “Speculative Fiction.” Special issue, JMW 11, no. 1 (2019): https://​menno​ nite​w rit​ing.org/​jour​nal/​11/​1/​.

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—​—​—​. Walker in the Fog: On Mennonite Writing. Telford, PA: Cascadia Publishing House, 2005. Hinnefeld, Joyce. “For the Collaborators (Thoughts on Narrative, on the Works of Janet Kauffman, on I and She, on Autobiography, on Suicide or Not).” Denver Quarterly 31, no. 2 (1996): 70–​78. Holland, Scott. “Theopoetics is the Rage.” CGR 31, no. 2 (2013): 121–​29. Hollywood, Amy. “On the Materiality of Air: Janet Kauffman’s Bodyfictions.” New Literary History 27, no. 3 (1996): 503–​25. Hooley Yoder, Anita. “I’ve Read Too Much Poetry for That: Poetry, Personal Transformation, and Peace.” CrossCurrents 64, no. 4 (2014): 454–​65. —​——​. “Know Your Place: Writing as Identity.” JMW 11, no. 2 (2019): https://​menno​ nite​w rit​ing.org/​jour​nal/​11/​2/​k now-​your-​place-​w rit​ing-​ident​ity/​#all. Janzen, Jean. “Nine Streams Towards the River of Theopoetics: An Autobiographical Approach.” CGR 31, no. 2 (2013): 143–​47. Kampen, Melanie. “On the Need for Critical-​Contextual and Trauma-​I nformed Methods in Mennonite Theology.” In Recovering from The Anabaptist Vision, edited by Schmidt Roberts, Martens, and Penner, 93–​102. London: T&T Clark. Kasdorf, Julia Spicher. “The Autoethnographic Announcement and the Story.” In After Identity: Mennonite Writing in North America, edited by Robert Zacharias, 21–​36. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2015. —​——​. “Marilyn, H.S. Bender, and Me.” In The Body and the Book: Writing from a Mennonite Life, 121–​4 2. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001. Kasdorf, Julia Spicher, and Steven Rubin. Shale Play: Poems and Photographs from the Fracking Fields, edited by Marilyn, H. S. Bender. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2018. Kauffman, Janet. The Body in Four Parts. St. Paul: Graywolf Press, 1993. —​—​—​. Characters on the Loose: Stories. St. Paul: Graywolf Press, 1997. —​——​. Collaborators. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1986. —​——​. Obscene Gestures for Women: Stories. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1989. —​—​—​. Places in the World a Woman Could Walk: Stories. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1983. Keim, Albert N. Harold S. Bender, 1897–​1962. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1998. Koop, Karl. “Contours and Possibilities for an Anabaptist Theology.” In Recovering from the Anabaptist Vision, edited by Schmidt Roberts, Martens, and Penner, 17–​32. London: T&T Clark. Kraybill, Donald B. Eastern Mennonite University: A Century of Countercultural Education. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2017. Lachman, Becca J. R. The Apple Speaks. Telford, PA: DreamSeeker Books, 2012. —​—​—​. Other Acreage. Boston: Gold Wake Press, 2015. —​—​—​, ed. A Ritual to Read Together: Poems in Conversation with William Stafford. Topeka, KS: Woodley Press, 2013. Lapp, Jessica W. “Embodied Voices, Imprisoned Bodies: Women and Words in Janet Kauffman’s Collaborators.” MQR 72, no. 4 (1998): 615–​24.

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Loewen, Susanne Guenther. “Living Out the Trinity: A Mennonite-​Feminist Theology of Diversity and Community.” CGR 37, no. 2 (2019): 180–​89. Martens, Paul. “How Mennonite Theology Became Superfluous in Three Easy Steps: Bender, Yoder, Weaver.” JMS 33 (2015): 149–​66. Perdomo, Willie. “Breakbeat, Remezcla.” In The BreakBeat Poets Volume 4: LatiNext, edited by Felicia Rose Chavez, José Olivarez, and Willie Perdomo, 1–​ 2. Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2020. Plett, Casey. “Portland, Oregon.” In A Safe Girl to Love, 93–​121. New York: Topside Press, 2014. Remer, Molly. Earthprayer, Birthprayer, Lifeprayer, Womanprayer. N.P.: CreateSpace, 2015. Ruth, John L. “Revolution and Reverence.” 1964. In From the Mennonite Pulpit: Twenty-​ Six Sermons from Mennonite Ministers, edited by Paul Erb, 179–​ 88. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1965. Samatar, Sofia. “Honey Bear.” In Tender: Stories, edited by Ervin Beck and Ann Hostetler, 56–​68. Easthampton, MA: Small Beer Press, 2017. —​—​—​. “The Scope of This Project.” JMW 9, no. 2 (2017): https://​menno​n ite​w rit​ing. org/​journal/​9/​2/​scope-​project/​#all. —​—​—​. “Writing Queerly: Three Snapshots.” Uncanny: A Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy, 2015. http://​u nca​n nym​agaz​ine.com/​a rti​cle/​w rit​ing-​quee​rly-​t hree-​ snapsh​ots/​. Schaefer, Donovan O. Religious Affects: Animality, Evolution, and Power. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2015. Schalk, Sami. Bodyminds Reimagined: (Dis)ability, Race, and Gender in Black Women’s Speculative Fiction. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2018. Schmidt Roberts, Laura, Paul Martens, and Myron A. Penner, eds. Recovering from the Anabaptist Vision: New Essays in Anabaptist Identity and Theological Method. London: T&T Clark, 2020. Snyder, C. Arnold. “The Birth and Evolution of Swiss Anabaptism (1520–​1530).” MQR 80, no. 4 (2006): 501–​6 45. Stayer, James M., Werner O. Packull, and Klaus Deppermann. “From Monogenesis to Poly-​genesis: The Historical Discussion of Anabaptist Origins.” MQR 49, no. 2 (1975): 83–​121. Vernon Neufeld, The Mennonite Hymnal. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1969. Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass. 1855. New York: Penguin Books, 1976.

Chapter 18  Us and Them A l S chnupp

Us and Them. It was a fundamental lens of my conservative Mennonite upbringing. Us—​A nabaptists, embraced. Them—​ t he rest of humanity, doomed. The word Them was often substituted from the pulpit for the word Gay. The Second Coming was also a frequent topic on Sunday mornings. The rapture was portrayed as an event that would occur within weeks or, at most, certainly, within months. The admonishment to remain separate and to be prepared was fueled largely by a fear-​based theology. When I was nine, my brother was dating a Gay girl. Not lesbian. Worldly. Them. It was a Saturday night. My brother was taking a shower, anticipating his night out. My father, determined to thwart the relationship, handed me a small tool and instructed me to remove all the tire valve stems from my brother’s car. It was the first time I saw my brother cry. Not a silent whimper, but deep, sustained sobs, the sound of someone betrayed and defeated. We and They. I would be in my late teens before I would hear a sermon based on joy—​a vivid, moving oration delivered by George Brunk at a tent revival. It was a celebratory speech about millions of persons redeemed by God’s grace taking their place in heaven. Many were non-​Mennonite. The gateway to salvation seemed a little less narrow. In my early twenties I was introduced to the book God is No Fool by Lois Cheney. In her short, smart musings and parables, God was snarky, irreverent, humorous. Inspired by the material, I saw an opportunity to integrate faith with my growing interest in theater and storytelling. Several like-​ minded friends and I formed a company, Innerlook, and performed in local churches and embarked on two tours of the country.

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My desire to seek professional training grew. I auditioned for and studied at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City. Regarding my decision, I was told, “You will end up in the gutter, a drunk.” As I drifted further from the teachings of my youth, an interesting phenomenon occurred. My instructors insisted that a person’s upbringing was a large part of a one’s identity. To divorce oneself from the past was to diminish one’s resources, to limit one’s essence, to be alienated from the material that could inspire one to create. The teachers argued an understanding of another individual or a fictional character began with an understanding of self. Without the ability to identify the human connections among people, empathy and authenticity were impossible. It was a profoundly spiritual lesson in a secular setting—​t his application of Other to Self and Self to Other. New York City was followed with performing in a summer theater company in Ohio, The Huron Playhouse, which lead to a teaching fellowship at Bowling Green State University. Theater created community for me, a community built on principles of inclusion. It was an environment that celebrated and advocated for diversity rather than feared or resisted it. Jeff was gay. Rob was Jewish. Veto’s parents, I suspect, were first-​generation immigrants. After my studies concluded, I returned to Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It was a warm, summer Sunday. I was twenty-​six, at the church I had attended all my life. The bishop delivered the sermon, then, before administering communion, announced a list of ten evils. Number one was Drama. I was the only member of church involved in theater; a fact known by all. Without mentioning my name, I was singled out, my actions condemned, my Self striped of value. It was, in many ways, a public shunning. After the service I stood outside the church. Something had forever shifted in me. The change was quiet and seismic. It was not borne of anger, there was no urge to challenge the accusation. Who I was and what the church demanded I be could not be integrated. I was Them. Hesston College, with its more liberal theology, hired me as a drama instructor. During my time there, I existed between Us and Them. I was unwilling to divorce myself from embedded doctrines, but also unable to embrace them. I created deep friendships but was deeply lonely. I was granted freedom to create but was limited by boundaries of propriety. After teaching at Hesston for 2 years, I moved to Los Angeles and received a PhD from UCLA. I then returned to Hesston College and resumed teaching duties for two additional years. During this period, I was the scenic designer for the Wichita State University summer theater program. At 35, with a deeper, more complex awareness of myself, I returned to California.

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The largest part of my career—​30 years—​was as a professor of theater at California Polytechnic State University in San Luis Obispo. I directed and designed numerous plays, experimented with puppetry, continued to write plays, served as Department Head. I was honored to have original plays produced Off-​Off Broadway in New York City, at regional theaters and in university venues. Has my Mennonite heritage effected my work in theater? I can only hypothesize, but I suspect the effect is significant. Influences vary from subtle to profound, reactionary to gratefulness. Much of my journey and mission in theater was an attempt to close the gap between Us and Them. That gap was not only a clash of religious values. Through time, I learned the gap was also fueled by social injustice, racial inequality, and economic inequity. The notion of Us and Them is inherently charged with conflict. So, it may have been a natural affinity that drew me to theater where stories are built around conflict: characters against themselves, against other individuals, groups, god, nature, institutions or even a society. A character must navigate a maze to resolve the conflict. Witnessing the ploys, tactics and heartbreaks of characters struggling against their circumstances inspired me. In my conflict, I had company. I am drawn to stories of archetypes and have a great fondness for classic Greek plays: the myth of Prometheus stealing fire for mankind and being chained to a rock on the side of a mountain as punishment; the account of Oedipus solving the riddle of the sphinx. They are not that far removed from the story of Lot’s wife being turned into a pillar of salt or of Moses parting the Red Sea. It is my sense that lessons imparted in a metaphorical vein, rather than in a literal manner, more effectively engage the imagination and elicit intellectual engagement. Frequently in my directing choices, I have chosen to highlight the plight of marginalized individuals and groups. I have directed a significant number of plays with female protagonists who struggled to have their voices heard in a patriarchal society (Hecuba, Phaedra, Antigone, Medea, Les Belles Soeurs). I have written plays about real-​life female artists and activists who were champions of gay rights (Käthe Kollwitz, Ivy Bottini, Peggy Guggenheim).1* Attending the Women’s March in Washington DC in January 2016 was an 1

Censored (About Käthe Kollwitz). Produced at The Invisible Theater in Tucson, Arizona. Inclusivity –​the Ivy Bottini Story. Produced at Studios in the Park in Paso Robles, California and at Emerald Theatre in Memphis, Tennessee. The Collection (A play about the life and legacy of Peggy Guggenheim). Performed at a variety of art galleries and art associations in Santa Barbara, Ojai, Santa Cruz, Paso Robles, Fresno, and Carmel. Author manuscript.

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effort to lend my presence to issues of gender inequality and subjugation. It was particularly poignant to march with women, former Mennonites, who protested the rhetoric and atrocities of any misogynists or sexual predators who held powerful political positions. The Us vs Them mentality is exemplified by the America is Number One mantra. I rebel against it. In many ways, America is not a world leader, nor is it a model to emulate. I resist ethnocentric sentiments. I try to challenge abuses of power by those in authority. As a theater artist, one avenue of protest has been directing or writing plays, using satire to mock absurd political policies or parody clichés and bigotry.2 The plays of Friedrich Dürrenmatt and Eugene Ionesco are particularly effective as satirical commentary; both playwrights undress the dangers of fascism and intolerance. My life-​long conflict between Us and Them is most certainly seeded in my heritage. What began as a dichotomy within a small, limited Mennonite enclave developed into an awareness of polarities on the national and international stage. Some of the most haunting, comforting, and memorable lines I’ve heard in theater are those that are profoundly simple, embrace a paradox and expose truth in a poetic fashion. I have come to live with paradoxes, particularly those that suggest the wonderful spectrum of gray that exists between two extremes. The Golden Mean is how the great Greek playwrights described this ideal synthesis of opposites. Early in Act II of Into the Woods3 the Witch laments: No matter what you say Children won’t listen

During the finale, the Witch returns to sing: Careful the things you say Children will listen

2 3

Zero to Infinity is an original play that satires the presidential campaigning process in America. It is slated to be published by Cabal Press in prose form. Author manuscript. Music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim and book by James Lapine.

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These lines speak to my childhood, to the people who shaped me, and to my role as a student and mentor of theater.

Bibliography Cheney, Lois. God is No Fool. New York, NY: Beaufort Books, 2009. Sondheim, Stephen and James Lapine. Into the Woods. New York: Theatre Communications Group, 1993.

Part VII  Poetic and Artistic Expression Mennonite literary, musical, visual, and theater artists now have a presence on many venues including academic, professional, independent contexts. Poet Diana Zimmerman invites us into her elegy on the death of her late husband. Jeff Gundy’s poem is a visionary narrative that underscores the entire theme of this volume: a road that leads out of town. Sofia Samatar pays homage the late Professor Nick Lindsay who, in the classroom and in memory, has guided her own journey into self-​d iscovery via the literary arts. Family legacy guides the aesthetic for Rachel Epp Buller as her hands explore new contours of meaning. Douglass Witmer invites the viewers of his work to participate in the creative process by adding to his original work. An authentic encounter with works of art is also a creative experience and creativity is the foundation for a meaningful journey. Each work in this section illustrates a dimension of improvisational spontaneity.

Chapter 19  Emblems of the Times Jeff Gundy

1. Looking both ways as I cross the icy creek. Shifting and realizing my back hasn’t hurt all day. Stepping out the back door: the car gone, the driveway empty, the house empty. 2. Once I was a speck of light—​no, I saw in the shimmery mist a host of lights that did not burn or cease to burn. I went back to my wife, my children, told them nothing. Now I only want to spin skeins of sound from the old guitar, sift and sort for some new music, some tune old as Jesus, young as Jesus. 3. That night something came flying, a gift in the shape of a cardinal or a crow, sharp in the shadowy darkness, soundless except for the rumor of wings. I woke into my life, rose and dressed like a criminal whose crime has been forgotten. 4. The last high dive in Ohio has been torn down. The backup battery is fully charged. The stations are bursting with gasoline, dozens of drink options, heat lamp pizza. The roads out of town are clear in all directions.

Chapter 20  The Centaur’s Recipe S ofia Samatar

In memory of Nick Lindsay

Break In January 1990, I took a poetry class with Nick Lindsay at Goshen College. In my memory, the class happened during the winter break: the campus hushed and closed, only the lights of the dormitories gleaming through the snow, nothing but poetry going on. Now, I’m not so sure. I know it was January, I know the class only lasted a week, but was it really during the winter vacation? In any case, I’ve retained a memory of dwelling in altered, extraordinary time, of having stepped outside the calendar. At Christmas, when I told my father about the class, he exclaimed: “Nick Lindsay! That crazy guy is still there?” When my father had been a student at Goshen College, Nick taught a class on William Blake. Dad remembered him walking around in a sandwich board, like a street advertiser or barker at a fair. The board read: TAKE BLAKE. When students were having their advising appointments, Nick would open the door without warning, lean into the room, intone in his deep voice, “Take … Blake!” and shut the door again. It’s still the best enrollment strategy I’ve ever heard of. It’s also a classic Nick Lindsay gesture, employing his cherished technique of interruption. He was the rover, the opener of doors, the breaker of walls. He relished being inopportune and out of place. I can’t say what this meant to my father, who was, in college, still new to his adopted country, a rover himself, a recent immigrant from Somalia, who must have felt out of place sometimes at this small Mennonite institution. But I remember the look on his face when he spoke of Nick. It was delight.

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In class, we sat around a table in a seminar room. I took many courses here. Usually, the professor sat at the head of the table. Nick Lindsay also occupied that end of the room, but he rarely sat. He stalked, lunged, stamped, jumped up and down, and danced. In the middle of a speech, he’d pick up a recorder and blow hard into it, lifting his knees up, prancing like a satyr on a Greek vase. We didn’t know what was going on. This professor couldn’t play the recorder, or, if he could, he’d decided not to. The thing squealed into the room. He’d transformed the tame parlor instrument into something feral, the shriek of a horned owl, a blast of wind. Suddenly it seemed as if a recorder shouldn’t be played indoors. Then he’d throw it down and sing in a bass voice that shook the windowpanes. He sang old ballads, work songs, hymns. He interrupted his singing with talk, his talk with song, and both with the banshee cry of that recorder. He had fierce eyes and frosty white hair that was clipped close to his head, like an ancient mariner who’d just been barbered. I remember sitting there frozen and thrilled, with no idea what would happen next, and terrified that I was going to burst out laughing, which, I realized later, was his intent. It was his intent to break something down in us: our habits, our reticence, our inhibitions. He was the one who taught me that a good teacher should be ridiculous. Years later, reading a memoir by Eileen Myles,1 I recognized Nick in the way she described her poetry class with Ted Berrigan, which she took in the East Village in the 1970s: “Ted was just entirely silly. He was strong. When he spoke about poetry there were waves of permission crashing in the room.” That was Nick Lindsay. Waves of permission, crashing. We could do anything. And we wrote poems, good poems. It was astonishing what he got out of us. “I’ve got nothing to lose,” he told us. “Matter of fact, I’m mad anyway.” It was instruction. It was how to be a poet. He charged onto our campus with his panpipe in his hand, trampled down the hedges, and tore a gap in time.

Ivy Is Intoxicating Permission doesn’t mean there were no rules. Nick had lots of rules, which I copied fervently into the spiral-​bound notebook I’m looking at right now. They were not, however, typical writing rules, like “Show, don’t tell” or “Kill your darlings,” which tend to cramp the creative faculties. Nick’s rules were always surprising, off-​k ilter, paradoxical. One of the first ones he gave us

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Eileen Myles, Inferno (a poet’s novel), OR Books, 2016, 211.

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seemed to contradict the whole purpose of the class, encapsulating, in gnomic form, a philosophy of anti-​writing: “If you get a chance to stop, stop!” “Rules,” he told us, “help to say the unsayable.” His rules inspired with their eccentricity, and by being almost impossible to follow. Here, for example, is a four-​part program for producing a work of lyric praise:

1. show the seamy side 2. make comparisons that enrich the object of praise 3. bring in the Book of Job 4. use a wild terrifying hillbilly pentatonic wail

Bring in the Book of Job? Every time? I wrote it down. I wrote down as many of his rules as I could catch. Rules for poetry and rules for life, bits of wisdom delivered without embellishment, with absolute sincerity. Ivy is intoxicating. He wanted us to know this. The pig and the oak tree are symbols of stone-​ age British culture. It was part of our inheritance as poets in the English language. We should know that a linden tree signifies a dance of love. We should know that the reason we’re superstitious about walking under ladders is that young men used to be sacrificed to the god Woden on a ladder (“EVISCER ATED?” I wrote in my notebook, aghast). Ash means celibacy. When two crows cry, they are weeping for the slain gods. “Find your heart,” he told us. “It’s buried in the earth. It’s in an old time, a good time, a past time.” This past time was not only the literal past. It was also timeless, a world of symbols that belonged to each of us. This was the world of language: the lost languages of Europe, deep at the root of English, where “Saturday” meant chaos, and the languages of Black spiritual and folk traditions, which were truly American. “America, too, is mythic.” And Mennonite songs were mythic. Suddenly, he broke into a hymn, “O Savior, Rend the Heavens Wide.” It’s a stormy, melancholy dirge, in which Christ, a cyclical nature spirit, descends as dew and rises again as blossoms. To my surprise, Nick told us that this heathenish incantation could be found in the Mennonite hymnal we used in chapel. I’d never sung it before, and I’ve rarely sung it since, but he was right. Recently, I read that the hymn, “O Heiland, reiß die Himmel auf,” was written by Friedrich Spee von Langenfeld, a German Jesuit and activist against the witch trials, who died in 1635. In the 1892 Dictionary of Hymnology,2 I read that Spee’s poems “are characterized by a very keen love for the works of God in the natural world, and a delight in all the sights and sounds of the country, especially in spring and

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John Julian, A Dictionary of Hymnology (John Murray, 1892) 1071. Some sources write his name as Friedrich von Spee.

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summer.” Though “often full of beauty, of pathos, and of genuine religious warmth,” they are “too subjective and sentimental,” overloaded with pastoral imagery, and “cannot be considered as suitable for public worship”; therefore, they’re rarely used, “except as processionals sung by the people at the great festivals or at outdoor gatherings.” That’s just what Nick was looking for in a hymn. He wanted us to feel the sadness, and the aching joy, of an ancient idea of holiness. He wanted us to know that we, too, had our pagan elegies. “Christ,” he told us, “is the Prince of Death.” Outside, it was snowing. Wind murmured around the corner of the building. I wrote and wrote, drawing on the secret, hidden world. Remember the clouds, which are Eros, and the cradle. “Include,” Nick instructed us, “the rending of petalled flesh by jagged time.” He told us about the warrior dance, the pentagon, and the wheel. He gave us a rule I must have found particularly important, for I wrote it down in capital letters at the top of a page: DON’T FORGET THE ATLAS OR THE GREENHOUSE

Live Poets Society Where had he come from? Edisto Island, in South Carolina, he said. Edisto Island, where, he added, “Nine tenths of us are Black, eight tenths of us are Christian, and seven tenths of us are poor.” This was how he described his home. Twinkling, he told us that it sometimes gave white people a shock when he declared “nine tenths of us are Black”; disconcerted, they realized they’d been hoodwinked by his blue eyes and ruddy complexion—​they’d been talking to a Black man this whole time! Of course, the real joke was that Nick was white, and had never claimed otherwise. The joke was his deployment of the word us. His home, his Edisto, his “us” was primarily Black, Christian, and poor, whether or not Nick himself was any of these things. I suppose he would have said of Goshen College, where he maintained a connection for so many years, “Most of us are Mennonite,” and of the group of nervous or eager or wary students that met there in the depths of winter, “All of us are poets.” It was a playful way of speaking, intended to scramble social categories, to cross the wires, to snarl things up. It was also intended to propose alternative ways of seeing and belonging, and in this sense, it was deeply serious. Who was he? We’d all seen the movie Dead Poets Society, which had come out the previous year, and I, at least, had a vivid recollection of the scene in which the prep-​school boys sneak out of their dorm at night. These boys are

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being drawn into the world of poetry by a marvelous teacher. Poetry makes them adventurous, spirited, and sly. They hide in a cave in the woods and drink. They pore breathlessly over a pin-​up. They dance through the forest, chanting Vachel Lindsay’s poem, “The Congo.” We’d all seen the film, but I don’t know how many of us knew, when we took the class, that Vachel Lindsay was Nick’s father. “THEN I SAW THE CONGO CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK /​CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TR ACK.” It’s Vachel Lindsay’s best-​k nown poem. The poet saw it as an optimistic “study of the Negro race”; he was disappointed when Black readers didn’t take it the same way. W. E. B. Du Bois wrote of his work, “Mr. Vachel Lindsay knows two things, and two things only, about Negroes: The beautiful rhythm of their music and the ugly side of their drunkards and outcasts.”3 This is certainly the imagery fueling that scene in Dead Poets Society, where Lindsay’s poem condenses, in rhythmic form, the boys’ transgressive nocturnal experiments. In the film, “The Congo” illustrates a scene in which the “two things about Negroes” noted by Du Bois are no longer separate, but ecstatically fused together: it becomes the music of beautiful outcasts, beautiful drunkards, beautiful boys in the darkness who have given themselves to poetry. Following a well-​documented trend in American storytelling, blackness serves the white characters as a sign of personal liberation. For me, it was the moment in the film when I suddenly noticed that all the boys in the Dead Poets Society were white. In a letter to Joel Spingarn, Chairman of the Board of Directors of the NAACP, Vachel Lindsay wrote, “My ‘Congo’ and ‘Booker T. Washington Trilogy’ have both been denounced by the Colored people for reasons that I cannot fathom.” In an effort to help him fathom it, Spingarn replied, “You look about you and see a black world full of a strange beauty different from that of the white world; they look about them and see other men with exactly the same feelings and desires who refuse to recognize the resemblance.” It was a question of the word us. How this history might have affected Nick, I can’t say, but in our class, he didn’t promote a divided world. He wanted a paradise of English and American language where all who desired could eat from every tree. A Live Poets Society.

3

Vachel Lindsay, “The Congo,” in The Congo and Other Poems, Macmillan, 1922, p. 3–​11. For Du Bois’s commentary, see W. E. B. Du Bois, “The Looking Glass,” The Crisis, August 1916, p. 182. For the correspondence between Vachel Lindsay and Joel Spingarn, see J. E. Spingarn, “A Letter and an Answer,” The Crisis, January 1917, 113–​114.

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You Are the Healer It was years later that I read about Vachel Lindsay, and how he wrote his poem, “The Congo,” inspired in part by the death of Robert Ray Eldred, a missionary who drowned in the Congo in 1913. In the poem, missionaries provide the optimistic ending. They are “pioneer angels,” clearing out the Congolese “witch-​men” and “wild ghost-​gods.”4 This drama, completely ignored by Dead Poets Society, brings the poem strangely close to me. It was strangely close to me at Goshen College, although I’d never read it. The missionary drama was close to all of us there, where a number of us, certainly not nine tenths, but a good number, had arrived on campus through missionary connections. Missionary connections had brought my father there in the seventies, and it’s fair to say they brought me there as well. If our poetry class didn’t look as white as the one in Dead Poets Society, it was largely due to the efforts of missionaries. How weird that is, really, how weird, in the middle of America. We had a Black Student Union and an International Student Union, where we tried to make common cause out of the accidents in far-​flung lands that had brought our families to stumble onto Mennonites. Looking back, we didn’t do too badly. But undoubtedly part of the joy of studying with Nick, for me, was the easing of a certain pressure, a sense of being out of place so constant it became unremarkable, like the cold in winter. It was a feeling that had its roots in the drama we all lived with, without speaking of it, a tale of pioneer angels and wild ghost-​gods, a story of chilling shame for many of us who were seen by others, and saw ourselves, as children of the witch-​men. Nick broke up that ice. He brought the coals in. Weird, were we? He was so weird, you couldn’t beat him at it. “You are the healer,” he said. “You will heal the impotence of the king.” What king, we didn’t know, but we could tell he was speaking in deadly earnest, speaking to each of us without distinction, with burning intensity, prophesying a future in which we would take up our task as poets, a destiny that required no worldly credentials, no proofs of nation or creed, and no tools but what could be carried in the mouth.

The Centaur’s Recipe When I heard that Nick had died, I dug out my old spiral-​bound notebook. There I found something he called “the centaur’s recipe.” The centaur’s recipe, if you’re interested, is blood, semen, and olive oil. Why he told us this, I don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know about Nick. Somebody else will 4 Ibid.

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have to give you the details: how this poet, who spent most of his time building boats on Edisto Island, wound up teaching at a small Mennonite college in Indiana. Somebody else will have to critique his poetry for you, and comment on his place in American letters. I don’t have a clue, because I’ve never read his work. I don’t know his poems; I know him as poetry itself. I know that the south belongs to Isis, the Virgin and Madonna of Sweet Milk. I know that east is the direction of saffron, while the west belongs to darkness, death, the Stone Mother, and the dream. I know that north is path of sterility and snow. The north belongs to those who dwell in the Temple of the Fear of Death. It’s also the place of healing. I know that one famous physician was a centaur: Chiron, the father of surgery, who was also a great teacher, the tutor of Perseus, Heracles, and other heroes. Chiron is the wounded healer: struck by a poisoned arrow, unable to cure himself, he becomes a constellation. Dear Nick, I’m not going to cook up your centaur’s recipe in my kitchen. But I will greet you in the stars of Centaurus. There must have been something a little ridiculous about a professor who was half horse. Maybe that was the secret of Chiron’s brilliance. It occurs to me now that the centaur’s recipe combines the blood of death, the semen of life, and the olive oil of cultivation and processing. It’s nature and culture, reduced to gleaming essences. Maybe that’s a threatening combination. Maybe nature will always risk appearing somewhat silly in a highly cultured place like a college classroom. Maybe too much pastoral imagery is unseemly in a hymn. But I think now that what Nick was trying to show us, in his fantastic and off-​beat way, is that nature is culture, that all gods are wild ghost-​gods, and that all who would be poets must also be witches. All poets must draw from the garden of symbols: that gap in time where the old gods meet the new. And so, while I tell myself not to forget the atlas—​the map, the distances between people, and the borders that divide us—​I also remind myself, in Nick’s memory, not to forget our shared language, the centaur’s idiom, expansive enough to contain the banshee’s wail, as well as the song of a priest who defended those accused of witchcraft—​a language we might call poetry, Paradise, or the greenhouse.

Bibliography Du Bois, W. E. B. “The Looking Glass.” The Crises 12, no. 4 (August 1916): 181–​86. Julian, John. A Dictionary of Hymnology. London: John Murray, 1892. Lindsay, Vachel. “The Congo.” In The Congo and Other Poems. New York: Macmillan, 1922. Myles, Eileen. Inferno (a poet’s novel). New York: OR Books, 2016. Spingarn, J. E. “A Letter and an Answer.” The Crisis 13, no. 3 (January 1917): 113–​14.

Chapter 21  Learning from our Ancestors: Listening to the Patterns in our Hands R achel E pp Buller

we will become something other than we were, 2020 screenprint with hand coloring, 14x11"

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I am a time traveler, looking to the past to envision possible paths toward more sustainable futures. As I consider this volume’s theme of Anabaptist vitality and how Anabaptist faith and cultural traditions have impacted my own practice, what strikes me is that I am an inheritor of traditions. I engage most fully with my Anabaptist heritage when I explore the histories of how we share knowledge with each other. We disseminate family histories and community stories between generations, while practical skills are often taught from parent to child. In my creative practice, I seek out embodied forms of knowledge, traditions of making shared between our hands. I am neither a quilter nor a seamstress, yet such knowledge traditions, historically the purview of women, surface not infrequently in my work. Embodied knowledge –​quilting or stitching, crocheting or paper-​cutting, dancing or letter-​writing –​carries the imprint of another’s body, for the patterns are learned directly from another person and often practiced in community. Donna Haraway, writing about the sharing of string games across societies, notes that string figure knowledge “is about giving and receiving patterns” between our bodies, “relaying connections that matter.” As she looks toward our uncertain futures, she emphasizes the importance of collective knowing and doing, arguing that “the pattern is in our hands.”1 We carry vital knowledge in our bodies, collectively, if only we choose to enact it. In my Letters to the Future, an ongoing series of writings begun in 2018 and excerpted here, I use the epistolary form to address what I see as the imperative of learning from our ancestors by listening to the patterns in our collective hands.2

1 2

Donna Haraway, Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene (Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 2016), 10. Through the Letters to the Future, I think alongside many writers who help us imagine possible futures, modes of care, and how we share knowledge, including Donna Haraway, Octavia Butler, Margaret Atwood, Marge Piercy, Ursula K. LeGuin, Louise Erdrich, Alex Martinis Roe, Clare Hunter, and Adrienne Maree Brown.

Learning from our Ancestors

Excerpts from Letters to the Future, 2018 –​ Follow a thread in the dark Our bodies have always remembered lines of inventive connection-​tales of mysterious effect, the narrative we think we know We succumb to despair in the enormousness of time The rhythm of accepting and giving, magnetic and gentle, is essential to the fabric Our task is to enter the web of connections​ yearn toward resurgence, tell stories in hand upon hand, hold the unasked-​for pattern We are not at the end of things, but the beginning The order is reknitted None of the songs have words Beautiful patterns of meaning traverse the borders, inventing new combinations, arranging and collating, constructing authorship differently It is possible to imagine new practices in search of the hidden message Sentient beings of the world will rework the structures-​ studying the bonds, coming to a greater awareness, speaking only by attentive listening

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328 We are all in one another’s hands, cobbling together ways so stories can be ongoing The body has a wisdom of its own-​ to bear witness, to transmit a message-​ but compassion takes work The hardest and most urgent part requires inheriting hard histories, listening for a break in the pattern The held-​out hand is still possible, but only in alliance

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Learning from our Ancestors It all began with string-​ spidery lines patterning our place in the world The companionship of needlework is a fragile intimacy, listening, not speaking, to those who lived and walked before Material rites of passage reconcile upon a ground of darkest velvet, an outline of small insurrections, stitches held fast by our touch Threads dangle between generations, bringing a coded visual language into existence Needles, threads, pins and buttons ensnare us An elusive now awaits us

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330 We hold so many words inside us-​ untidy, mischievous, a chattering restlessness scraping at the surface A story is still being written in the absence of knowing, driving out sorrow, melting the limits of memory Our radical responsibility is to share language-​ a way of living in the weeds and shadows Wait for the time when voices are sufficiently prepared to grow past silence Words are not a hobby but a strategy Letters will slip through the very fabric of time

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Learning from our Ancestors All the stories have collapsed into one another Clearly the motives were many and mixed, concealed behind an image of pleasure and power to stir up potent response The necessary resurgence is knotted in string, depicted in thread, consigned to the work of our hands Matters of concern become matters of fact Recuperation requires collaboration But the real differences flourish in nurturing and visiting, weaving the tales, manifesting the love We become responsible for each other in the ruins

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332 Change is not an easy practice Words devolve into letters, invisibly inventing a performance waged through the air, over everything that once was The spinning earth does not pause, and matters of care are too big and too small Trust for an instant: coalitional work is the fruit of the tree Change grows like an old friend We are holding the river-​ opening up versions, learning to live

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It was a calculated generosity, a continuing where there should have been an abrupt end Traces of past gentility transferred an incomplete narrative, records of daily life cut and stitched, small errors in rhythmic sewing Our own refusal to change among the tangled threads of life erased the accountability of generations The time had come to alter the angle of the needle Resurrection Reconstitution Re-​connection Time will conflate a network of truths, keepsakes of past lives salvaged as acts of defiance Voices follow us, accidentally coinciding; unknown stitchers influence one another We will become something other than we were

Bibliography Haraway, Donna. Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 2016.

Chapter 22  Neighbor : Who1 D ouglas Witmer

In the wake of the U.S. election of November 2016, Philadelphia artist Douglas Witmer announced via social media that he would make a work of art as a gift for anyone who responded within about a week. He received 200 responses. Working in a serial fashion he created a group of unique but very similar pieces. The work began on sheets of paper painted with four equal bars of color, which were later torn down to the size of the individual works. Before the tearing process, Witmer placed thumbprints across the axis where the separation would occur. These marks visible on the top and bottom edges of each piece communicate a one-​time physical connection to another piece. 1

A Free International Art Action (2016).

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Witmer arranged the entire 200 individual pieces into a larger work as pictured above then randomly assigned each to a recipient. In early December 2016, the work was displayed publicly. Local recipients were invited to take their individual piece from the larger group. The rest were then distributed to people residing across six continents worldwide. Drawing recipients received accompanying information including the recipients’ first names and locations of the pieces displayed adjacent to theirs, as well as instructions that the piece could be re-​gifted but never sold. The title of the project “Neighbor : Who” refers to the Biblical passage Luke 10 : 25–​37.

Chapter 23  Slowly Like Snow Diana Z immer man

you said take me home to the sea and i promised i would neither of us imagined then on those last days of pain patches and tireless visitors the weight of a carry-​on bag with ashes i tried to lift it into the space above my seat on the plane but couldn’t the gentleman who helped eyed me strangely when the plane took off pointing toward the endless Atlantic, i reached for your hand i really did but your hand wasn’t there it was in tiny pieces in the overhead compartment and i had only air to hold on to i cried then as we lifted everyone could see me you said take me home to the sea and i promised i went down into the water with your teeth and

338 your bones pressed into my skin and watched as the tiny pieces fell slowly like snow around me

Diana Z immer man

Part VIII  Ethics of Institutional Engagement Mennonites have often eschewed institutional ethics because a tradition of radical discipleship is often a personal one within the community of faith. Lisa Schirch explores the tension between an Anabaptist principles and practical, institutional decision-​making. She challenges readers to reflect on the possibility of an organizational ethic that is more in line with the Anabaptist vision. Julia Reimer reflects on the challenges of forming a new theater company that addresses contemporary social issues while also navigating the complexities of staging shows at a church college. Clayton Funk examines the challenges he ethical faces in the larger state university and how his heritage serves as a guide within that context. Rudi Kauffman and Alexander Sider both challenge the religious institutions to improve healthcare systems (Kauffman) and exercise greater compassion and more effective programs for persons with disabilities (Sider). Ortman, with an encyclopedic survey of the literature, challenges church institutions to address ecological and environmental issues. All of the essays in this section challenge the church to formulate an ethic for institutions that is more consistent with an Anabaptist heritage and more responsive to individual and community needs.

Chapter 24  Applying a Mennonite Theology of Peacebuilding to Mennonite Institutions L isa S chirch

Anabaptists assert a coherent narrative of who we are that makes sense across the centuries and continents. We imagine ourselves to be martyrs and victims, to be humanitarians and peacemakers. There is truth in this narrative. But the history of our imagined community also includes striking variations. Our visions of who “we” are may occasionally rhyme or harmonize, but frequently they seem to clash. Most Anabaptist narratives skip over the uncomfortable aspects of our history. Mennonite institutional reputations rest on their presumed ethics. Like the Amish reputation for building solid furniture, Mennonites advertise their institutions as ethically solid; resting on a foundation of 500 years of following Jesus’ teachings of care and community. Mennonite institutions teach pacifist theology, nonviolence, restorative justice and peacebuilding stemming from Anabaptist theology and ethics. But how well do Mennonites practice these ethics within their own institutions? An Anabaptist theology of peacebuilding is only valid if Mennonite institutions can live out this ethic in practice. Combining both literature review and personal reflections from over 30 years of service in Mennonite institutions, this chapter begins with an outline of an Anabaptist theology and ethics for peacebuilding practice. This provides a normative ethical framework for belief and action. The chapter then discusses the history of Anabaptist visions, and how they sharply contrast with the Anabaptist theologies and ethics of peacebuilding. Drawing on my own personal experiences, I illustrate how Mennonite institutions punished me for practicing Anabaptist ethics. The chapter then identifies eight

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opportunities for a new Anabaptist vision. This chapter concludes with an “I have a dream” litany for the future of Anabaptism. This chapter proposes that the church should think of Anabaptism as a lived ethic rather than an ethnic institutional home.

An Anabaptist Vision and a Theology for Peacebuilding Anabaptist peace theology, rooted in teachings on Jesus’ enemy love and nonresistance, is reflected in the ethics and practice of peacebuilding. Peacebuilding builds relationships across the lines of conflict and addresses the underlying root causes of systemic injustice and conflict. This section of the chapter describes ten points linking Anabaptist theology to peacebuilding ethics and practice.

Religion—​At Its Core—​Is About Relationships and Reconciliation The Latin root of the word “religion” is “lig.” Like the “ligament” that connects bone to muscle, religion is the practice of connecting to God, to other humans, and the environment. There is nothing exclusively Anabaptist or Christian about building relationships and peace between people. Peacebuilding is the work of all religions. Peacebuilding requires actively seeking to build bridges across the lines of conflict, meeting face to face with violent extremist groups, with government officials, with military leaders, and with church administrators.

Diversity by Design God made a diverse world. Creation is the truest “word” of God. Theology is the study of the nature of God. The study of the design of the natural world through science can teach us about the nature of God. Theology does not need to be complicated or rely on experts or scholars. Indigenous scholars such as Robin Wall Kimmerer, a Potawatomi botanist, have made this abundantly clear; we learn about the Creator through observing the natural world.1 And the most obvious theological insight is that diversity is beautiful and functional. The diversity among humanity is a source of strength. God did not design humans to look or think the same way. Jesus valued diversity in his choice of disciples, who did not all think the same way. Peacebuilding affirms diversity as an asset. 1

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Wisdom of Plants (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2013).

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Peacebuilding requires Mennonite institutions to hire diverse staff, including non-​ethnic Mennonites and to challenge the ethnic monocultures that exist within so many Mennonite institutions.

Dignity and a Preference for the Poor The beatitudes tell us this is where we can best find the kingdom of God; in those who have few economic resources, those who are humble and weak. An Anabaptist theology of peacebuilding borrows from Catholic Social Teaching, which articulates that all people hold inherent human dignity and observes that throughout the Bible there is a “preferential option for the poor.” The “poor” in the Bible are the victims of violence and abuse from individuals or the economic system. All human beings have inherent dignity. There are no humans with more value than others. Racism, sexism, antisemitism, classism, ageism, homophobia, and all other forms of discrimination are “sinful” in that they divide humanity. Peacebuilding insists not only in denouncing these wrongs but actively works toward full human dignity for all. Peacebuilding pays attention to and advocates for the well-​being of the oppressed. Peacebuilding requires supporting First Nations Indigenous peoples in conflict with ongoing colonialism, with Black and Brown colleagues working toward racial justice, and in the Mennonite church to address legacies of sexual abuse, LGBTQ exclusion, racism, and antisemitism.

Speaking Truth to Power Jesus modeled advocating for justice and making people uncomfortable with the status quo. Jesus speaks truth to Roman officials, advocating for the full human dignity of all, especially those humiliated and abused by others. Peacebuilding includes advocacy for the poor, including the poor in spirit or those looked down upon by society. Peacebuilding requires not just “preaching to the choir” but walking toward those in power to press for social change. The early Anabaptists openly challenged political and religious authorities at the beginning of the Anabaptist movement. Peacebuilding in the US requires advocating to the US Congress and the US military the principles of human rights, international law, and the strategy of nonviolent peacebuilding. Peacebuilding advocates for human security, where local people define what security looks like and how to pursue it.

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Self-​Reflection In Matthew 7:3, Jesus asks why people tend to look at the “speck of dust” in their neighbor’s eye rather than the “log” in your eye. This teaching emphasizes the need to look inward rather than slip into a purity narrative that assumes “we are good” and “they are evil.” Institutional religion has a way of slipping into self-​righteous indignation, imagining that those within the religion are “pure” and those outside are “evil.” In a dialog with those we disagree with, we need to be open to transformation and learning—​neither cooptation nor self-​righteous blindness to their ‘truths.’ Peacebuilding requires self-​reflection and the humility to acknowledge our imperfections and to be open to new truths. Peacebuilding also creates awareness of how our lifestyle choice impacts other people and the planet. Sustainable lifestyles and Mennonite “simple living” are natural partners to peacebuilding. Peacebuilding requires taking personal responsibility and apologizing for unintended harms.

Justice, Peace, Truth, Mercy, and Love Jesus’ taught lessons on justice, peace, truth, mercy, and love. Ecclesiastes 3 tells us there is a time for everything. Peacebuilding processes require each of these elements. Justice with no peace breeds violence, and more injustice. Peace with no justice leads to inequality and conflict. Truth with no mercy generates resentment and revenge. And mercy with no truth creates only a temporary peace. Peacebuilding requires trying to stay engaged and open to dialog and transformation when I encounter conflict.

Enemy Love Jesus modeled and taught love of those who are different from us, or who do us harm. He did not live within the purity paradigm that kept others away from the tax collectors and prostitutes. Peacebuilding walks toward conflict and difference, not away from it. Peacebuilding processes use dialog and negotiation with an “enemy” as a tool for social change, not a reward for good behavior. Listening, learning and providing training to the US military waging war in Iraq and Afghanistan is an example of enemy love, distinct from simply condemning US foreign policy from a church pew. Peacebuilding begins with active listening to an opponent. Listening and acknowledging changes the dynamics of conflict, creating an opening for transformation.

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Hope Jesus advised his followers to consider the lilies of the fields in times of despair. The rich and powerful tend to be quick to lose hope. Despair and cynicism are the sins of the privileged. Despair is a luxury. Peacebuilding is built on hope, a fundamental belief that people do change, and systems of oppression can be transformed and create new, more just relationships between people. Peacebuilding requires believing that change can happen and not giving up on pursuing social justice.

Co-​Creators Jesus’ teachings are a guide for how to create a caring, humanitarian society. Peacebuilding is a creative process of designing and building societies that are just; where institutions care for people’s wellbeing, where corporations calculate the value, they bring to people and the planet, not the profits they can extract from people and the planet. Peacebuilding is a strategy of breaking down that vision into identifiable steps that will contribute toward a bold future. The call to create means experimenting in radical peacebuilding may be more faithful than complacency and comfortable silence toward the status quo. Peacebuilding requires innovation and the failure that comes with it by straying beyond the safe road of professional titles and salaries.

Faithful and Effective Jesus teaches kindness and love of others both because it is faithful as well as an effective strategy for change. Too often, kindness to others is seen as weak, rather than an effective method to instigate change. We should be faithful even when we can’t be effective in bringing about noticeable or short-​term change. But we certainly should care and attempt to be effective by learning from others and reflecting on our practice. Peacebuilding offers a path of both faithfulness and effectiveness, of morality and strategy. Peacebuilding requires having hard conversations with people with whom we disagree because this is both the most compassionate ethical response to conflict, and the most effective way to bring about change.

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The Tension between Mennonite Ethics and Institutional Loyalty This chapter addresses a critical problem for Mennonites like me. The problem is the tension between loyalty to the Mennonite peacebuilding ethics identified above and the demand for unquestioning loyalty to Mennonite institutions. In too many cases, employees at Mennonite institutions are required to put institutional loyalty above Anabaptist ethics. Early Anabaptists put loyalty to ethics and beliefs above loyalty to Catholic or Protestant institutions in the 1500s. But in my experience today, Mennonite administrators and staff often seem to place loyalty to institutions above Mennonite theology and ethics, emphasizing job security, not justice. Too often, Mennonite managers seek to legitimize injustice and harms toward other by touting the need for institutional survival. If there is a question between embracing a young person with an LGBTQ identity, or attempting to preserve institutional relationships with Conservative churches, the choice has too often been the latter. If an administrator must choose between meeting with a person raped on a Mennonite campus, or listening to a lawyer’s advice to not have any direct contact with victims for fear of a possible lawsuit or loss of institutional reputation, administrators time and again choose to listen to the lawyer, not the victim. In too many Mennonite institutions, leaders practice authoritarian rather than democratic decision making. In too many institutional hiring committees, there is still a preference for hiring “ethnic” Mennonites of Swiss or Russian background rather than non-​ethnic Mennonites even when they have more robust commitments to Anabaptist ethics. In too many cases, Mennonite institutions have fired or pushed out members whose commitment to Anabaptist ethics supersedes their loyalty to institutions. Mennonite administrators wield institutional power to implement the ban, firing and pushing people out who do not conform. Several of my professors and mentors were pushed out of Mennonite institutions for their Anabaptist ethics. I have experienced both shunning from Mennonites in my community and Mennonite administrators. Mennonite institutions that sacrifice ethics in an illusory bargain to protect these institutions will likely fail at both. What is the point of having Anabaptist institutions if not for protecting and advancing Anabaptist theology and ethics? To understand this question, this chapter first explores the historical evolution of Anabaptism, and why even today Mennonite institutions lean toward authoritarian decision-​ making and illusions of an ethnic racial purity where morality is passed by blood in the “Mennonite game.”

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Anabaptist Origins and Theologies Anabaptism began as a desire to be more faithful to the original Jesus movement. Early Anabaptists in the 1500s scratched through the layers of institutional crud that obscured Jesus’ teachings as political leaders molded the Bible to their political purposes. Before Emperor Constantine switched from persecuting Jesus followers to establishing the Christian Empire, Jesus’ followers were largely Jews with a humanitarian vision, with no intention of starting a new religion.2 Anabaptists were looking for authenticity in an era when fantasies of Church-​based political, military, and economic power entranced both Catholic and Protestant leaders. Anabaptism evolved to reject state power and embrace the pre-​Empire Jesus movement’s humanitarian vision. Three theological principles distinguished Anabaptists from Protestants and Catholics; adult baptism, separation of church and state, and nonresistance, later expressed as pacifism. Menno Simons renewed Jesus’ humanitarian vision: “For true evangelical faith … cannot lay dormant; but manifests itself in all righteousness and works of love; it … clothes the naked; feeds the hungry; consoles the afflicted; shelters the miserable; aids and consoles all the oppressed; returns good for evil; serves those that injure it; prays for those that persecute it.”3 Anabaptists preached faith in action. From the very beginning, conflict rocked the Anabaptist movement. Early Anabaptist leaders Hans Reist and Jakob Amman were fixated on how they should apply the ban, a form of church discipline for those who violated church rules. Reist insisted on a “soft” ban (exclusion from communion) while Amman preached that excommunication involved total shunning and exclusion from social interaction and church membership. The two disagreed so much that they excommunicated each other.4 Anabaptists had left the Catholic and Protestant movements over differences in theology. They faced horrible torture and death for their beliefs. Yet they replicated the same harsh coercion to deal with internal theological disagreements within the

2 See, for example, Richard Rubenstein, When Jesus Became God: The Struggle to Define Christianity During the Last Days of Rome (New York: Harcourt, 1999); John Kampen, Matthew within Sectarian Judaism (New Haven, CN: Yale University Press, 2019); Daniel Boyarin, “Jesus Kept Kosher: The Jewish Christ of the Gospel of Mark.” Tikkun (March 2, 2012). 3 Menno Simons, Why I Do Not Cease Teaching and Writing (1539). 4 Christian Neff, “Ban.” Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online (1953). Web. https://​gameo.org/​index.php?title=​Ban&oldid=​162​938. Accessed August 29 2020.

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Anabaptist movement. There was little room to democratically discuss what faithfulness looked like. The Dutch Waterlander congregations shared beliefs in adult baptism, church-​state separation, and nonresistance with other Anabaptists. But they did not want to be called “Mennonites” after Anabaptist leader Menno Simons, as this seemed idolatrous. They were tolerant and engaged with science and the world, allowing intermarriage at a time when other Mennonites thought non-​Mennonites were “evil and impure.”5 This early Anabaptist notion that morality somehow passed through marriage and blood would later become a central theme for some Anabaptists.

Anabaptist Theology Mutates to Illusions of Racial Purity As early Anabaptists fled persecution in the German-​ speaking territories in central Europe, they took their German language and culture with them, a move that would again strengthen the “ethnic” identities of these Anabaptists. Between 1700 and 1900, many Mennonites experienced poverty, persecution, and economic hardship. Authorities in some regions hoped that isolating Anabaptists would prevent the spread of this nonconformist group. In some Western parts of Europe, Waterlander Mennonites were more tolerated, and intermingled with other groups. But in Poland and Ukraine in particular, Mennonites were treated by the state as a separate German ethnic group. While many grew wealthy, they also experienced violence by the state, insurgent forces, or local peasants. When the Russian revolution destroyed many Mennonite churches and institutions, the next generation of Mennonites became largely secular, viewing the term “Mennonite” as an ethnic identity marker for the purity of their Germanness.6 In the 1920s, Mennonites in Germany participated in racial science that Nazis would later use to justify the Holocaust. Mennonite churches gave German race scientists their church records to attest to the “racial purity” of their members. Mennonite leaders offered up access to their communities for measuring noses and foreheads in an effort that would assert Mennonites were some of the purest “Aryans.” Mennonites in Europe and North America wrote extensively on “blood purity” from the 1930s and 40s, asserting their

5

Zijpp, Nanne van der, “Waterlanders.” Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online. 1959. Web, Aug 26, (2020). https://​gameo.org/​index.php?title=​Water​land​ ers&oldid=​134​967. 6 Benjamin W. Goossen. “Measuring Mennonitism: Racial Categorization in Nazi Germany and Beyond,” JMS 34 (2016): 225–​46.

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agreement with Hitler and the Nazi regime that “morals pass through blood.”7

The Anabaptist Vision: Pacifism vs Fascism and Antisemitism By the 1930s, Mennonites in the Netherlands, Germany, Poland, Danzig, and Ukraine were enthusiastic about Hitler. Nazis were also keen about portraying Mennonites as representatives of the “purest” Aryan German bloodlines since Mennonites had remained so isolated and had protected their German language and culture wherever they had moved. Mennonites in the Netherlands, Poland, Germany, Danzig, and Ukraine would participate in German violence toward Jews by participating in racial science, justifying antisemitic theology, and joining German forces to administer and carry out the killing of Jews. Nazis would give Mennonites and other German groups access to the homes, furniture, and clothing stolen from Jews before they were killed.8 This is the historical context under which Harold S. Bender gave his 1944 “Anabaptist Vision” keynote address at the American Society of Church History. Bender emphasized Christian discipleship, community, and nonresistance as key to Anabaptism when in reality, these beliefs were not widely understood or shared.9 By discipleship, Bender meant that Anabaptists should not just profess to be Christians but should live out and emulate Jesus’ life and teachings. Bender emphasized that Anabaptists should practice the most central part of Jesus’ teachings, including love and nonresistance, at a time when thousands of Mennonites were supporting Hitler’s fascist empire. Bender’s vision became aspirational for Mennonite institutions in the 1940s and onward as North American-​based MCC launched a humanitarian mission to save thousands of mostly secular Russian Mennonites after World War II. Given their allegiance to Nazi Germany, Mennonites living in Ukraine, Poland, and Danzig were threatened with almost certain death after WWII, with Soviet forces attempting to track them down to punish them for collaborating with the enemy. MCC leaders advocated for privileged

7

Benjamin W. Goossen, Chosen Nation: Mennonites and Germany in a Global Era (New Jersey: Princeton, 2017). 8 Lisa Schirch, “Anabaptist Mennonite Relations with Jews Across Five Centuries.” ML 74 (2020a). 9 Harold S. Bender, “The Anabaptist Vision,” Church History 13 (1944): 3–​ 24; and MQR 18, (1944): 67–​88.

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status for these largely secular ethnic Mennonites, many of whom had supported and even participated in the Holocaust.10 At a time when the rest of the world was coming to terms with the Nazi’s genocidal concentration camps, the word “Jew” does not appear in the index of MCC’s official history written in 1952, a book that focuses on MCC’s post-​ WWII relief work in Europe with a variety of groups.11 Over the decades a variety of Mennonite researchers have gone through MCC records. They reveal that MCC advocated that Nazi-​supporting Mennonites should have a privileged position in the limited refugee acceptance in the Americas, possibly privileging Nazis over Jews escaping the Holocaust.12 According to MCC records, MCC staff knowingly “duped” international refugee agencies by claiming these Mennonites were of Dutch origin, and were pacifist Christians, even though many were not religious, had supported the German army. MCC leaders denied that the Mennonites had supported Hitler or fought with German forces.13 This mass program to save the ethnic Mennonite community after WWII was rooted in antisemitic ideas. At that time, most written accounts by Mennonites blamed Jews for the violence they experienced under both Bolshevism and Communism, suggesting that Jewish violence justified the Nazi’s genocidal violence.14 In 1949, MCC began to aid Palestinians with narratives that described Jewish persecution of Palestinians as worse than any other humanitarian situation in that era, seemingly denying or discounting the Holocaust.15 MCC’s peace programming has centered on denouncing 10 Schroeder, Steve. “Mennonite-​ Nazi Collaboration and Coming to Terms With the Past: European Mennonites and the MCC, 1945–​ 1950,” CGR 21, no. 2 (Spring 2003). 11 John Unruh, In the Name of Christ (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1952). 12 The following Mennonite researchers document the history of MCC’s assistance to Mennonite refugees. T. D. Regehr. “Or Dutch or German Ancestry? Mennonite Refugees, MCC and the International Refugee Organization,” JMS 13 (1995); Steve Schroeder. “Mennonite-​Nazi Collaboration and Coming to Terms With the Past: European Mennonites and the MCC, 1945–​1950,” CGR 21, no. 2 (Spring 2003). Steve Schroeder, “Selective Memory: Danziger Mennonite Reflections on the Nazi Era, 1945–​1950” Bethel College, North Newton, Kansas, YouTube (March 16, 2018); Goossen, 2017. 13 Steve Schroeder, “Selective Memory: Danziger Mennonite Reflections on the Nazi Era, 1945–​1950” Presentation at “Mennonites and the Holocaust Conference.” Bethel College (March 2017) (Note: The explanation of the term “duped”is at 13. 30 seconds.) 14 Ben Goossen, “Five Myths about Mennonites and the Holocaust.” Anabaptist Historians (June 14, 2018). https://​a naba​ptis​t his​tori​a ns.org/​2018/​06/​14/​five-​ myths-​about-​men​noni​tes-​a nd-​t he-​holoca​ust/​. Accessed August 10, 2020. 15 John Unruh, In the Name of Christ (Scottsdale, PA: Herald Press, 1952), 167.

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Israeli violence toward Palestinians for over 70 years. Yet the origins of MCC work in the region is rarely discussed. However, the legacy of the logic of antisemitism and fascism remains evident in Mennonite institutions. Ignoring the history of Mennonite departures from pacifism created an illusion of a coherent Anabaptist vision. But the Mennonite church today continues to struggle with this legacy.

Struggling with Bender’s Anabaptist Vision As Anabaptists evolved in North and South America, many branches attempted to keep themselves “pure” by being separate. Internal conflict divided Anabaptists as they rebelled against authoritarian leaders who attempted to enforce conformity. The practice of shunning and the ban continued to be practiced. Anabaptist communities struggled with internal differences in theological interpretation of the Bible, or in practical ethics of deciding which new technologies, new clothing, and new aspects of church life, like Sunday School, should be adopted. Church conflicts and divisions mounted as Anabaptists doubled down on authoritarian styles of leadership.16 By bringing thousands of Mennonites complicit with Nazi violence to North and South America, MCC saved them from Russian violence. However, this mass migration of Mennonites also prevented them from facing accountability and denazification efforts that might have tempered their antisemitism and support for fascism and authoritarianism. In North and South America, Mennonites spread antisemitic ideas in their newspapers and supported antisemitic causes.17 As MCC worked to build bridges between North American Mennonite institutions with thousands of Mennonites who migrated to North and South America from Europe, they began a range of “peace” programs that would reinforce Bender’s articulation of the Anabaptist vision. Some of these ethnic European Mennonites rejected MCC’s peace programs. Russian Mennonites writing in Canadian newspapers would denounce race-​mixing and portray Mennonites as an ethnic group. J. J. Thiessen wrote treatises imagining a secular Mennostaat, a Mennonite state composed of pure-​ blood ethnic Mennonites.18 Two former Nazi officials became the editors of Canadian Mennonite newspapers. Mennonite publishers printed Ku Klux 16 Lisa Schirch and Verne Schirch, “Pacifism in a Divided Church.” The Mennonite (August 1, 2014). 17 Schirch, 2020a. 18 James Urry, “The Mennonite Commonwealth in Imperial Russia Revisited.” MQR (April 2010).

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Klan materials. Some of the Nazi-​supporting Russian Mennonites became the architects of the white supremacy institutions in North America. Ben Klassen wrote the foundational books justifying white supremacy. Ingrid Rimland started the first websites to spread Holocaust denial. April Gaede created dating sites and folk music to popularize concepts of blood purity and racial hate. Robert Millar established safe havens and meeting spaces to build institutional networks between extremist hate groups promoting Klassen’s idea of a “racial holy war” in 2020. These white supremacist institutions built by ethnic Mennonites post-​W WII continue to reap violence and fear among generations of Jews, African Americans, Latinos, Asians, and other minority groups living in North America.19 While many Russian Mennonites were aware of the history of support for Nazis, many Swiss Mennonites and Mennonites from other ethnic backgrounds did not. But Swiss Mennonites in North America also struggled with Bender’s vision over the last century; as many were moving to urban areas, entering new professions, and experiencing more contact with other religious groups influenced by fundamentalism and evangelicalism. Valerie Weaver-​Zercher’s article “Harold Who? A Twenty-​something Glimpse of the Anabaptist Vision” reflects on the “shifting terrain” among Anabaptist youth in the early 2000s between “righteousness and what is right.” She notes the “chafing of purity against relevancy, separateness against engagement, personal faithfulness against social responsibility.” In her view, Anabaptist “[r]‌ighteousness can … warp into collective hubris and sectarianism.”20 She notes that new leaders “launder” and re-​wear Bender’s language today.21 In his article on “Eco-​pacifism and the Anabaptist Vision,” Matthew Eaton notes that Anabaptists should have something to say about the climate crisis.22 Anabaptist ethics should respond to both events, and to wrestle with what is “right” in order to be relevant, engaged and socially responsible.

Sexual Abuse Among Mennonites In the 1990s, Mennonite women began writing about the impact of church authoritarianism in its relationship to sexual abuse in the church. Dorothy Yoder Nyce argued that Bender’s Anabaptist Vision failed to include any critique of patriarchy, with its perpetual silencing and subordination of women’s 19 Schirch, 2020a. 20 Valerie Weaver-​ Zercher, “Harold Who? A Twenty-​ something Glimpse of the Anabaptist Vision,” CGR 19, no 2 (Spring 2001), 98. 21 Ibid, p. 102. 22 Matthew Eaton, “Eco-​pacifism and the Anabaptist,” CGR 29, no. 2 (Spring 2011).

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voices in the church.23 In 1993, Carolyn Heggen published Sexual Abuse in Christian Homes and Churches.24 Ruth Krall detailed the patterns of sexual abuse in church institutions and John Howard Yoder’s harms in her three volumes of The Elephants in God’s Living Room.25 John Howard Yoder had taken Bender’s Anabaptist vision a step further in his book The Politics of Jesus, asserting that discipleship requires the responsibility to be a witness to Anabaptist ethics.26 The wider Mennonite church would only start to come to terms with the extent of the Mennonite patriarchy’s authoritarian control of information regarding Yoder’s abuse of power through sexual aggression in 2015.27 More recently, Jamie Pitts would write about how Yoder’s harms also hurt Bender’s Anabaptist vision.28 Over the last century, the North American Mennonite church has seen a rapid decline in membership. Anabaptist institutions have worked to resolve their differences but often have split over conflicts over clothing, religious education, women’s leadership, LGBTQ membership and so on.29 Too often, Anabaptist history and theology books have left off the uncomfortable parts of our story. We call ourselves a peace church but overlook the nasty conflicts we have had amongst ourselves. We dismiss the frequency with which Mennonites have abandoned the pacifist ethic of treating all people, including Jews, women, and people with LGBTQ identities, with dignity.30 We are reluctant to acknowledge Mennonite support for fascist leaders, past and present. And somehow, our history books and theologians have only just recently begun to wrestle with Mennonite participation in justifying the Holocaust, in systemic racism, and colonialism. In our churches, the Anabaptist Vision 23 Yoder Nyce, “The Anabaptist Vision: Was It Visionary Enough for Women?” CGR 12, no. 3 (Fall 1994), 309. 24 Carolyn Heggen, Sexual Abuse in Christian Homes and Churches (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 1993). 25 Ruth Krall, The Elephants in God’s Living Room: Clergy Abuse and Institutional Clericalism (R.E. Krall, 2012). 26 Yoder, John Howard, The Politics of Jesus (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1972). 27 Rachel Waltner Goossen, “Defanging the Beast”: Mennonite Responses to John Howard Yoder’s Sexual Abuse,” MQR 89 (2015): 7–80. 28 Jamie Pitts, “Anabaptist Re-​V ision: On John Howard Yoder’s Misrecognized Sexual Politics,” MQR 89 (January 2015): 153–176. 29 Rich Preheim, “Century of growth and change.” Mennonite World Review (August 24, 2020). http://​men​nowo​rld.org/​2020/​08/​24/​news/​cent​u ry-​of-​gro​w th-​a nd-​ cha​nge/​. Accessed August 24, 2020. 30 Lisa Schirch and Jacob Mack-​Boll, “No pink in MWC’s rainbow.” Mennonite World Review (September 14, 2015). http://​men​nowo​rld.org/​2015/​09/​14/​opin​ion/​opin​ ion-​no-​pink-​in-​mwcs-​rain​bow/​. Accessed August 20, 2020.

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has not fueled an urgency to address white supremacy with its notions of racial purity, antisemitism, racism, sexism, and sexual violence that flowed not from Jesus’ teachings, but from secular patriarchy and Empire Christianity.

Reflections of an Anabaptist Peacebuilder Today, the Anabaptist vision is a blur. A look around the room at a Mennonite World Conference begs the question of what we all have in common. There are a million Mennonites in Africa and Latin America, more than twice the number in the US and Canada combined. Do we share a common way of understanding God and the Bible? Are we all pacifists and humanitarians, believing in the dignity of each child of God? Can we all sing hymns in harmony and do we all have a penchant for potlucks? What does it mean for me to be a Mennonite? Today, I ask myself whether it is a gift or a curse to be born into the Mennonite community. My personal experiences shape this question.

Mennonite Peace Education The Mennonite peace programs that grew out of Bender’s vision shaped my life. I am a product of ethnic Mennonite educational institutions attending Mennonite summer camps and churches, growing up in Bluffton College community, attending Eastern Mennonite High School, Goshen College, and then Conrad Grebel College where I studied peace theology, social justice, and Anabaptist ethics. I served a two-​year volunteer term with MCC working on Indigenous rights in eastern Canada. With a MA and PhD in Conflict Analysis and Resolution, I then served as faculty for 23 years at Eastern Mennonite University’s Center for Justice and Peacebuilding. Growing up in a church guided by Harold S. Bender’s “Anabaptist Vision” of Mennonite emphasis on communities of nonresistance, I wrongly assumed Bender’s vision was descriptive and normative for Mennonite institutions. While all these institutions shaped my beliefs, Goshen College professor Ruth Krall solidified my understanding of an “Anabaptist theology for peacebuilding” described later in this chapter. Krall taught about peace theology through readings from Latin American liberation theologians writing on colonialism and class structure, Black theologians writing on systemic racism, and feminist theologians writing on patriarchy, sexual abuse, and women’s empowerment. Krall positioned Anabaptist theology as part of a broader discussion on the relationship between church and state, social justice, and the ethics of humanitarianism and nonviolence.31 Krall’s approach 31 Ruth Krall and Lisa Schirch, Living on the Edge of the Edge (Victoria, British Colombia: Friesen Press, 2017).

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to Anabaptist ethics would touch every part of my career, inspiring me to translate Anabaptist ethics of “enemy love” to security policymaking in Washington DC, to survivors of sexual violence, and to the complicated politics of how Mennonite’s relate to Israel and Palestine.

Peacebuilding in Practice In 2001, I watched the attacks of 9/​ 11 with my colleagues at Eastern Mennonite University’s Center for Justice and Peacebuilding. We began writing about a peacebuilding response to terrorism.32 In 2001–​2002, I spent the year in East and West Africa on a Fulbright fellowship studying the roles of women in peacebuilding; with a focus on learning how women were responding to gender-​based violence.33 In 2005, I went to Iraq with MCC to train and learn from Iraqi peacebuilders. At the end of my two weeks in Erbil, Kurdistan, my colleagues told me, “It is great that you came here to exchange ideas about peacebuilding, but what we need Mennonites to do is to teach your military and your government about peacebuilding.” A month later, the Christian Peacemaker Team in Iraq was kidnapped by a terror group, ending with the assassination of my EMU student and friend Tom Fox.34 I would spend the next decade of my life at the Pentagon, West Point, Quantico, and a dozen other military bases teaching about civil society, humanitarian laws in the Geneva Convention, and the practice of civil society peacebuilding, including how to analyze the root causes of conflict, and how to practice listening, dialog, and negotiation with local leaders to find nonviolent solutions to local security threats. In 2009, I made the first of six trips to Afghanistan and Pakistan to write a report on a “Designing a Comprehensive Peace Process in Afghanistan.” Between 2010 and 2012, my closest colleagues were assassinated in terror attacks in both countries. I wrote about my “confessions of a modern-​day pacifist” working in these war zones in The Mennonite.35 During these years, some Mennonites supported this application of the Anabaptist Vision to security policymaking, while other Mennonites called me a traitor, concluding I could not be a Mennonite if

32 Lisa Schirch, The Ecology of Violent Extremism: Perspectives on Peacebuilding and Human Security (London: Rowman Littlefield, 2018). 33 Lisa Schirch, Women in Peacebuilding Training and Resource Manual (West African Network for Peacebuilding and Conflict Transformation Program, 2004). 34 Tricia Gates Brown, 118 Days: Christian Peacemaker Teams Held Hostage In Iraq (Chicago: Christian Peacemaker Teams, 2008). 35 Lisa Schirch, “Confessions of a Modern-​Day Pacifist.” The Mennonite (February 1, 2011).

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I was teaching peacebuilding to the military. One Mennonite pastor argued I should be fired from EMU for having any contact with the US military. Traumatized by the assassinations of three of my closest colleagues in Iraq, Pakistan and Afghanistan, I retreated from working directly in these war zones. I spent the next few years writing a curriculum on human security for military and police forces on how to relate respectfully to local communities, and to understand human security as a more effective and sustainable goal than national security.36

Applying Peacebuilding Practice to Mennonite Institutions As I retreated from international peacebuilding back to work within Mennonite institutions, I reconnected with a number of survivors of sexual abuse within the church who had confided to me about the sexual abuse they experienced in Mennonite institutions over the prior two decades. I had wrongly assumed these cases were handled with care and integrity. Some of the students who had told me of these experiences in the mid-​1990s were now in their 1940s. Twenty years after the abuse, the trauma still affected their lives. I learned that they felt abandoned by me and the other Mennonite administrators and faculty who they had told about the abuse. The abusers had never faced consequences. Mennonite community members still blame abuse survivors for speaking out. Survivors rightly felt betrayed by Mennonite institutions. Around the same time, the Mennonite Abuse Prevention (MAP) project published a database of cases in Anabaptist or other pacifist church traditions of proven or credible allegations of sexual violence: harassment, assault, abuse of power, and similar violations with credible documentation including media articles, court documents, church files, or other public documents.37 In January 2016, local police charged the vice president of one Mennonite institution with soliciting prostitution.38 This public event triggered former students to come forward with stories of mishandled cases of sexual abuse on campus.39 Around this same time, victims at multiple Mennonite institutions 36 Lisa Schirch, Handbook on Human Security: A Civil-​Military-​Police Curriculum (The Hague: Global Partnership for the Prevention of Armed Conflict and Alliance for Peacebuilding, 2016). 37 Mennonite Abuse Prevention. Found at https://​w ww.the​mapl​ist.org. Accessed on 3 March 2021. 38 Hannah Heinzekehr, “EMU vice president charged in sting operation.” The Mennonite. (January 9, 2016). https://​t heme​n non​ite.org/​daily-​news/​emu-​v ice-​ presid​ent-​char​ged-​in-​sting-​operat​ion/​. Accessed August 30, 2020. 39 See, for example, Megan Grove. “Survivors Need More Than Good Intentions: Why EMU’s attempt at reconciliation with me failed. Our Stories Untold (October 8,

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asked to meet with Mennonite administrators to share the impact of abuse on their lives. I attempted to use my own mediation skills to help arrange such meetings between victims and administrators at one Mennonite institution, while other colleagues did the same at other Mennonite institutions. After months of negotiation, the meetings between survivors and Mennonite administrators were called off by administrators. Lawyers had allegedly informed the university that any such meeting might bring legal risk. This was the first attempt at applying peacebuilding ethics to Mennonite institutions. Mennonite institutions had invited me to teach in their peacebuilding and restorative justice programs. But when I attempted to apply these peacebuilding ethics and practices to Mennonite institutions, it ended in my forced departure from my home institution. Instead of meeting with victims or compensating them for years of counseling expenses they incurred after abuse on campus, Mennonite administrators instead invested time and hundreds of thousands of dollars consulting with expensive lawyers and contractors, part of what is known in the survivor community as the “rape industrial complex” whereby universities hire corporate groups to write reports that protect them from legal challenges. With no other avenues to pursue truth and justice for the survivors of sexual abuse, I began writing publicly about Mennonite institutions and their refusal to meet with victims and pointed out how this betrayed the Anabaptist ethics as it was taught in the university’s courses on restorative justice and peacebuilding.40 The tension between institutional reputational concerns and the ethics of compassionate Anabaptism often moves from the theoretical and analytical to the personal. Personal in the sense that Mennonite institutions often ignore victims and dismiss or demonize the voice of a messenger/​advocate. In several instances, I felt a sense of retaliation for my advocacy on Anabaptist ethics in the church. In one case, Mennonite administrators threatened to cancel a large program I had invested years in developing. I agreed to quietly resign, knowing they wanted me to leave the Mennonite institution, if they would allow one more of my projects to move forward. This project involved 20 students, and I wanted to protect their effort and interests. The administrators quietly reversed their decision to cancel my program and, I left my

2018). http://​w ww.ourst​orie​sunt​old.com/​surviv​ors-​need-​more-​t han-​good-​int​enti​ ons-​why-​emus-​atte​mpt-​at-​rec​onci​liat​ion-​w ith-​me-​fai​led/​. Accessed August 15, 2020. 40 Lisa Schirch, “9 Remaining Questions on EMU’s DSA Report.” Our Stories Untold (January 10, 2017).

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position at the university after the close of that program as part of the bargain, abandoning my hopes of returning to full time teaching as planned.

Mennonite Peacebuilding Ethics and the Holocaust On this study trip to the Middle East, I would experience another gap between reality and narrative in Anabaptist ethics. Right before we left, I read Mennonite historian Ben Goossen’s shocking book of the extent of Mennonite support for the German Nazi state, antisemitism, and participation in the Holocaust. The book included many references to dozens of other Mennonite authors who have been writing about this history for decades. How could I have studied Mennonite history and spent my life attending and serving at Mennonite institutions without having heard this history? How could I be married to a Jewish man, raising our kids both Mennonite and Jewish, and not know this awful history of Mennonite harm to Jews? In Bluffton, Ohio, I had only heard one story about Mennonites and Nazis. Lois Gunden had worked with MCC in France and had helped to save some Jewish children. I had grown up believing Mennonites were sympathetic to Jews and the Holocaust. As we listened to and learned from both Palestinians and Jews, I realized that while I had learned extensively about Palestinian suffering and had heard literally dozens of sermons about Palestinian liberation in Mennonite institutions, I had never heard mention of antisemitism in any Mennonite church service or institution. In 2018, The Mennonite commissioned me to write an article in which I voiced both support for Jews and Palestinians, calling on Mennonites to address the history of antisemitism so that our advocacy for Palestinians was not laden with antisemitic tropes. I received hate mail, including curses from Mennonite institutional staff. The Mennonite published a response to mine from a Swiss-​Palestinian man who repeatedly used my name and attributed ideas and assertions that I had not made. A few weeks later, I was scheduled to teach a course at another Mennonite university. There I learned that local Mennonite leaders, had called for my courses to be canceled and my books to be banned.41 In my lived experience as a Mennonite attending and working for Mennonite institutions, I see a dwindling peace church that becomes ever more fragmented by internal conflicts each decade. Mennonite institutions still practice the ban against people who 41 Lisa Schirch and Marc Gopin, “A Mennonite Agenda for Research and Action on Antisemitism,” ML 74 (2020b). https://​m l.bethe​l ks.edu/​2020/​07/​02/​a-​mennon​ ite-​age​nda-​for-​resea​rch-​a nd-​act​ion-​on-​a ntis​emit​ism/​. Accessed July 30, 2020.

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speak out on behalf of LGBTQ inclusion, who reveal sexual abuse within the church, who attempt to address structural racism, or who write critically about Mennonite history, including uncomfortable truths about Mennonite support for Hitler and the Holocaust. Mennonite institutions have repeatedly sanctioned me for simply advocating for Anabaptist ethics and applying Mennonite peacebuilding approaches to Mennonite institutions. In my 2017 art show “A Tribe Called Mennonite,” I described our tribal identity as shaped by common beliefs in community, peace, and service.42 But today, after being pushed out of Mennonite institutions and labeled a troublemaker, I am less sure. While forcibly liberated from Mennonite institutions, I feel a responsibility to record the story of what happened to me, and how my allegiance to Anabaptist ethics rather than institutions has shaped my career in the field of peacebuilding. It brings no pleasure to bear the branding of a Mennonite troublemaker. The term might be an insult except that former Senator and US civil rights leader John Lewis tasked people to “get in good trouble” referring to the responsibility to work for social justice. My troublemaking emerges from Anabaptist ethics, and was punished by Anabaptist institutions.

Re-​Envisioning Anabaptism Given this theology of peacebuilding and my experiences in the church, I offer here a set of ideas for an Anabaptist Vision relevant in 2020.

Focus on How We Read the Bible, Not Issues Mennonites read the Bible in different ways. Progressive Mennonites read the Bible as a document with divine inspiration but written by human beings living in a historical context and reflecting the secular political powers and cultural norms of that era. Progressive Mennonites do not see a contradiction between science and religion. Conservative Mennonites read the Bible as written directly by God. The Bible is seen as ahistorical and infallible. If science asserts that the world was created over millions of years of evolution rather than in seven days, the Bible’s version of history is correct in this worldview. These lead to two very different Anabaptist visions, based on either a conservative or progressive understanding of the Bible. 42 Lisa Schirch, “Eight Ways to Strengthen Mennonite Peacebuilding,” in Global Mennonite Peacebuilding: Exploring Theology, Culture, and Practice, ed. Jeremy M. Bergen, Paul C. Heidebrecht, and Reina C. Neufeldt, special issue, CGR 35, no. 3 (Fall 2017): 361–​84.

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Conflicts in the Mennonite church often focus on issues such as acceptance of membership and leadership by people with an LGBTQ identity. But these issues stem from the central question of how we read the Bible. Anabaptists are frustrated with each other. Conservative churches have left Mennonite conferences. And many progressive church members offended by a “violent process” of church conferences deliberating about people with an LGBTQ identity, but often not with them have walked away from the church altogether.43 A relevant Anabaptist Vision will acknowledge the fundamental differences in how we read and understand the Bible.

Focus on Ethics, not Ethnicity In numerous hiring committees at Mennonite institutions, the question is raised about whether the hire needs to be an ethnic Mennonite, to belong to a Mennonite church, or to simply believe in Anabaptist ideas. In the hiring committees I have sat on, ethnic Mennonite decisionmakers have implied that ethnicity is more important than ethics. I experienced three incidences when there was an African American candidate more qualified and with greater scholarship and public recognition than the ethnic Mennonite candidate. Yet in each case, the ethnic Mennonite was chosen. While there are some signs that this is changing, Mennonite institutions today continue to make hiring decisions based on seemingly innocent dynamics of the “Mennonite game” playing on ethnic last names and family lineages. This game often implies that a person is “good” or moral because they come from a good family. As cited earlier, Hitler asserted that morals pass through blood, and he pointed to Mennonites supposed “pure German bloodlines” as superior to Jews, Africans, Asians, and Indigenous peoples. As other authors have noted, at best the Mennonite game excludes the vast majority of Mennonites who are not white, aka ethnic Swiss or Russian Mennonites. At worst, the Mennonite game is an exercise in white supremacy, identifying the whiteness of our genetic past.44 At many Mennonite institutions, the “Other than Mennonite” faculty and staff offer a litany of stories of how they are treated as second class.

43 Stephanie Krehbiel, “The Violence of Mennonite Process: Finding the Address of the Present.” Pink Menno Website. February 10, 2014. 44 David Swartz, “The Mennonite Game and Whiteness.” Patheos Blog (January 15, 2020). https://​w ww.path​eos.com/​blogs/​a nxio​usbe​nch/​2020/​01/​t he-​mennon​ite-​ game-​a nd-​whiten​ess/​. Accessed August 20, 2020.

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This ethnic hierarchy not only plays into white supremacy, but it also actively undermines the quality, diversity, and ethical foundation of Mennonite institutions. Hiring the people with the right last name and heritage means that Mennonite institutions lack ethnic and racial diversity, hire mediocre ethnic Mennonite candidates rather than more qualified non-​ethnic Mennonites, and puts ethics as a “frosting on the cake” rather than the foundational qualification. Mennonite institutions pride themselves on ethics. But if ethics are sacrificed to protect the ethnic quality of the institution, then the institution loses its core purpose and selling point. Would students want to attend a university primarily led by a white ethnic group or a university which consistently puts ethics over everything else? A relevant Anabaptist Vision will emphasize ethics and relegate the remnants of German, Dutch, and Russian names and cultural languages and foods to these national origins. The Mennonite from Congo, Puerto Rico, Indonesia must be embraced for their ethics and by the content of their character, and not by their last name or ethnic origin.

Focus on Humility and Self-​Reflection, not Superiority “We’re proud of our humility.” It is a joke I heard my Mennonite colleagues tell me many times. Mennonite leaders would stand up to explain our institutional values and invariably, they would mention humility. They would imply Mennonites “are superior at being humble.” And yet Mennonites routinely leave out the unflattering parts of our history, the stories of sexual abuse, antisemitism, exclusion, or conflict. A relevant Anabaptist Vision will practice open self-​reflection to come to terms both with the positive contributions Mennonites have made to the world, as well as the areas where we have harmed others.

Focus on Trauma Healing and Social Justice, not Redemptive Suffering and Victim Narratives Anabaptists have too often embraced the Catholic notion of redemptive suffering; the belief that Jesus’ suffering and death was a redemptive act that atoned for human sin. This view puts Jesus’ death at the center of the Jesus story as opposed to his teachings on enemy love, support for the poor or outcast, or his teachings on love. The belief that Jesus suffering is redemptive translates then to the justification that suffering can be a celebrated pathway for spiritual connection.

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Approximately 1500 or so Anabaptists were killed in the 16th century by governing authorities. Violence against Russian Mennonites from 1917 onward resulted in the death of approximately 30,000 Mennonites and the rape, tortured and enslavement of many more who suffered in the Russian gulags. Because of this history of persecution and suffering, Mennonites tend to view themselves as victims. Clearly, Mennonites are not just victims. Thousands of Mennonites have engaged in harms to Indigenous peoples in Russia, Canada, the US, and in Latin America where Mennonite colonies settled on Indigenous lands. Some Mennonites justify their support for Hitler by suggesting Jews were responsible for Bolshevik repression of Mennonites and some even go so far as portraying Mennonites as “Jews,” emphasizing that Mennonites suffered more than Jews, and suggesting that there was a Mennonite “holocaust.” These are not accurate perceptions. Mennonite institutions and communities have also been resistant to accepting that sexual abuse is a widespread problem. There has been a pattern of denial and protection of ethnic Mennonite leaders who commit sexual abuse. Sexual offenders are portrayed as the victims of “nasty women” who complain about harassment or abuse. The view that early Anabaptists’ suffering was redemptive and made us more “like Jesus” continues to lead young people to assume that martyrdom is something to be admired. As I reflect on my motivations to work for peace in warzones like Iraq, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, I admit to having a fair dose of martyr complex and belief in redemptive suffering. The more pernicious side of redemptive theology emerges when victims of sexual abuse in church institutions are forced to suffer in silence and become more “Christ-​ like” in their acceptance of suffering. Suffering is not, itself redemptive. The suffering of children and adults abused by Mennonite leaders is harmful and has no benefit. The fantasy that all suffering is redemptive perpetuates and justifies patriarchal harms. A relevant Anabaptist Vision will question whether our martyr complexes and idolatry of redemptive suffering serve our communities today and will move beyond our victim identity so that we can take responsibility for harm done in and by Mennonites and Mennonite institutions.

Focus on Accountability and Healing, not Scapegoating Mennonite institutional leaders use scapegoats to deny and distract public attention from harms perpetrated by Mennonites. After WWII, MCC began denouncing Jewish migration to Palestine for the negative impact it had on Palestinians while at the same time denying that the Mennonite refugees

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MCC was helping had themselves supported, participated in, and benefited from the Holocaust.45 Jews were the scapegoat diverting attention away from the harms Mennonites had done to Jews. Similarly, the survivors of sexual abuse and advocates for community safety have become the scapegoats for some Mennonite leaders who aim to protect institutional reputations from accusations of appalling levels of acceptance toward sexual violence in Mennonite institutions. Survivors who speak out about sexual abuse in Mennonite institutions often feel pushed out of Mennonite institutions while offenders and enablers of abuse enjoy continued status and inclusion. At one Mennonite university, eight of the most outspoken women on campus, each of whom had expressed an exceptional commitment to Anabaptist ethics and victims of sexual abuse, were forced out of the university, not for any crime or problem. The problem seems to be that a powerful male administrator felt that each woman was too Anabaptist by seeking to apply ethics to the life of the institution itself. Scapegoating denies the community the opportunity to learn from mistakes and be accountable to those harmed. Instead of reconciliation, restorative justice, or trauma healing, there has been a strategy of scapegoating survivors for speaking out. A relevant Anabaptist vision for today will include the principle of accountability for harms done.

Focus on Community, not Banning or Shunning In John Paul Lederach’s article “Practicing compassion in church-​w ide disagreements,” he argues that Mennonites seem to have a “compassion deficit.”46 While we offer compassion to others, we have a hard time accepting differences. We long for the purity of belief and practice in how we practice Anabaptism. From the very beginning, Anabaptist leaders have excommunicated, banned, or shunned those who are different, citing Matthew 18 as a justification of the responsibility of the Church to punish and sanction those who do not conform.47 But Jesus did not tell followers to excommunicate each other. Rather Jesus preached compassion for the tax collectors and the Roman enemy. The sickness of coercive, punishing ex-​communication is practiced today Mennonite administrators who fire or push out those faculty 45 Schirch (2020a). 46 John Paul Lederach, “Practicing compassion in churchwide disagreements.” The Mennonite (January 30, 2017). https://​t heme​n non​ite.org/​opin​ion/​pra​ctic​ing-​com​ pass​ion-​chu​rchw​ide-​d isagr​eeme​nts/​. Accessed August 5, 2020. 47 Neff, Christian, “Ban.” Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online (1953). https://​gameo.org/​index.php?title=​Ban&oldid=​162​938. Accessed August 31, 2020.

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and staff who have done no wrong but have advocated for Anabaptist ethics of care for all members of the community. A relevant Anabaptist Vision will question whether our martyr complexes and idolatry of redemptive suffering serve our communities today and will move beyond our victim identity so that we can take responsibility for harm done in and by Mennonites and Mennonite institutions.

Focus on Democratic Decision Making, not Authoritarian Rule Mennonite conferences have recently started conducting surveys and dialogs among diverse church representatives. This represents democratic methods of decision making that hold both the ethics of care and compassion and the effectiveness of organizational development. But some Mennonite institutional leaders still shrink away from opportunities for public engagement and democratic deliberation and rely on the history of authoritarian leadership styles in our church. White ethnic Mennonites still hold the majority of positions of power and authority in church institutions. A relevant Anabaptist Vision will recognize that the dialog and listening to others are essential roles for leaders in any organization, and essential in an institution attempting to practice Anabaptist ethics of care and compassion to all.

Focus on Leaders with Visions, not Moderate Managers Mennonite institutions are led primarily by “Moderate Mennonite Male Managers” (MMMM) Tim Nafziger coined this term to reflect on leadership styles.48 Leaders could help a community imagine and live out a grand vision of the future of Anabaptism. But too often moderate Mennonite male administrators are simply “managing” the status quo. With dwindling numbers of students at Mennonite educational institutions, declining numbers of church members, and declining donations to Mennonite humanitarian programs like MCC, it seems risky to continue to emphasize managerial skills rather than people with a big bold vision. A relevant Anabaptist Vision will appoint visionary leaders who can use democratic processes for envisioning new ways of becoming more authentic Jesus followers committed to his humanitarian vision of care and compassion.

48 Tim Nafziger, “MMMMs: Expanding our Churchly imagination.” The Mennonite (October 30, 2015). https://​t heme​n non​ite.org/​mmmms-​expand​ing-​our-​churc​h ly-​ imag​inat​ion/​. Accessed August 10, 2020.

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The Once and Future Anabaptist Waterlanders In John Paul Lederach’s 2017 article on compassion and conflict within the Mennonite Church, he urges Mennonites to take a break from giving speeches that so often end up in “bible verse tennis” for and against the acceptance of LGBTQ people. Instead, Lederach inspires Mennonites to make “I have a dream …” speeches that capture their vision of the desired future for Anabaptism. In closing, this is my imagined Anabaptist community: I have a dream of a Waterlander-​like church with a tolerance for difference and inquisitive interest in learning from other people, the natural world and science. I have a dream someday Anabaptists will be known for the wideness of our welcome table, for our practice of love and listening, not for the ways Mennonite institutions punish, coerce and excommunicate people like me. I have a dream that one day Anabaptists will rise up and live out Jesus’ most important teachings preaching love, care, and acceptance instead of shunning, and self-​righteousness. I have a dream that one day survivors of sexual violence will be treated with respect and dignity rather than disdain. I have a dream of a church that accepts all people committed to a simple alter of humanitarian values, including people of diverse gender identities. I have a dream that one day Mennonites will no longer play the Mennonite name game or take note of people’s last names or skin colors as markers of their worth. I have a dream of an actively anti-​racist church and a church that has confronted its antisemitic past. I have a dream that my two Jewish Mennonite children will not be judged by words they use to speak of God or doctrine, but by the content of their character. I have a dream of a church committed to humility, self-​reflection and an effort to become better individually and collectively.

Bibliography Bender, Harold S. “The Anabaptist Vision.” Church History 13 (1944): 3–​24; and MQR 18 (1944): 67–​88. Boyarin, Daniel. “Jesus Kept Kosher: The Jewish Christ of the Gospel of Mark.” Tikkun, March 2, 2012. Eaton, Matthew. “Eco-​pacifism and the Anabaptist.” CGR 29, no. 2 (Spring 2011). Gates Brown, 118 Days: Christian Peacemaker Teams Held Hostage in Iraq, edited by Tricia. Chicago: Christian Peacemaker Teams, 2008. Goossen, Benjamin W. Chosen Nation: Mennonites and Germany in a Global Era. New Jersey: Princeton, 2017. —​—​—​. “Measuring Mennonitism: Racial Categorization in Nazi Germany and Beyond.” JMS 34 (2016): 225–​46.

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Goossen, Rachel Waltner. ““Defanging the Beast”: Mennonite Responses to John Howard Yoder’s Sexual Abuse.” MQR 89 (2015): 7–80. Heggen. Carolyn. Sexual Abuse in Christian Homes and Churches. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 1993. Heinzekehr, Hannah. “EMU vice president charged in sting operation.” The Mennonite. January 9, 2016. Krall, Ruth. The Elephants in God’s Living Room: Clergy Abuse and Institutional Clericalism. R. E. Krall, 2012. https://​r uthkrall.com/​downloadable-​books/​t he-​ elephants-​in-​gods-​l iving-​room-​series/​elephants-​in-​gods-​l iving-​room-​volume-​one/​ Krall, Ruth with Lisa Schirch. Living on the Edge of the Edge. Victoria, British Colombia: Friesen Press, 2017. Krehbiel, Stephanie. “The Violence of Mennonite Process: Finding the Address of the Present.” Pink Menno Website. February 10, 2014. http://​w ww.pinkmenno.org/​2014/​02/​ the-​v iolence-​of-​mennonite-​process-​fi nding-​t he-​address-​of-​t he-​present-​part-​1-​of-​2/​ Lederach, John Paul. “Practicing compassion in churchwide disagreements.” The Mennonite. January 30, 2017. Megan Grove. “Survivors Need More Than Good Intentions: Why EMU’s Attempt at Reconciliation with Me Failed.” Our Stories Untold (October 8, 2018). http://​w ww. ourst​orie​sunt​old.com/​surviv​ors-​need-​more-​t han-​good-​i nt​enti​ons-​why-​emus-​atte​ mpt-​at-​rec​onci​l iat​ion-​w ith-​me-​fai​led/​. Accessed August 15, 2020. Nafziger, Tim. “MMMMs: Expanding our Churchly imagination.” The Mennonite. October 30, 2015. https://​t heme​n non​ite.org/​mmmms-​expand​ing-​our-​churc​h ly-​ imag​inat​ion/​. Accessed August 10, 2020. Neff, Christian. “Ban.” Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online, 1953. Web. Aug 29, 2020. https://​gameo.org/​index.php?title=​Ban&oldid=​162​938. Pitts, Jamie. “Anabaptist Re-​V ision: On John Howard Yoder’s Misrecognized Sexual Politics.” MQR 89 (January 2015): 153–176. Preheim, Rich. “Century of growth and change.” Mennonite World Review (August 24, 2020): 1–2. Regehr, T. D. “Or Dutch or German Ancestry? Mennonite Refugees, MCC, and the International Refugee Organization.” JMS 13 (1995): 7–25. Rubenstein, Richard. When Jesus Became God: The Struggle to Define Christianity During the Last Days of Rome. New York: Harcourt, 1999. Schirch, Lisa. Women in Peacebuilding Training and Resource Manual. West African Network for Peacebuilding and Conflict Transformation Program, 2004. —​—​—​, and Verne Schirch. “Pacifism in a Divided Church.” The Mennonite. August 1, 2014. —​——​. “Confessions of a Modern-​Day Pacifist.” The Mennonite. February 1, 2011. —​—​—​, and Jacob Mack-​Boll. “No pink in MWC’s rainbow.” Mennonite World Review. September 14, 2015. —​——​. “Sexual Abuse in Mennonite Contexts.” The Mennonite. September 7, 2016.

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—​——​. Handbook on Human Security: A Civil-​ Military-​ Police Curriculum. The Hague: Global Partnership for the Prevention of Armed Conflict and Alliance for Peacebuilding, 2016. —​——​. “9 Remaining Questions on EMU’s DSA Report.” Our Stories Untold. January 10, 2017. —​—​—​. “Eight Ways to Strengthen Mennonite Peacebuilding.” In Global Mennonite Peace-​ building: Exploring Theology, Culture, and Practice, edited by Jeremy M. Bergen, Paul C. Heidebrecht, and Reina C. Neufeldt, special issue, CGR 35, no. 3 (Fall 2017): 361–​84. —​——, ed. The Ecology of Violent Extremism: Perspectives on Peacebuilding, 3–64. London: Roman and Littlefield, 2018. —​——​. “Anabaptist Mennonite Relations with Jews Across Five Centuries.” ML 74, Issue 2020 (2020a). https://ml.bethelks.edu/issue/vol-74/ —​ —​ —​ , and Marc Gopin. “A Mennonite Agenda for Research and Action on Antisemitism.” ML 74, Issue 2020 (2020b). https://ml.bethelks.edu/issue/vol-74/ Schroeder, Steve. “Mennonite-​ Nazi Collaboration and Coming to Terms With the Past: European Mennonites and the MCC, 1945–​ 1950.” CGR 21, no. 2 (Spring 2003): 6–16. Schroeder, Steve. “Selective Memory: Danziger Mennonite Reflections on the Nazi-​Era, 1945–​1950.” Bethel College, North Newton, Kansas, YouTube. 16 March 2018. Simons, Menno. Why I Do Not Cease Teaching and Writing, 1539. Swartz, David. “The Mennonite Game and Whiteness.” Patheos Blog. January 15, 2020. https://​w ww.path​eos.com/​blogs/​a nxio​usbe​nch/​2020/​01/​t he-​mennon​ite-​game-​ and-​whiten​ess/​. Accessed August 20, 2020. Unruh, John. In the Name of Christ. Scottsdale, PA: Herald Press, 1952. Urry, James. “The Mennonite Commonwealth in Imperial Russia Revisited.” MQR 84 (April 2010): 229–257. Wall Kimmerer, Robin. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Wisdom of Plants. Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2013. Weaver-​Zercher. Valerie “Harold Who? A Twenty-​something Glimpse of the Anabaptist Vision.” CGR 19, no. 2 (Spring 2001): 98. Yoder, John Howard. The Politics of Jesus. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1972. Yoder Nyce, Dorothy. “The Anabaptist Vision: Was It Visionary Enough for Women?” CGR 12, no. 3 (Fall 1994), 309. Zijpp, Nanne van der. “Waterlanders.” Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online, 1959. Web. Aug 26, 2020. https://​gameo.org/​index.php?title=​Water​land​ ers&oldid=​134​967.

Chapter 25  Negotiating the Blade: A Dramatic Reverie on Faith, Institutions, and Theater Julia R eimer

Reason is a sword With purpose on both sides The base to defend The point to make others die If, conscious of the danger I negotiate the blade, Blame not the witless sword For the bloody choice I made. The Sins of Sor Juana1

Time: Past Present Setting: Home and Abroad

Scene 1 It is 1990. I am about to graduate from college. I am the first to graduate with the newly created Theater minor at my denominational institution. There is no Theater major and won’t be for another 27 years when I’ll return to my alma mater as a professor and create one. But I know nothing of that now; it is 1990. Theater is my passion, and acting is the gateway drug. I don’t know any Mennonite Brethren (MB) members who are professional actors, although I know a number who work in educational theater and some 1

Selection from Karen Zacarías’ full-​length play, The Sins of Sor Juana, about 17th century Mexican poet and scholar Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz (Woodstock, IL: Dramatic Publishing, 2001), 82–​83.

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who sing opera, though none as their main vocation. A few months after graduation, I will be in the audience when actor Stephen Shank delivers a contemporary-​dress performance of the book of Revelation at the Mennonite World Conference. I’ll find it a testament to what imaginative staging on behalf of biblical literature can contrive. Numerous “performance of literature” experiences later, I will direct university students in a verbatim scripting of the book of Acts, and another production I will have developed around the parables as a sort of pre-​Pentecost riff on Waiting for Godot. But now it is 1990, and my own personal revelation is that what seems professionally possible for a Belgium-​born Mennonite in a European context feels a far cry from what’s possible for a Mennonite Brethren gal coming of age in the tight denominational communities of church and school in the USA. Go into the theater? What would my grandparents think?2 Music is church-​approved. Perhaps opera. I am taking voice lessons with a local instructor and will sing a duet as part of the village chorus for The Marriage of Figaro. My voice teacher will call me a “beacon” up there on the stage: her stamp of approval an indication of promise in the art. I sing a wobbly entry at the local MET opera auditions for young singers and struggle at lessons. My voice teacher tells me to find the right physical alignment by imagining a sword going through my sternum and coming out the small of my back. I cannot relax; there is a blade vivisecting my interior. I will eventually admit that I do not like to sing in public, a feeling that harrowing voice lessons and many singers’ tears have helped to instill. I will give up on opera, except as an appreciative listener. Years later, I will stand through all four of Wagner’s Ring operas at Lincoln Center during a sabbatical and post-​ doc study leave in New York City. I will remember my professional dream of pursuing opera as the perfect marriage of all of the arts and will feel what I imagine the Portuguese mean by saudade. Waiting in the subway afterwards, serenaded by a lone saxophonist playing opera tunes into the night, will only quicken my sense of temps perdu.

2

Years later, I will still only know a limited number of Mennonites of faith who have carved out for themselves a theater practice outside of the context of education. There are no doubt more than one realizes, but while writers, as one example, have forged spaces to share and debate their Anabaptism/​Mennonite-​connected and -​contested practices, theater is still on the margins of the margin when it comes to meta-​a rtistic conversations. Even in the broader Christian world, Christians in the theater have a hard time sustaining a thriving practice of thinking together “Christianly” about our art. Are we too busy doing, to take time to think about it as a connected community? It’s a curious thing and deserves more probing.

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My main theater professor at my Christian college is Episcopalian, although she has grown up Church of Christ. She will later dispense with religion altogether, except as scholarly inquiry, on the grounds of women’s and LGBTQIA+​full humanity. She takes a “when the church starts treating everyone equally, then maybe we can talk” stance and says she is “not wired for religion.” By then, we will have become good friends. She will be my home away from home during the much-​needed sabbatical/​study leave. She is one of the few people with whom I can talk church, father professors, Christian colleges, The Patriarchy, AND theater. She knows how it goes. My freshman roommate is also Episcopalian. She likes to joke that Episcopalians are allowed to sin; they just have to confess it afterwards. I wonder, when I am first getting to know her, if she is a “true believer.” She goes out dancing using a fake ID, and sometimes secretly smokes and drinks with one of my close friends. I fear she is leading her astray with her free-​ wheeling Episcopalian ways. We do theater together at our Christian college before she transfers to the state university to become a theater major. She tells stories about public university theater and life in the dorms. It sounds worldly and wearying. I am glad to be a big fish in a small pond. I get good roles. The pinnacle of my college acting career is playing Medea in Euripides’ Medea. We are performing outside in the tree-​lined outdoor amphitheater which will later be bulldozed in favor of a Math and Science building; a simultaneous blow to theater, nature, campus history, and community at the school. I am writhing onstage with delight, as I hear the Nurse’s description of the poisonous cloak having devoured my rival in flames, and also her father Creon who has tried to save her. Other roles will follow, but this is as close to acting transcendence as I will get. It feels like power, and some local fame. A year or so later, a theater friend will tell me that my performance in the poisoning scene had been “orgasmic.” He hadn’t told me at the time, he confides, because he thought it would make me self-​conscious. I had already stopped inviting my grandparents to my productions, but “orgasmic”?! What must my parents have thought? Several degrees later and I will laugh at this memory, as well as at the fact that I can no longer talk about this play in dramatic literature classes without saying, “Not Tyler Perry’s Madea, Euripides’ Medea.” I will realize that Tyler Perry has ruined the teaching of ancient Greek classics forever. Perhaps it was time, thinks my postmodern cultural critical self. An administrator will tell me, “Classics do well here.” I will keep this in mind as I make production selections. If cloaked as a classic, anything goes.

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Scene 2 It is 1996. I am halfway through a year of teaching speech and dramatic literature at an international university in one of the Baltic countries. I am attending the Christmas and New Year’s house parties at a retreat center in Austria for the winter break. An arts-​minded friend on staff has proposed Thornton Wilder’s short play “The Angel That Troubled the Water” as part of an evening’s service. Theater being my thing. I am playing a role. The play is inspired by, but is not itself, John’s gospel story of the Pool of Bethesda. The physician, a newcomer and wounded, has arrived at the pool in hopes of a healing and this follows: “ANGEL: Draw back, physician, this moment is not for you.” Holding his hand above the waters which are already beginning to move. “Healing is not for you.” “NEWCOMER: Surely, O, Prince, you are not deceived by may apparent wholeness.”

He protests, Must I drag my shame, Prince and Singer, all my days more bowed than my neighbor? “ANGEL: (Stands a moment in silence.) Without your wound where would your power be? It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble into the hearts of men. The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human being broken on the wheels of living. In Love’s service only the wounded soldiers can serve. Draw back.”

He draws back. What else can he do. Another receives the healing and the short play ends: “HEALED MAN: Look, my hand is new as a child’s. Glory be to God! I have begun again. (To the Newcomer.) May you be next, my brother. But come with me first, an hour only, to my home. My son is lost in dark thoughts. I—​I do not understand him, and only you have ever lifted his mood. Only an hour … my daughter since her child has died, sits in the shadow. She will not listen to us …”3

3 Thornton Wilder, “The Angel That Troubled the Waters,” in Collected Plays & Writings on Theater (New York: The Library of America, 2007), 54–​6. Wilder’s play, Our Town, was the first play I was in as a freshman, performed in the outdoor amphitheater that, until it was removed, was the only built-​for-​performance space on campus.

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The play ends. But it does not resolve. I am reminded of Paul with his thorn in his side. Job in his suffering. The pensive Jesus of Lithuanian art and wayside shrine, the Rūpintojėlis, who knows and feels our pain. A resident priest has read the play and draws my friend, his fellow staff member, into an emergency private conference. The theology of the play is suspicious. Is Jesus a Jesus who would deny people healing? Is this the message we want to send? He has Strong Reservations. It would be better for it NOT to be performed. I bend under the realization that we have been treading on Dangerous Ground. Dabbling with Heresies. Opening up the door to Imagination with our revisionist presentation of sacred text. Perhaps this is what those Mennonite women in head coverings meant, drifting through my college campus that day, when I overheard them talking in hushed tones about the dangers of secular humanism. Intrepid Gen Xers that we are, we perform it anyway, throwing caution and perhaps our souls to the wind. Some years later, back home, I will direct my verbatim scripting of the book of Acts, performed by students at a local Mennonite church. A man will write me a letter. While he and his wife enjoyed much of the presentation, they are concerned about the baptisms. While the full immersion was performed correctly. The one by pouring was most certainly not. This is Very Concerning. The Bible Clearly shows. We have Fallen into Error. I will not respond, finding this theological hairsplitting archaic, and perplexed that, with women playing men, each playing many parts, in a largely pantomimed contemporary dress performance with no actual water and technically no actual baptisms (nor demon possessions, but that is perhaps beside the point), that THIS is what his imagination finds it impossible to encompass. At least as many years later, I will perform my one-​woman Geertruydt at another Mennonite church, as a companion piece in an event entitled An Evening with Reverend and Mrs. Simons. The sound system won’t work well, and while Menno will have performed smoothly, for Geertruydt it is a rocky start. In defiance of the bubble of sound echoing back at me from the body microphone, I will rush through the tale of Menno’s wife, the accounts of Geertruydt’s husband, the three Dutch songs, the women martyrs Geertrudyt might have known, their son’s death, the mention of daughters, her own poor health, her hopes, her fears, her faith. In the talk-​back afterward, a man will ask, “How much of that was true?” I will want to say, “All of it.” Instead, I will explain of research I have done, historic songs I have found, how all the facts are true, but how I have put them together is an act of Imagination. I have had to imagine what it must have been like to have been a woman in her time. I have had to imagine what Menno’s “poor, weak wife” might have

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known, seen, wanted, felt, believed.4 I have had to imagine. I will feel, as I talk, that I am having to justify not only Geertruydt, but also myself, perhaps all women, so that all the hours of reading, writing, imagining, memorizing, rehearsing—​t he full sum of this once dead woman now brought back to life—​equals something more than just “Not True.” And Menno too, that evening, was an act of imagination. And so we negotiate the blade.

Scene 3 It is 9/​11. The original. I am in my hometown after a decade of graduate degrees and international sojourns. I am working on my performance-​of-​community dissertation, hoping to finish by January before becoming the next one-​person Theater department at my alma mater. I am sitting at my workstation in my parents’ house when I hear, see, watch in shock the morning news. Like others, I watch it unfold with increasing horror. Time slows. Morphs. Focuses. There is nothing else like it, this visceral raw presence. I watch as the plane, like a blade, vivisects the second building and explodes. The bodies falling will be the image that sears the strongest into my mind. Is that what I think it is? I will imagine myself in their shoes. It could have been any of us after all. Fire or air. What choice is that. I will remember that my Oklahoma cousin lives in Brooklyn. Others I also know will come to mind. But it is the freefall of bodies in space that tears me viscerally in half. A month later I will try to put these feelings into words for a Peace week at the university, to give testimony, to bear witness. By then, the Islamophobia will be rampant in my nation. “Those terrorists” will have become all Muslims, all Middle Easterners, Sikhs even with those turbans. All those with a certain look, a certain heritage, a certain name. I will introduce a Performance Hour in my almost faculty status and invite others to share pieces they have written. We will gather in the tiny makeshift theater lab in the Kriegbaum building basement to listen process think feel reflect. As I move into my theater program director role, I will seek to promote plays that pay attention to the seriousness of our times. Students will want their comedies, classics, and musicals. But I will give them a steady stream of

4

Menno Simons, “Reply to Gellius Faber,” in The Complete Writings of Menno Simons, c. 1496–​1561 (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1956), 674. Simons makes little mention of wife or family in his voluminous writings, although there is one letter addressed to Geertruydt’s sister.

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major and minor catastrophes—​victims of war5, immigrants and refugees,6 the pogroms7, trying to survive on minimum wage8, crimes against humanity and truth and reconciliation commissions9, and, as my penultimate parting gift, the space shuttle disaster.10 I will think of these as my Anabaptist social justice pieces, my Jesus-​ who-​ loves-​ t he-​ powerless pieces, my seeking-​ t he-​ peace-​of-​t he-​city plays.11 I will wonder how long before I am caught out in my liberal progressive agenda, as I know it will seem to the more conservative in my institutional community. I throw in some lighter fare to throw them off the scent. A student will write a review for a class saying that the play about Bosnian refugees is inappropriate for our university. I had included an opening monologue drawn from the script’s introduction hoping to forestall such moralizing judgments: PROLOGUE: We make decisions all the time. Decisions about them. Them is always different from us. Them has no face. Them is a little bit deserving of all the bad that happens to them. Them is used to violence—​it’s in their blood. There are rules about them. We keep them over there, out of sight, conceptual. We do not get close enough to touch or smell or know them. We do not want to see how easily we could become them …12 Followed by the play itself: a story of war and of trauma. Too political for an opening frame? Too confrontational—​t his naming of our American desire to keep “the other” firmly over there, often rejecting the very refugees that our own political actions have often helped to create? Or was it the description of a rape that pushed the student over the edge? The character Seada breaks down in a monologue of despair as she relives the rape by soldier and 5 Euripides’ Trojan Women, Heather Raffo’s 9 Parts of Desire, Eve Ensler’s Necessary Targets. 6 Mark Harelik’s The Immigrant, Eduardo Machado’s Once Removed. 7 Fiddler on the Roof, in its third production at the institution. 8 Joan Holden’s Nickel and Dimed, based on Barbara Ehrenreich’s 2001 book. 9 Etan Frankel’s Truth and Reconciliation. A Staged Reading Series allowed us additionally to take on themes of discrimination, undocumented workers, and mental health—​t hrough plays like A Raisin in the Sun, Death of a Salesman, Crimes of the Heart, and Real Women Have Curves—​a nd talk-​backs after. 10 Jane Andersen’s Defying Gravity, inspired by the 1986 Space Shuttle Challenger disaster. 11 Jeremiah 29:7 (NIV), “Also, seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the LORD for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper,” used by Calvin Seerveld in a 2007 Christian in Theater Arts (CITA) conference to encourage theater artists to engage their communities. 12 Eve Ensler, “Introduction,” in Necessary Targets: A Story of Women and War (New York: Villard, 2001), xi.

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death of her child, finally letting loose all she has been holding in. Not fitting to the decorum, the teaching and (emphasis on) pleasing, one expects from a night of Christian university theater?13 Too graphic for the stage? I will write in the paper’s margin, “Would it have made a difference if the American psychiatrist had been a Christian? There’s nothing to say that she wasn’t.” I am trying to imagine some “Christian” lamination whereby this interview-​ inspired story, this play that rings true to life, might be approved, might move from the “them” category to maybe could be “us.” Is the line we draw between church and world thinner than we think? Or perhaps this church-​ world binary has failed us altogether, as some would suggest.14 After days of intense interviews at the Center for Women War Victims in Zagreb, the playwright is lying on her guest bed with the mental images of horror swirling through her brain: Although I did not feel grace or the presence of anything remotely resembling God, I sensed this suspension as a kind of involuntary prayer, a call to make Bosnia matter. To make war matter. But how do you make destruction matter? … Maybe this is the purpose of art, and theater in particular, to experience what we experience, to see what’s in front of us, to allow the truth in, with all its sorrow and brutality, because in the theater we are not alone …. We are there, for these moments together, joined by what we see and hear, made stronger, hopefully, by what opens us.15 If we are open. The lighter fare, too, will get its share of Christian critique. A production of Mexican folk tales will offend a not-​H ispanic couple. The three “damns” in a Noel Coward comedy will be too much for another (Not all classics get a pass, I will learn). An absurdist one-​act I have carelessly sent to a donors’ dinner will set off alarms in another quarter. Though supportive of an old-​ timey version of the white picket fence American dream, the short play did happen to mention lesbians along the way. I should have known. I should have known. But as to-​be-​expected, if still-​d isappointing, such pietistic and

13 Horace describes the purpose of theater as “to profit or to please, or to blend in one the delightful and the useful” in The Art of Poetry (p. 75). These and notions of decorum also derived from classical texts hold on in some traditions, for better and for worse. 14 TRAV (1957) discusses two kingdoms theology, which is then picked up and critically reassessed in the Recovering From the Anabaptist Vision (2019) with attention to the ways historical Anabaptist theology has enabled the silencing and disenfranchisement of individuals and groups. New Anabaptist theologies are called for which address past wrongs and remediate our ways of doing theology in the future. 15 Ensler, xv.

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reactionary moments will be, I know there are others in similar positions, at similar institutions, who have been far braver than I in their efforts to unleash the liberating power of theater to bear witness to this world, the only one we know, the only one we can learn from and hope to transform through our rituals and our art. On a rare weekend, I will find myself in a neighboring town at the Mennonite Brethren church in which my father grew up. Most weekends, caught up in Saturday workdays and other theatrical tasks, I will stretch myself beyond capacity to fill the demands of this teaching-​ advising-​ recruiting-​ producing-​d irecting-​administrating one-​faculty-​department position. But this weekend, I am here in my grandparents’ church. We are sitting in “our row.” Mid-​sermon, someone in the audience will collapse. The small commotion, as ushers move in to assess, is noticeable out of the corner of my eye, but apparently not important enough to pause the sermon. I will want to leap up and stop the show. Shouldn’t we stop the show? At least to say a prayer, to intercede? To show that we have noticed that someone’s in pain. The sermon goes smoothly on, the commotion calmly ignored. The problem is taken outside where it won’t disturb the worship, the reason why we’re here after all.16 In one of my local theater contexts, a college student at a script reading will venture a comment in the discussion after. It’s a casual affair, just some community theater folk gathered to read and discuss a contemporary play on themes around race. We’re a bit of this and that—​various ethnicities, ages, straight and gay, religious and non—​a typical theatrical mix. It’s a Sunday morning and I’ve chosen this instead of church on this day. It’s an affecting play with plenty to discuss, visceral in its language and its themes, intriguing in its use of biblical story to layer a contemporary plot. It doesn’t draw a line between what’s secular and what’s religious, the way injustice often 16 A similar moment occurred in my home church and the service did stop, a doctor-​ congregant rushing in, while all held silence in concern. The contrasting moments are perhaps less about how a specific church (little “c”) might have their wits about them or not in a moment of unanticipated crisis, but more about how Church (big “c”) approaches what’s happening in its members lives and in the world. One model moves on with ritual life uninterrupted—​the things of this world are seen as distractions from the higher purpose of worship and/​or saving souls. Church in Kairos mode. The second model tries to be responsive to what’s happening in the world, to address its pain; distractions become the purpose. Church in Chronos mode. The truth, no doubt, lies somewhere in-​between—​Kairos and Chronos intertwined, as modeled in the interactions of Jesus, who met individuals in their contexts and happily paused the preaching to let the people eat. Sublimating the world’s pain—​ ignoring what is right in front of us while talking about being Christ in the world—​ however, seems not a helpful tack.

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does not draw a line. Encouraged by the biblical allusions and finding some connection, the young man will announce that he is Mennonite and observe that these people from whom he comes are all about nonviolence when it comes to war, but have no ability to extend their moral stance to society in general. He is speaking to the verbal and then physical violence in the play, as the racial lines that define this country’s history are drawn, and themes of power and oppression play out in the all too familiar repeated cycle. As the conversation around the play unfolds, there’s talk of what Christianity does or doesn’t, what Christians do and don’t. And what is this parable of a play trying to say; and what do we make of the ending, which, like justice, is left unresolved. I will think as I listen to the play and then the talk, that it feels a lot like church, gathered here to exegete a text as a motley group of seekers after truth on this Sunday morning. Or perhaps what church could be if we could dream it into being. When I finally quit my full-​t ime Theater program directing position, it is not the tensions between church and world, or the vagaries of a religious-​ in-​A merica audience that does me in. It’s the patriarchy. Or maybe it’s the business model that has taken over education. Or maybe I’m just tired. Tired of the patriarchy, the business model bureaucracy, the same debates, remaking of the educational wheel, lack of trust, imagination, space. Money time good people gone to institutional waste. The eternal return. Tired of both church and world, so in need of a new metaphor to save it from itself, for all our sakes. I know there have been others who have trod this weary path before me. And I know that, as my public university colleagues remind, the many of the struggles are not unique to Christian universities alone. In some ways, all things in perspective, I feel that I have barely gotten started. My father after all spent his forty plus professional years at this institution, moving out as I was moving in. I’m at less than half, just starting to carve out something that had felt like a vision for this art, this place and time. But for my own health—​mental and physical—​it’s time to get out. Time to restock, take stock, regroup, redirect. “How much really do you need to live on?” a mentor friend from church asks me. How Mennonite of her, I think. Live simply. More with less. Withdraw from the messy engagement with the world to do good deeds and focus on the inner life. Like my grandparents. But what she really means is, can I get off the professional track, buy back some joy, release the things that no longer serve, bring the vivisected parts of me back together again. I imagine my quit as a kind of response to the Annie Dillard quote posted on my refrigerator door. “Go up into the gaps,” she exhorts from her younger but perhaps wiser age of 27 or 28. “There is such an enormous temptation in

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all of life to diddle around making itsy-​bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-​bitsy years on end […] and then to sulk along the rest of your days on the edge of rage. I won’t have it. The world is wider than that in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright.”17 Go into the woods. Go into gaps. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll catch a glimpse of the backside of God. And so, I will quit. This is the climax of the play. The recognition. The anagnorisis. After this the reversal.18

Scene 4 It is 2020. June. I am writing this dramatic essay, this autoethnography, this ethnodrama of a personal account.19 We are in the grip of the first wave of a global pandemic and there are simultaneously protests that have ripped open a wound of racial injustice in the United States that has never properly healed. I am thinking a lot about activism, about what it means to be “active.” Active for a cause and for justice, for the world and for Christ. The incarnation piece which connects to the community piece, which are both about presence and centrally about love. The fulfillment of which is always the already and the not yet. An action, a process, a commitment, often a failure, also a hope. Shalom, that river of justice and righteousness flowing down like a might stream creating wholeness and peace.20 In the long-​and the short-​term of it, I am thinking. Christ and the world. Christ in the world. Christ delivering the world. And I am thinking about thinking. Perhaps because I have so much time for it now, but also because thinking has somehow become my vocation—​ thinking about, thinking through. And theater, which has become my activism—​t hinking alongside, thinking together with. That “magic mirror” and 17 Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (New York: Harper Perennial, 1974c, 2007), 274. 18 Aristotle’s Poetics, written in the 4th century BCE and the first theoretical work in the western tradition to focus extensively on the aesthetics of plays, describes the climax of a play as a combination of a Recognition (anagnorisis) and Reversal (peripeteia). These are what the protagonist of a play experiences as an epiphany and turning point, leading to the resolution or denouement that ends the play. 19 Ethnodrama and other creative formats for presenting scholarship are methodologically encapsulated under the umbrella term Laurel Richardson (1999) describes as Creative Analytical Practices (CAP). 20 Amos 5:24 (NIV), “But let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-​failing stream”—​made famous of course by the civil rights movement and subsequent remembrances.

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“social metacommentary,” as described by my favorite performance theorist Victor Turner, who tells us how performance both reflects and projects the world.21 That “lie that makes us realize the truth, at least the truth that we are given to understand,” as Pablo Picasso said of all art, acknowledging the provisional nature of our truths as we live this world, experienced not inerrantly through body, mind, spirit, culture.22 Augusto Boal with his theater as “a rehearsal for revolution,” a stage for the trying out and trying on of justice in the painstaking reality of our quotidian efforts for and against.23 And Roger Shin, which his proclamation of “artist as priest of culture” and “artist as prophet,” and how might we enact our double-​edged roles, telling stories that matter, rejecting those do not serve, creating new worlds and new ways for our being together.24 Art and the world. Art in the world. Art delivering our worlds. We are working on a project about “shame” through the theater entity I am trying to imagine into being in this liminal time after my job-​quit. Personal shame, societal shame, the way we use and abuse shame, the way it convicts and can motivate. We have a “core artist,” who has brought us this project. My own role in this theater venture I am describing as a “collaboration coordinator.” As core artist and collaboration coordinator, we are working together to find the direction of the project and navigate themes of safety and yet creativity, as we work around and through what needs to be said and how. The work feels heavy, what with so much shame and shaming all around us in this time. And I too am implicated. With Covid in the air, we are forced to postpone for another year. We want to perform live for our communities. We want to be alive. I wonder if the piece will feel as timely by next spring and remind myself that shame is for always. We will never have this thing quite right, this living with each other in the world. We will never not need saving from each other and ourselves. Our original sin, though not without hope. There are misunderstandings, celebrations, and failures in our

21 Victor Turner, “Acting in Everyday Life and Everyday Life in Acting,” in From Ritual to Theatre: The Human Seriousness of Play (New York: Performing Arts Journal Publications, 1982), 104. 22 Pablo Picasso, “Picasso Speaks: A Statement by the Artist,” The Arts 3, no. 5 (1923), 315. 23 Augusto Boal, Theatre of the Oppressed, trans. Charles A. and Maria Odilia Leal McBride (New York, NY: Theatre Communications Group, 1985), 122. 24 Roger Shinn, “The Artist as Prophet and Priest of Culture,” in Christian Faith and the Contemporary Arts, ed. Finley Ebersole (New York: Abingdon Press, 1957c, 1962).

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devising, creating process. I am working on myself as I am working on the project. It is good work. Not easy, but perhaps important. In March, we had celebrated secondhand objects, partnering with a local thrift store for community-​based storytelling. “This is an ancient relic of the past” typed a customer at the interactive vintage typewriter display our visual artist set up in the store. “Te amo te amo te amo te amo” typed another. The pandemic plot thickened, and we moved the show online. Our secondhand objects became the ones all around us—​a desk from a yard sale, a borrowed, then given traditional dress from the Philippines, a hand-​me-​down comfy chair—​a long with video from the store the store manager and I captured before heading to our shelter-​in-​place. “Watching [the] Secondhand StoreY piece yesterday made me think of how objects we leave behind don’t convey stories about ourselves so much as stories about our relationship to the world … I am grateful I have so many of my mom’s things, and her mother’s too,” reflected one of our watch-​party viewers, a mother to one of our younger participants. As an international and intergenerational collection of performer-​participants—​one of the perks of going online—​we gathered as a virtual community and audience to celebrate the “redemption of objects” and perhaps also in a small way “of lives,” as the thrift shop’s mission says. This too is a way of moving beyond institutions to live in the gaps. A year ago, May, we had held our first performance: production of a play by Karen Zacarías, The Sins of Sor Juana. Child prodigy, lady-​in-​waiting, nun, multi-​linguist, poet, dramatist, musician, convent treasurer, cook, conversationalist, scholar, teacher, nurse, contemporary Mexican literary icon, Sor Juana de la Inés was a 17th century woman ahead of her time. Ahead of our times it sometimes seemed. Her epistolary defense of the full humanity of women addressed to the “Sor Filotea” (really the Bishop of Puebla) is full of rebuttals of arguments still used today in the endless courtroom case justifying the church’s rule of patriarchy. We are performing at a church and. I have warned the venue liaison, a long-​time friend in my MB community, “There are three kisses: one straight, one between two women, and one playful man-​on-​man. Are we sure the church is okay with this?” I have been doing theater in enough faith-​based contexts to know to lay my cards on the table right from the start. The shrug and look I get in response says it all. I almost wonder if he has really heard the question, so much of my career being spent working overtime to neutralize or navigate the moral outrage Christians feel in the face of the reality of human drama. We have two post-​show talk-​backs as part of our dialog-​based strategies. Like other theaters in these times, we are interested not just in plays, but in performance as a way of creating space—​for dialog and understanding, to

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tell undertold stories, to complicate and probe “what brings us together and breaks us apart,” as our particular theatrical mission describes. We discuss Sor Juana’s importance to her times, her importance to our times, how she is caught between her faith community’s notion of who she should be and her sense of God-​given gifts, her vision for a liberated faith. One of our actors thanks audiences who have spent time with us “for giving us hope that you’re out there listening to the cries of the oppressed.” I am struck for my own part of listening and learning through all this, by all the ways that I have been broken apart and brought back together, within myself, within my communities and institutions, within my faith. We are all always negotiating the blade, after all. Given the choice between fire and air, we are all always in a sort of free fall, wondering how we’ll land, and when we’ll land. It’s a bloody choice, either way. Art has a way, if not of saving us in the same way as our deity or faith professes to do, of at least delivering us from one moment to the next. “Transportation” if not transformation, as Richard Schechner says.25 And perhaps, when we land, if we are paying attention, we will know where we have landed and where we might go from here. “Literature as equipment for living,” says rhetorician-​priest Kenneth Burke.26 “To lay bare the questions that have been hidden by the answers,” writes writer-​prophet James Baldwin.27 “Brave audacity,” shouts radical reformer Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.28

Epilogue Christian theater artists—​or, as Madeleine L’Engle might spin it, theater artists who happen to be Christian—​have been negotiating the blade between the worlds of theater and their faith communities for centuries.29 As theater 25 Richard Schechner, “Performers and Spectators Transported and Transformed,” in Between Theatre and Anthropology (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 117–​50. 26 Kenneth Burke, “Literature as Equipment for Living,” in The Philosophy of Literary Form, 3rd edn (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1973), 293–​304. 27 James Baldwin, “The Creative Process,” in Collected Essays (New York: The Library of America, 1998), 669–​72, who describes the artist as “an incorrigible disturber of the peace,” who sheds light on human actions in the world, and by doing so ensures that “we will not, in all our doing, lose sight of its purpose, which is, after all, to make the world a more human dwelling place” (669). 28 Zacarías, 9. The phrase is from Sor Juana’s sonnet that begins, “Si los riesgos del mar considerara …” 29 L’Engle has a lovely chapter on “Names and Labels,” in Walking on Water where she describes her antipathy towards terms like “Christian” stories (108) and “Christian

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practitioners, we are drawn to the art because of our love of story and imagination, of stepping out of ourselves and into another’s point of view, of the synergy that comes from being in the moment with other actors in front of an audience, or, for designers or directors, from creating those moments for the audiences who contribute the final ingredient, themselves. This is the closest we can come to creating worlds ex nihilo, to echoing the creative inclination we find in God our creator as it was in the beginning and according to the Word. It is presence. It is ritual. It is community. Incarnation is.30 Sometimes, it feels more church-​like to us than our actual churches. But we also recognize that the stories we are comfortable embodying from our theater perspectives are not always those that fit easily within the worldviews of our churches or church institutions. Our plays may not be “clean,” or “family-​friendly.” They may be more about the need for redemption than a representation of redemption embraced. They may seem to condone behaviors that churches are justifiably loathe to condone. They may be too “worldly.” And of course, there are the many ways in which plays, and their performative siblings television and film, have often reinforced negative gender and ethnic stereotypes, romanticized harmful behaviors, and bought into the myth of redemptive violence, aspects of theatrical storytelling which church people should take exception to but which often take a back seat to the righteous indignation a vulgar word or aspect of sexuality evokes towards an otherwise prophetic piece of theatrical storytelling. Given this, identifying which plays are worthy of engagement, and which are not, can require a fine-​ toothed comb and a sophisticated sensibility in theater artists, both in selecting the play, imagining appropriate collaborating artists, and projecting what audience and context is best situated to embrace and dialog with the piece. Abstinence sometimes seems the easier way. Mennonites from diverse traditions—​perhaps even religious institutions in general—​have their histories of banning a variety of real and imagined distractions, as well as the shunning of sinful persons themselves. We are uncomfortable with certain aspects of society and so we hold them at a distance, rejecting or ignoring all that does not fit our worldview (or that which we cannot convert easily to our view). We take comfort in the sense that if we ignore “the world,” it will leave us alone as well. The fact that society doesn’t leave us alone then comes children’s writer” (110). “I’m a writer,” she says, “That’s enough of a definition.” (110) The writer’s worldview will show through her writing, she believes. 30 Dale Savidge and Todd Johnson name incarnation, presence, and community as core elements in common between theater and Christian theology, as discussed in their book Performing the Sacred: Theology and Theatre in Dialogue (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2009).

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as a surprise. The veneer of consensus drops off. Secrets are made known. Identities are revealed. The religious community goes through crisis. In self-​ defense, we often fill those spaces with exhortation, prayer, or silence rather than authentic dialog. We do not have the tools for dealing with the difficult things of the world. People leave. They are disenchanted, unwilling, or sometimes unable for their own mental health, to continue in religious spaces. And so, we practice our communal life together, imprisoned in our dogma and our ritual patterns, never breaking free to claim the world for what it really is and ourselves as part of it—​never perhaps, as Frederick Buechner writes in Wishful Thinking, arriving to the place of call where “your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”31 As with any rhetorical argument, there is no doubt overstatement in some of the above. Churches are engaged in much that is their rightful call—​taking care of people’s needs, both ingroup and out, building relationships, forging communities where many do feel embraced and thrive, sustaining and building faith. And yet, churches often also construct a sense of self that marks clear boundaries between who is in and who is out, despite some best intentions to signal otherwise. Sometimes this is as simple as the use of the word “we”—​who it includes and who it keeps out, who it positions as core and who is seen always as guest, or not acknowledged at all. And of course, churches also battle perceptions from those outside its walls of what they are which may be entirely different from the nuanced reality of the matter. There is always the tendency towards making assumptions about what we do not know or care to know, whatever or whoever the individual or communal “Other” might be. What does this mean then for Christians in respect to doing church and doing world? Tom Driver, theologian and theater scholar, argues in his book Liberating Rites: Understanding the Transformative Power of Ritual that the purpose of liturgy “is not to make us obedient but to make us free”—​free for “an ever-​flowering partnership with other human beings, with the living world that is our home, and with God.”32 Leland Ryken, somewhat similarly, talks about the “liberated imagination,” advocating for a view which recognizes the arts as essential and not “extraneous” to what we do in our church activities—​our liturgies—​and our lives. The arts, Ryken observes, have a way of “asserting themselves in the most threatening of circumstances”; they “enhance both our personal lives and our understanding of our culture. All 31 Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC (San Francisco: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1973), 95. 32 Driver, xvii.

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we need to do is be receptive.”33 Maxine Greene, from her slightly different tack of arts in education, writes of the human propensity for imagining and reimagining (and making and remaking) our communities.34 We have a social imagination, but it’s a muscle that has to be developed and creatively let loose. For Greene and others like her, this means using spaces such as schools for bring learning goals into productive interplay with students’ lived experience, and through experiential connections in the broader community. Jesus himself modeled something like what these modern-​day prophets assert. In his own practice, he talked, told stories, and engaged people in dialog in the in-​between spaces—​t he streets, fields outside of towns, at parties, in people’s homes, occasionally even in houses of worship. His art—​his stories—​put regular people into situations his audiences would recognize from their own lives and worlds, known or imagined. The characters are thieves, murderers, cheaters, the simply lazy, seekers after pleasure, those caught up in their workaday lives, birds in one story, some really good people too. Some of the plots are a little obscure, thematically inspiring more questions than answers. Sometimes, Jesus literally asked a question at the end, almost like a talk back at the end of a play: “Which of these was the neighbor?”35 And his listeners had their questions too, especially his disciples: What does it mean? Why story? Anabaptists are often drawn to the modeling and teachings of Jesus as our first stop for how we live and do our faith. So, what does Jesus and his model of a liberated social imagination offer theater artists of faith as they do their work, imagining and reimagining transformative liturgies for our communities and the world? Scientists have observed that audience members’ heartbeats will sync during a theatrical performance in shared communal space—​whether they know each other or not—​as they watch a story unfold.36 It is written into our biology, it might seem, this need to make sense of our experiences together, in tandem. Theater brings people together, communally, incarnationally. It is not church. But at its best, it can do what churches (and church schools) sometimes find it hard to do, given their institutional boundaries. It puts the world in all its variety, its messiness and need for redemption, on display, in real time and in the presence of an assembly. If 33 Ryken, The Liberated Imagination (Wheaton, IL: Harold Shaw Publishers, 1989), 9. 34 Maxine Greene, Releasing the Imagination: Essays on Education, the Arts, and Social Change. San Francisco, CA: Jossey-​Bass Publishers, 1995. 35 A paraphrase of the question as recorded in Luke 10:36. 36 Joseph Devlin, Daniel C. Richardson, John Hogan, and Helen Nuttall in their 2017 unpublished study for the University College London, monitoring the heartbeats of 12 audience members while attending a production.

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done thoughtfully, it is a starting point for a conversation, for engagement with communities and between communities, a way to do “outreach,” or alternately, the personal/​collective work of “reaching in,” contributing to the work of shalom insofar as the arts are able to serve this movement towards peace and justice that is all our call. A Final Note—​Writing personally has its “riesgos,” as Sor Juana knew from her own negotiations of the blade. My hope is that writing autoethnographically opens up spaces for identification and resonance. Sor Juana was forced to forswear her artistic voice by religious forces larger than herself, though not before her words were inscribed in ways that continue to provoke and to inspire. Whatever the impact of our own artistic efforts, each by each, may we act and audience in faith.

Bibliography Aristotle. “Poetics.” In Dramatic Theory and Criticism: Greeks to Grotowski, edited by Bernard F. Dukore, translated by S. H. Butcher, 31–​55. Fort Worth, TX: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich College Publishers, 1974. Baldwin, James. “The Creative Process.” In Collected Essays, 669–​72. New York: The Library of America, 1998. Boal, Augusto. Theater of the Oppressed, translated by Charles A. and Maria Odilia Leal McBride. New York: Theatre Communications Group, 1985. Buechner, Frederick. Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC. San Francisco: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1973. Burke, Kenneth. “Literature as Equipment for Living.” The Philosophy of Literary Form, 3rd edn, 293–​304. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1973. Cruz, Sor Juana de la Inés. „Ecos de mi pluma“: Antologia en prosa y verso, edited by Martha Lilia Tenorio Trillo. Mexico City: Penguin Random House Group, 2017. Devlin, Joseph, Joseph Devlin, Daniel C. Richardson, John Hogan, and Helen Nuttall. “Audience Members Hearts Beat Together at the Theatre.” UCL Psychology and Language Studies. University College London website. November 17, 2017. https://​ www.ucl.ac.uk/​pals/​news/​2 017/​nov/​audie​nce-​memb​ers-​hea​r ts-​b eat-​toget​her-​ thea​t re. Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. New York: Harper Perennial, 1974c, 2007. Driver, Tom F. Liberating Rites: Understanding the Transformative Power of Ritual. Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1998. Ensler, Eve. Necessary Targets: A Story of Women and War. New York: Villard, 2001. Greene, Maxine. Releasing the Imagination: Essays on Education, the Arts, and Social Change. San Francisco, CA: Jossey-​Bass Publishers, 1995. Hershberger, Guy F., ed. TRAV. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1957.

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Horace. “The Art of Poetry.” In Dramatic Theory and Criticism: Greeks to Grotowski, edited by Bernard F. Dukore, translated by Edward Henry Blakeney, 67–​76. Fort Worth, TX: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich College Publishers, 1974. L’Engle, Madeleine. Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. Wheaton, IL: Harold Shaw Publishers, 1980. Picasso, Pablo. “Picasso Speaks: A Statement by the Artist.” The Arts 3, no. 5 (1923): 315–​29. Richardson, Laurel. “Feathers in our CAP.” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 28, no. 6 (1999): 660–​8. Roberts, Laura Schmidt, Paul Martens, and Myron A. Penner, eds. Recovering from the Anabaptist Vision: New Essays in Anabaptist Identity and Theological Method. London: T & T Clark, 2019. Ryken, Leland. The Liberated Imagination: Thinking Christianly About the Arts. Wheaton, IL: Harold Shaw Publishers, 1989. Savidge, Dale and Todd E. Johnson. Performing the Sacred: Theology and Theatre in Dialogue. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2009. Schechner, Richard. “Performers and Spectators Transported and Transformed.” In Between Theatre and Anthropology, 117–​50. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985. Shin, Roger. “The Artist as Prophet-​Priest of Culture.” In Christian Faith and the Contemporary Arts, edited by Finley Ebersole, 71–​79. New York: Abingdon Press, 1957c, 1962. Simons, Menno. “Reply to Gellius Faber.” In The Complete Writings of Menno Simons, c. 1496 –​1561, 623–​781. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1956. Turner, Victor. “Acting in Everyday Life and Everyday Life in Acting.” In From Ritual to Theatre: The Human Seriousness of Play, 102–​23. New York: Performing Arts Journal Publications, 1982. Wilder, Thornton. “The Angel That Troubled the Waters.” In Collected Plays and Writings on Theater, 54–​56. New York: The Library of America, 2007. Zacarías, Karen. The Sins of Sor Juana. Woodstock, IL: Dramatic Publishing, 2001.

Chapter 26  Walking a Tightrope Across the University: Following My Ethical Compass and Hacking Higher Education C layton F unk

This essay is a reflection on my academic practice in relation to my life as an Anabaptist1 and my working through ethical struggles in higher education, particularly in my interactions with college students. I have always felt that my background as a Mennonite might be part of an ethical compass that guides my practice. Reflecting on what it means to me to be Anabaptist takes me back to my early teenage years, in a Mennonite church membership class. What I remember from most of those discussions is that what made me Mennonite was my decision to declare my faith publicly and accept baptism as a symbol of that commitment to follow my conscience and that beliefs are usually determined by the truthful consensus of its members. Although my life path has taken me away from Mennonite congregations, I have always maintained Anabaptist beliefs in so far as following my conscience and being as truthful as possible in my practice, under the circumstances. My life path into higher education led to various college staff positions, practicing as an artist and designer, an academic librarian, and as a teacher and scholar. And 1

The Anabaptist movement was an off shoot of Protestant Christianity that began in 1525 as an offshoot of the Protestant Reformation in Switzerland. Traditionally, Anabaptist groups included Mennonites, German Baptists, Amish, and Hutterites and practiced believer’s baptism. Instead of a sacrament of infant baptism, Anabaptists believe that members should choose their faith and accept baptism as an adult. More information can be found in “Anabaptism,” Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online 1990, 25 Sep 2020. https://​gameo.org/​index.php?title=​A na​ bapt​ism&oldid=​143​474 Internet.

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here is where I found myself balancing on a tightrope between my conscience and negotiating the culture of higher education. I spent my undergraduate education in small colleges, where it seemed everybody knew everyone. Most teachers seemed to care about teaching and their students, and while a few didn’t seem to like teaching, all of them knew who I was. Even my masters and my doctoral programs were in relatively small to middle-​sized colleges. Through all of this, my one goal was to be a college art teacher. After a time of adjunct teaching and working as an academic librarian, I accepted my first full-​t ime faculty appointment in art education at a large, Midwestern public university. Compared to the small and middle-​ sized institutions I knew, a large university seemed like the anonymity of a metropolis, where any given person I passed on the sidewalk could be someone I would not see again. The first course assigned to me was a large art and music appreciation class, with 300 students in a lecture hall, and 100 more in two online classes taught by graduate teaching associates. Fortunately, my library work with digital technology and web development prepared me with the technical skills to manage learning environments online. What I wasn’t prepared for was that it would grow over the 15 years I taught the course; and we presently enroll as many as 960 students in one semester, larger than some colleges. My challenge was to make this course relevant to students on a human scale, even at a university the size of Megalopolis. Large courses like this one seemed to be all about numbers, operating with the efficiency of multiple-​ choice exams and an occasional term paper graded by graduate teaching associates. This so-​called “efficiency” made the course less human and more about correct answers, which was a drawback I needed to address. This course was unique from its beginning. When the course was established in the 1970s, my predecessor taught it as contemporary art with some art historical context, in parallel with the development of popular music, from blues and rock and roll, to psychedelic rock, and then into the spectrum of musical genres of the 1970s. By the time I took over the course in 2005, it had grown into an historical trajectory of over 80 years. The recording industry and color television of the 1970s had evolved, by 2005, into the mass multimedia of music videos, gaming, cable broadcasting, and more. I felt I needed to incorporate a critique of this cultural backdrop starting with mass media. I drew upon histories of publicity and propaganda, leading to contemporary advertising, streaming media, gaming, and social media, which I intersected with issues of gender, race, and ethnicity in American culture. I positioned this cultural landscape as an important backdrop for artists and musicians. The abstract expressionists, for example, explored realms

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of consciousness and rejected the surroundings they saw as saturated with propaganda. Pop artists also responded to the same conditions, but instead of retreating existentially within themselves, they sought to hack the materiality of all those mass-​produced, commercialized banalities—​appropriating everything from billboards and neon signs, to posters, and the merchandising of canned food. While all this new material added new historical and cultural dimension to the class, I felt the curriculum still needed content that would engage students in a reflexive way, to challenge them to rethink their thinking. The framework I incorporated was known as identity formation in college students, starting with Chickering and Reisser’s vectors of identity formation. Instead of a set of linear developmental stages, the vectors are considered “maps to help us determine where students are and which way they are heading. Movement along any one can occur at different rates and can interact with movement alongside others.”2 Assuming that identity is socially constructed and always in flux meant that students’ self-​perceptions of body image, gender, and sexual orientation, were as important as other formative influences, of family of origin, ethnic heritage, and religious and cultural traditions. Students looking at art, music, and popular culture within a social and historical context could then reflect on the cultural meanings in the lives of the artists and musicians they studied, in relation to their own experiences. I believe identity formation was relevant because college students were looking for reasons for what they believe, including ethics and beliefs that impact their experiences; but the atmosphere of the modern public university did not nurture this kind of growth. Since World War II, Dalton observed, the predominantly Anglo-​Protestant culture of the academy3 waned as student bodies became more diverse. The problem is that in this shift, universities, now running on science and efficiency, didn’t make room for a new spiritual culture that would reflect “The rich sources of meanings, values, and

2 Chickering, Arthur W., and Linda Reisser, Education and Identity (San Francisco: Jossey-​Bass Publishers, 1993), 34. 3 The first universities in British America were started by Protestant denominations and established academic traditions that reflected their Anglo-​ Protestant hegemony. As public universities were established, they also privileged the character and ethics from this Protestant culture. More can be found in Lawrence A. Cremin, American Education: The Metropolitan Experience (New York: Harper and Row, 1988) and Christopher Jencks and David Riesman, The Academic Revolution (Chicago: University of Chicago Press).

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beliefs of diverse religious and spiritual traditions,” which would build a sense of “psychological depth and emotional grounding.”4 Edwards argued that beliefs are important because “… traditionally aged college students whose stage in life (including a sudden increase in autonomy, exposure to diversity, and critical thinking skills) makes them primed for spiritual questioning and skepticism.”5 In fact, most students are at a time in their lives when they might examine their values for the long term. Take religious beliefs, for example. A Pew Research Center survey revealed that young people struggle with questions of ethics and beliefs. Questioning beliefs during college years is common as “religious change begins early in life. Most of those who decided to leave their childhood faith say they did so before reaching age 24, and a large majority said they joined their current religion before reaching age 36. Very few reported changing religions after reaching age 50.”6 I felt I could address some these transitions in my teaching and that it was possible to consider issues related to beliefs and ethics by referencing religions from multiple cultures in relation to art and music. Just as my practice was a balancing act between my conscience and the technocracy of the university culture, I began to see my students as individuals learning to walk a tight rope between their ethical belief systems from their upbringings and the new ideas and traditions to which they were exposed at the university. I felt that it was my responsibility to show students that as artists and musicians have questioned the world around them, they could also reflect on their identities and even cultural privilege in an open-​ ended way. Instead of memorizing stereotypes of moral and aesthetic correctness, students would be free to think for themselves or even follow their conscience. To pull this off, I had to figure out how I would leave my politics and beliefs at the door and take interest in what my students had to say. And so, the rethinking of my teaching began.

4

Jon C. Dalton, “Integrating Spirit and Community in Higher Education,” in Arthur W. Chickening, Jon C. Dalton, and Leisa Stamm, Encouraging Authenticity and Spirituality in Higher Education (San Francisco: Jossey-​Bass, 2006), 168. 5 Sachi Edwards, “Distinguishing between belief and culture,” Journal of College and Character 19, no. 3 (2018): 205. 6 Pew Research Center, Faith in flux: Changes in religious affiliation in the U.S. (Washington, D.C.: Pew Research Center, 2009). Accessed August 25, 2020. http://​w ww.pewfo​r um.org/​2009/​0 4/​27/​faith-​in-​flux/​; Internet.

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Three Lenses, Three Decades To begin my ruminations, I went back to readings from a course I took during my doctoral work, known as “The American College Student.” This course was based primarily on demographic studies of college students. These longitudinal surveys portrayed generations of college students and cut through stereotypes of them, to see what they really thought and what they wanted from higher education. I learned from these studies that to challenge and engage students, I had to start by listening to their narratives and finding out how they learned what they already knew. Following tenets of critical pedagogy,7 students should learn from not only a teacher but also from each other. I wanted to know what students thought they needed to know and then build discourse around that. Instead of assuming no one was learning unless they heard the sound of my voice, I wanted to hear everyone in the room talking with each other. Among the literatures that influenced me the most, were studies by Arthur Levine.8 One of them was When Dreams and Heroes Died9, which provided insight into college students of the 1970s, and how they perceived a culture driven by an analog and industrial national economy. I was an undergraduate, between 1975 and 1981 and so it was revealing to think reflexively about my own college experience. Alexander W. Astin’s earlier work showed a transition in college student attitudes and culture, in which they became less altruistic and more career and status oriented as we approached 1979.10 Levine explained this shift as well: Campus community life was changing as American students in the late 1960s and 1970s had grown more socially liberal, but also more conservative religiously. Levine showed that in 1979, a majority of students surveyed accepted “expanded roles for women, legalized abortion, and overturning prohibitions on homosexual relations. About half favor[ed] legalization of 7 See Richard Cary’s discussion of Critical Pedagogy in Richard Cary, Critical Art Pedagogy: Foundations for Postmodern Art Education (New York: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1998). 8 Arthur Levine is the former president of the Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship Foundation and former President of Teachers College, Columbia University, and he is widely known for his studies of American higher education and most recently, teacher education. 9 Arthur Levine, When Dreams and Heroes Died: A Portrait of Today’s College Student (San Francisco: Jossey Bass, 1980). 10 Alexander W. Astin, Four Critical Years: Effects of College on Beliefs, Attitudes, and Knowledge (San Francisco: Jossey-​Bass, 1977) summarizes 17 years of research on 200,000 students from 300 institutions.

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marijuana, liberalization of divorce laws, casual … sexual relationships, and living together before marriage.”11 And all this emerged in a much higher percentage of the population than it did 10 years earlier, in the countercultural 1960s. On balance with their socially liberal values, the literature shows that despite the increasing secularization of American higher education,12 American young people were still looking for something to believe in and nontraditional religious communities with very specific dogma were appealing. The late 1970s showed a decreased interest in the established mostly Protestant denominations, but instead of rejecting those religious traditions outright, they rejuvenated what they thought did not work into neo-​Christian communities, without denominational ties. So, it is not surprising that, in 1976, one out of every 20 college students belonged to a nontraditional religious group outside the Protestant, Catholic, or Jewish traditions. Though most of the students valued liberalism and personal freedom and being solitary without restrictions of a group, they found surefooted moral codes in the community and meaning of religious practice. And all this expanded as traditional American religious denominations and sects declined.13 It seemed that students were exploring parts of their identities that the university ethos did not support. Drawing closer to the Millennium, American culture was headed for a large cultural and technological transition, which is the backdrop for Levine and Cureton’s When Hope and Fear Collide.14 The authors provided a snapshot of a generation of college students at the turn of the twenty-​fi rst century, straddling two worlds. One foot was in the receding world of the analog industrial national economy and its mass manufacturing, energy industries, and mass communications. The other foot was planted in the emerging digital and information global economy, with increasingly data driven systems and digital communications. I entered full-​time university teaching at this time, and I remember feeling caught between these two realms, with mostly analog instruction on one side, complete with lectures and slides, and the digital technology and multimedia I practiced on the other. Understanding how globalism unfolded clarifies the student dilemma on the eve of the Millennium. In the early twentieth century, Europe’s Imperialistic domination of global trade collapsed following World War 11 Arthur Levine, When Dreams and Heroes Died, 85. 12 Jon C. Dalton, “Integrating Spirit and Community in Higher Education,” 168. 13 Arthur Levine, When Dreams and Heroes Died. 14 Arthur Levine and Jeanette S. Cureton, When Hope and Fear Collide: A Portrait of Today’s College Student, 1st ed. (San Francisco: Jossey-​Bass, 1998).

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I. After World War II, globalism re-​emerged with multinational corporations in the United States and Europe. By the 1990s computerized automation in manufacturing and communications began to expand, and by 2000, with much of the industrialized world in recession, digital commerce and communications expanded.15 Students and other onlookers knew globalization would eventually change our world, but they were still unsure of what that would look like. Higher education made significant pivots at this time as university resources, such as library holdings housed in brick-​and-​mortar locations were gradually digitized and made accessible from remote Internet connections. Even a few degree programs migrated online. I remember teaching in one of the first university departments to offer a master’s degree online. But these changes were only beginning, and most college students still experienced this disconnect while crossing a tightrope above analog university campuses trying to prepare students for an increasingly digital world. Twelve years later, student life had changed significantly, especially in the way students communicated and where and how they built their communities. In 2002, 62 percent of Americans used cell phones and by 2012, that number shot up to 88 percent.16 Levine and Dean’s Generation on a Tightrope17, is a study of students who still straddled the chasm between analog and digital realms, but this time, we see students who were well tuned to a world of smart phones, downloads, and media on demand. But they still had to navigate mostly analog university campuses. The worlds of the student and of the university could not be farther apart. A Digital World Even at a university with an enrollment of 70,000 students in an ethos of anonymity, students learned to form communities in their new virtual spaces. Students’ experiences of community and communication shifted from the physical geography of a university campus to a new social geography mapped in digital networks. It has a lot to do with communication, which has traditionally been dependent on being physically close enough to be heard in classrooms, studios and labs. But for students, being together in the same 15 “Globalization,” Business and Economics Research Advisor: A series of Guides to Business and Economic Topics. Summer 2004, updated December 2012 Issue 1, https://​w ww.loc.gov/​rr/​busin​ess/​BER A/​iss​ue1/​glob​a l_​m​a in.html. 16 Pew Research Center, Mobile Fact Sheet (Washington, DC: Pew Research Center, 2019). https://​w ww.pewr​esea ​rch.org/​inter​net/​fact-​sheet/​mob​i le/​. 17 Arthur Levine, and Diane R. Dean, Generation on a Tightrope: A Portrait of Today’s College Student, 3rd ed. (The Jossey-​Bass Higher and Adult Education Series. San Francisco: Jossey-​Bass, 2012).

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physical space had become much less of a privileged way to communicate. Instead of a line marking the shortest physical distance between two points, the shortest social distance between two social entities is clear phone transmission. Group chats in social media, texts, and video calls brought people together, and physical distance became much less of a barrier. College student life was affected by this shift to a wireless space, where social life became virtually connected, while disconnecting from campus life. Levine and Dean summed it up: “student social life is invading the classroom, but it is retreating from campus.”18 This occurred because social networking changed, as students tended to hang together in packs. Social media allowed them to “enlarge the pack to what amounts to a virtual tribe … of friends, family neighbors, acquaintances and other significant people in the student’s life … 24 hours a day, seven days a week, in class and out.”19 It is as if they were on a tightrope above a landscape where physical distance between home, campus, and work had collapsed. For Palmer, college life teaches students to see themselves as fragmented and to see the world as a divided place.20 Student life that was compartmentalized in the campus gym, classroom, dorm room, or cafeteria, was replaced with a virtual social web where students find community, and which led to a shift in university student life. Astin found that in the 1980s, the undergraduate students’ experiences were highly influenced by various forms of social and academic involvement, leading to higher levels of student satisfaction.21 Yet later in 2009, an undergraduate student survey found that student involvement in official campus activities had declined. Less than one third of students at a university attended official campus social events, used fitness centers, or attended athletic events. Additionally, about one fourth of students were involved in athletic or professional clubs, and less than 20 percent of students joined official campus clubs or attended lectures, debates, and academic events. Frequent library use in each of these cases was the only exception. In addition, fewer students had much free time. More students worked 21 hours or more per week and more students took heavier class loads than they did 12 years ago. The students who did have time for university activities and other campus life were usually the ones who worked less than 10 hours a week or did not work at all.22 18 Ibid, 53. 19 Ibid, 53. 20 Parker J. Palmer, To Know as We Are Known: Education as a Spiritual Journey (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 1983). 21 Astin, Four Critical Years. 22 Levine and Dean, Generation on a Tightrope.

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Still, students occupied their spare time with something. When asked what they find to do in their spare time, students reported that they were involved in sports, outdoor recreation, sex, computer games, and sleep. As students tended to study a lot and took heavy course loads, and many had double and triple majors, alcohol provided a way to break out of that multitasking and relax.23 It is the sheer size of universities, Dalton summarizes, that makes true formation of traditional community with face to face contact and intimate friendships difficult to do.24 In these studies, we see something in common: on campuses running on the efficiency the clock and spreadsheets, students found ways to establish their own communities. Whether Neo-​Christian groups in the 1970s or finding their way into digital communities and their virtual tribes and social media, it came from a need for community. And here is where I found a solution to reforming my college teaching, providing space to reflect on identity and community delivered through the virtual environment’s students knew, and to address their ethical and cultural questions in a way that supported identity formation.

Hacking Higher Education and Following My Ethical Compass Reading those longitudinal studies about college students back in graduate school put new ideas in my head for teaching decades later, and I began to re-​evaluate the way I thought of my students. The stereotypical assumptions I held about students began to sound too easy: how many times did I complain about students bent on cheating, feeling entitled to superior grades, and coddled as if immune to failure? While these traits were apparent, it seemed they were too pervasive. What was it about the university environment that reinforced such a culture? The decline of traditional academic community life can be traced to major changes in American higher education. Lagemann has shown that American universities at the turn of the twentieth century were marshaled in line with new scientifically based professionalism, beginning with medicine, law, social work, and other professions. The Antebellum university’s emphasis on the sterling traits of good character was supplanted by the so-​called integrity and efficiency of professionalism.25 By the 1940s, universities and colleges had become more secular, legalistic, entrepreneurial, 23 Ibid. 24 Dalton, “Integrating Spirit and Community”, 167. 25 Ellen Condliffe Lagemann, Private power for the Public Good: A History of the Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching (Middletown, CN: Wesleyan University Press, 1983).

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and consumer driven. To be concise, American higher education after World War II was streamlined with efficiency and career ambition, and all of it bolted down with hard science.26

Misconduct As I rethought my practice as educator, I realized I was pushing against negative attitudes about teaching and students in the folklore of higher education; all of which I had passively accepted as “the way things are.” How could I unravel problems like academic misconduct and make a change? Could I trust my ethical compass and look for trust and authenticity among all concerned? In the ritual of taking an exam in a lecture hall, security is tight: no open notes, no phones, no talking, and eyes forward. The teaching associates stand around the parameter of the lecture hall to watch for suspicious behavior. To keep the same tight security online, ed tech companies and their marketing campaigns want university administrators to believe that cheating can be beat with algorithmic test-​proctoring programs, which are designed to detect signs of cheating online and in the classroom, in a variety of ways. Some of the programs read body language, encoding it as safe or threatening. These systems seem to work until we find that facial recognition cameras do not read faces with dark skin as well as they read faces with lighter skin. In other cases, a program could incorrectly read behaviors, such as a parent hearing a baby cry, and register the anxiety as “suspicious.” When all is said, I argue that such technologies tend to keep our focus on dishonest behavior, and to deter it with fear. It all shows that if we draw a line in the sand and dare students to cross it, they probably will.27 The adversarial rapport between teachers and students can be fueled by this culture of misconduct. In past meetings with graduate teaching associates and other instructors in my course, I noticed that conversations usually drifted towards complaining about cheating, plagiarism, and other forms of academic misconduct. The usual deterrents to cheating—​surveillance, threats to remove any violators, tearing up their exams—​were rules based on suspicion of students and seeking to control them with fear, and students will likely 26 Burton J. Bledstein, The Culture of Professionalism: The Middle Class and the Development of Higher Education in America (New York: W.W. Norton, 1976). 27 Shea Swauger, “Our Bodies Encoded: Algorithmic Test Proctoring in Higher Education” Hybrid Pedagogy, April 20, 2020. Accessed on August 28, 2020, https://​hyb​r idp​edag​ogy.org/​our-​bod​ies-​enco​ded-​a lgo​r ith​m ic-​test-​pro​ctor​i ng-​i n-​ hig​her-​educat​ion/​ Internet.

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respond in kind. Where was trust? Can we ever assume that students simply want to do well? In an instructor meeting someone suggested that with all the energy put into rote learning and pages of rules, we were reinforcing the misconduct. And reflecting on my ethical beliefs, it seemed wrong that we couldn’t trust students. How would it look if we could we reconfigure the process proactively and simply make cheating unnecessary or even obsolete? We have discussed the work schedules of students and their course loads, which show how life for students can get complicated. With high priced tuition so common, students are taking as many credits as they can, sometimes as many as five to seven classes. Additionally, a colleague of mine once observed that plagiarism and cheating on exams usually happens because students run out of time. In my own course, I used to set the learning management system with a firm deadline for all assignments and quizzes at 11:59PM, on Sunday night. It is very likely that instead of finishing work carefully, students were racing the clock. I realized that it was overly technocratic to give that much power to a machine, so we drafted two new policies that allowed for some flexibility. First, all assignment deadlines would have a grace period of 12 hours. This accommodated students that were online halfway around the world, who struggled with time changes, and also allowed students burning the midnight oil to take their time. Second, students may request a one-​or two-​day extension, so long as they arrange for it in advance of the deadline. Eventually we noticed that plagiarism decreased and out of a course enrollment of 800–​900 students in a semester, usually, less than five students have ever requested an extension. I believe that showing some understanding for students with overextended lives paid off, and maybe encouraged some trust. The next change in pedagogy and course design was to find an alternative to our multiple-​choice midterm and final examinations. So long as exams were based on rote memory there would always be a list of correct answers somewhere. I needed a way for students to reflect on themselves and I found a new approach during a research project. We wanted to know what students were thinking when they looked at an image. That is, thinking on their own, without the template of elements and principles of design, dates to memorize, or even the name of the artist. We had a hunch that students could be pretty good at analyzing an image in their own words if we asked fair and open-​ ended questions. The instruments we used were self-​interviews, for which students studied an image or other visual form and thought through their response in three ways. First, they wrote a narrative describing what they think is going on in the image. In the next step, they found elements in the work and connected each element to how it supported their narrative and told

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also how the elements were related. Finally, they summed up their analysis by telling how the work made sense to them. When I read the first batch of assignments, I found that students made some solid observations, and some stated that they were surprised at how much they could figure out on their own. Even more, they frequently suggested the assignment was difficult but also more invigorating and challenging than throwing together an expository art history paper. I ended up using the self-​interviews for midterm and final projects. Students stated in course evaluations that they liked this application of what they had learned in class, and they also described changes in ways they looked at other images. It seemed like a richer experience than cramming for and taking an exam.

Afterword Now comes the question of what my Anabaptist background has to do with my academic life? Doctoral work has a way of throwing all certainty in the air as students watch is settle in new ways. To be honest, I retreated from this background during my doctoral work. In my history of education courses, for example, education and schooling were viewed as subjects of historical inquiry, instead of a typical historical catechism of American schooling for teachers. Education as I studied it was broadly defined as the transmission of culture in many cultural organizations, including churches, synagogues, mosques, libraries, museums and others. Comparatively few of these were schools and colleges. I had always assumed that church and public life were two distinct spheres, but this assumption seemed doubtful anymore and I was left to wonder about my role as a college educator. Higher education is a stratified, value-​laden enterprise, with correctness in some places and lines not to be crossed in others. Thanks to the research I have discussed in this article, I started to see that my roll was not only to convey content and challenge students. My job was also to care for my students and create spaces where they could grow not only technically, professionally, and intellectually, but also emotionally, psychologically, and if that led to what they wanted as a solid moral footing, then so be it. All those aspirations were nice in theory but practicing that way in the atmosphere of a large university, was not so easy. Levine once described the future of American higher education as “going first class on the Titanic.”28 This was 1986, when Levine was talking about the pessimism among college

28 Levine, When Dreams and Heroes Died, 103.

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undergraduates who saw the nation and even universities as sinking ships. And not much had changed when I started teaching in 2002. In negotiating this kind of university culture, I reflected upon research on college students and histories of education. But surprisingly, what I reached for when I needed to change things, was the most fundamental of ideas from my Anabaptist roots I knew as a Mennonite. In most of higher education, discussions of personal religious beliefs are mostly frowned upon if not considered a breach of code of conduct in some state universities. Yet, there was something tough and resilient about peacemaking, standing up to status quo, and encouraging, and sometimes requiring students to think for themselves that seemed as Anabaptist as any theology I knew. With my conscience and my ethics of community now in the forefront, I walked away from business as usual and set out to take back my practice. Writing this reflection has allowed me to take stock of the reintegration of my life. I found that students and instructors could learn to trust each other with a mutually respectful rapport. When students told me their computer crashed, I believed them. When they told me, they could not afford a textbook, we put a few on reserve in the library. Occasionally, someone might not have told the truth about a funeral they had to attend, but I would rather live with that, than finding out later that my cold, hard-​nosed response had devastated a student who actually had lost a parent. College students have reasons for the choices they make and recognizing that can forge trust, which usually brings out better work and academic performance, as students became more confident. They might even take risks and become more critical. All said, I found new potential in my practice and in students. I never expected that my walk along the tightrope between my conscience and the culture of university teaching would turn out to be a reawakening of my Anabaptist outlook. And from the tightrope I began to see that students had turned out to be my safety net.

Bibliography “Anabaptism.” Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online. 1990. https://​gameo. org/​index.php?title=​A na​bapt​ism&oldid=​143​474. Astin, Alexander W. Four Critical Years: Effects of College on Beliefs, Attitudes, and Knowledge. San Francisco: Jossey-​Bass, 1977. Cary, Richard. Critical Art Pedagogy: Foundations for Postmodern Art Education. New York: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1998. Chickering, Arthur W., and Linda Reisser. Education and Identity. San Francisco: Jossey-​ Bass Publishers, 1993.

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Cremin, Lawrence A. American Education: The Metropolitan Experience. New York: Harper and Row, 1988. Dalton, Jon C. “Integrating Spirit and Community in Higher Education.” In Encouraging Authenticity and Spirituality in Higher Education, edited by Arthur W. Chickening, Jon C. Dalton, and Leisa Stamm, 165–​186. San Francisco: Jossey-​Bass, 2006. Edwards, Sachi. “Distinguishing between belief and culture.” Journal of College and Character 19, no. 3 (2018): 201–​14. Ellen Condliffe Lagemann. Private power for the Public Good: A History of the Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching. Middletown, CN: Wesleyan University Press, 1983. “Globalization.” Business and Economics Research Advisor. Issue 1 2004, [Washington, DC]: Library of Congress, 2004, 2012. https://​w ww.loc.gov/​rr/​busin​ess/​BER A/​. Accessed Sept. 22, 2020. Internet. Jencks, Christopher and David Riesman. The Academic Revolution. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977.Levine, Arthur. When Dreams and Heroes Died: A Portrait of Today’s College Student: A Report for the Carnegie Council on Policy Studies in Higher Education. San Francisco: Jossey Bass, 1980. Levine, Arthur, Diane R. Dean, and Arthur Levine. Generation on a Tightrope: A Portrait of Today’s College Student, 3rd edn. The Jossey-​Bass Higher and Adult Education Series. San Francisco: Jossey-​Bass, 2012. Levine, Arthur, and Jeanette S. Cureton. When Hope and Fear Collide: A Portrait of Today’s College Student, 1st edn. The Jossey-​ Bass Higher and Adult Education Series. San Francisco: Jossey-​Bass, 1998. Palmer, Parker J. To Know as We Are Known: Education as a Spiritual Journey. San Francisco: Harper Collins, 1983. Pew Research Center. Faith in Flux: Changes in religious affiliation in the U.S. Washington, DC: Pew Research Center, 2009. http://​w ww.pewfo​r um.org/​2009/​ 04/​27/​faith-​in-​flux/​; Internet. Pew Research Center. Mobile Fact Sheet. Washington, DC: Pew Research Center, 2019. https://​w ww.pewr​esea ​rch.org/​inter​net/​fact-​sheet/​mob​i le/​ Internet. Swauger, Shea. “Our Bodies Encoded: Algorithmic Test Proctoring in Higher Education.” Hybrid Pedagogy, April 20, 2020. https://​hyb​r idp​edag​ogy.org/​our-​bod​ies-​enco​ ded-​a lgo​r ith​m ic-​test-​pro​ctor​ing-​in-​h ig​her-​educat​ion/​ Internet.

Chapter 27  Ethics, Faith, and Health Care Rudi K auffman

In the United States, people holding signs supporting the 2nd Amendment (gun rights) are often presumed to oppose abortion, favor the death penalty, and generally be disinterested in action on climate change if they believe it even exists. When people express concern for the environment, they are presumed to be supportive of significant police and criminal justice reform, supportive of legal protections for LGBTQ people, and generally dismissive of creationism. While there are excellent discussions to be had on many of these topics, it has become increasingly difficult to consider the merits of any single piece of the larger American ideological puzzle without the argument leaking into other areas. In this case, it is essential to consider the moral implications of various aspects of the health system without making assumptions about the implications for other priorities. Considering solutions for healthcare does not inherently presuppose solutions to gun rights, the death penalty, education, or the role of religion. Relatedly, even if there is an obviously more or less moral response, it may well be that the resourcing and nature of that response could be shaped by the government, religious organizations, or individuals. The commentary here is explicitly not interested in fitting into standard divisions but will rather address three distinct questions separately. First, “What is ethically wrong with the existing system and what are the systemic causes of the problems?” Second, “What is are appropriate responses to these problems?” Third, “Who must take responsibility?”

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What Is Ethically Wrong with the Existing Healthcare System? In an effort to keep a tight focus, the following operational definitions will be offered. These definitions are not offered as statements about use in the larger world, but simply to operationalize them for this single chapter for the sake of clarity. Health—​In this context “health” will be the concept as defined by the World Health Organization (WHO): “Health is a state of complete physical, mental and social well-​being and not merely the absence of disease or infirmity.”1 For broader context, the WHO includes free expression, peace, security, and a host of social and biological measures as essential pieces to health and a sense of well-​being. Health System(s)—​This is used as a sociological term and is not drawn from a particular literature. In this chapter, “health system” will simply refer to the various social constructs by which people seek to maintain or achieve health for individuals and populations. This includes medical systems, public health works, related government programs, and payment/​insurance arrangements but also churches, civil society, and the broad swath of organizations that contribute to physical, mental, and social well-​being. Christianity—​ R ather than attempting to find a theological core, Christianity is broadly assumed to refer to the religious movement that was inspired by the Jewish scriptures and the various scriptural accounts of Jesus. Anabaptism—​The Christian religious movement that has historical roots in the Radical Reformation and embraces adult baptism, non-​violence, community, and simple living. With these terms in mind, it is critical to note that the United States’ health system is a largely self-​regulated,2 free-​market. Broadly, every actor is charged with protecting and advancing their own economic interests while health interests are protected with a patchwork collection of professional organizations, educational institutions, governmental agencies, and whatever goodwill individual actors bring of their own volition. Health is not financially rewarded for any member of the health system, but rather, interventions that are demonstrably necessary and agreed upon as appropriate treatments. In plain terms, there is no financial incentive to prevent a person from getting diabetes, in fact, there is a substantial disincentive. On the other hand, once a person has diabetes, there is quite a lot of money to be made by pharmaceutical companies and by those who help to manage the chronic disease. 1 2

World Health Organization, 1946, 1. The most powerful regulatory actor for most medical professionals is their overseeing board (usually the state-​level Medical Board or Nursing Board.)

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Efforts to explain the total system yield flowcharts that illustrate the complexity effectively but do little to illuminate the actual interactions—​problematic and helpful. A more accessible introduction can be had by simply considering the experience of various people in the system. First, consider those who are dealing with an unusual illness. If a person has a health concern that does not yield an observable and codable problem within the system, there are no financial incentives for any person within the system to offer help. Through the WHO definition of health, this effectively eliminates social well-​being and severely curtails assistance that can be sought for mental health services. Horrific examples of such oversights abound. A victim of abuse who fears they will repeat the pattern can rarely find entrance into the system until after they have committed abuse. At that point, it is usually only after they have hurt another person, damaged their social support structures, and usually only after conviction and incarceration which tends to produce a host of other unhealthy realities. Similarly, interventions around mental health or relational dysfunctions generally cannot be addressed until some significant problems can be documented … prevention has no place. Another experience to consider is that of the person without health insurance. When approaching the system in a non-​emergency situation, some evidence of an ability to pay is required. It is painfully common to have an uninsured patient avoid imaging that would cost two-​weeks’ pay only to be forced into action when the pain becomes unbearable. By the time the symptoms make the market price seem appropriate, problems have often grown to be life-​a ltering or fatal. In the case of imaging, it is a cancer that metastasizes. With addiction, the high cost of treatment becomes defensible after the loss of family. Whether it is rationing insulin for the diabetic until amputation is required, forgoing biologics for the patient with rheumatoid arthritis until the joints are destroyed, or simply avoiding contact with the doctor until the symptoms have become overwhelming; for the uninsured the health market primarily balances supply and demand by eliminating the demand—​k illing the individual with insufficient resources to pay. A different challenge is experienced by those who have access to insurance. In this setting the range of problems created by profit motives create a Red Queen Effect.3 With ostensibly benign intentions and profit as a motive, 3

The idea of the Red Queen Effect/​Paradox/​Hypothesis comes from Lewis Carroll in Through the Looking Glass. The idea is that some systems develop in such a way that every constituent part must continually struggle with ever increasing demands because the system demands mean that a lack of motion leaves a person behind (2014, 18). In the healthcare setting, this is particularly true as each player is motivated to

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pharmaceutical companies drive prices of many essential medications far out of reach for many patients. The behavior is defensible in the public realm as a business decision to maximize profits for investors coupled with a need to increase revenue so that new research and a talented workforce can be sustained. Indeed, the various members of the workforce tend to be clever humanitarians with advanced degrees who justify their own robust salaries by pointing to even more lavishly compensated individuals in other parts of the bloated system. The result is a painfully large number of patients who are unable to access essential medications: a product of a bunch of well-​intentioned and well-​educated professionals who continue to contribute to and be compensated from the system. The same patterns and rationales recur in hospitals, clinics, and for medical hardware. Physicians can point to another specialty that charges more for less—​justifying their salary. The entire system can point to the executives and vice presidents in their structures or in some other institution as a justification. While it is entirely common to hear every member of the system lament the cost, it is exceedingly rare to hear anyone acknowledge their own benefit. As bad as this is, it only touches the first systematic problem for the insured individual because, those with “insurance” have another profit-​ driven entity that may well deny or delay essential coverage that trades life for profit. The insurance company itself must find profits by taking money from the population and compensating the bloated healthcare system. Taken together, the results are that the vast preponderance of the people who work outside of the field of medicine are “cared for” by (or at least, are destined to attempt to seek care or coverage from) a group that lives in a much higher socio-​economic station. Perhaps even more troublingly, to increase the market pressures and encourage people to ration their own care, high deductible plans have increasingly forced even the insured folks to make self-​destructive decisions in the same manner described for the uninsured. Again, the market finds equilibrium by limiting demand—​in this case, by destroying the individuals who would demand care but lack the resources. Indeed, the only way to access a system that addresses the full concept of health (as operationalized) within the existing United States health system is to have tremendous personal or communal resources and be willing to spend them. In the existing system the last are the last and the first are the first.4

4

increase pricing. (Note that this has become particularly true as health insurance is regulated to only be able to make a percentage of revenue as profit.) A painful inversion of Matthew 20:16.

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An additional layer of complexity comes in the way the system changes the healthcare worker. As insinuated above, each person within the system becomes tied to the perpetuation of its brokenness. As with other forms of structural injustice, it is much easier to note that someone is wronged than to recognize the personal benefit that is gained and take ownership. Regardless of the original social or economic class, becoming a physician or healthcare executive removes the healthcare worker from the experience of the poor and powerless in society and risks alienation from the core goodness of simple living—​a core historic and theological tenant of Anabaptist Christianity. There are certainly dramatically underpaid healthcare workers as well, but the very class divides in larger society play out in the prestige, power, and income that lead to the stratification of decision-​making and power within the health system. This means that a person must exit the ranks of the under-​paid service worker (an Anabaptist might recognize this as Jesus’ class) before having voice in significant decisions within the system. While beyond the scope of this consideration, it is worth noting that that it is only magnified as one looks at broader contexts. The selfishness of the wealthy in America is turned outward in America’s treatment of its poorer neighbors. Even the relatively unfortunate in the American context benefit from nationalist policies that limit the sharing of public goods so that a child of God born on the South bank of the Rio Grande River is granted no access to public goods whatsoever.

What is An Appropriate Response? As acknowledged in the opening, there is a terrible desire for ideological consistency that tends to box in solutions. On an ethical basis, there is simply no ground to defend the marketization of human health—​particularly when the ill-​health is the result of factors beyond the individual’s control. This immediately raises questions about a just allocation of the responsibility, but that seems to be a question that can be separated. First, to the question of the brokenness of markets in this case. A fundamental concept when considering an ethical question is the “veil of ignorance.” It is explicitly articulated by the American political philosopher John Rawls and asserts that a person is best equipped to decide what is just when they are unaware of what their own position would be in the situation that is being judged.5 So, in the case of healthcare, if a person does not know whether they will live in wealth or poverty, with a chronic disease or healthy, 5 Rawls, Theory of Justice (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999), 118–​27.

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and/​or what the state of their own children will be, it seems impossible to imagine a scenario where that person would say that it is right and just for the poor to die and watch their children die through no fault of their own. Indeed, this idea of investigating one’s own perspective is common throughout philosophy. Immanuel Kant, while not naming the veil in the same way, used a similar set of concepts in describing the “categorical imperative.” Rooted in the idea that any just behavior must be replicable (that is, that everyone could behave the same way). On the one hand, this is quite similar to Rawls in that it does not afford any special rights based on class or standing, but rather insists that a person must decide what is right without the prejudice of knowing their place in the decision. The resulting categorical imperative is perhaps best known in its humanitarian articulation, “So act that you use humanity, in your own person as well as in the person of any other, always at the same time as an end, never merely as a means.”6 It becomes quite obvious, when one views the functioning of the present system, that the health system in its current form must use people merely as a means to the end of serving the market and profits. Indeed, many other perspectives might be considered as well from the ancient world to modern American philosophers. An Aristotelian7 perspective would suggest that an action is just only to the degree that it allows the actor or thing to utterly fulfill its purpose or essence—​a clear point of failing in something that is purportedly a “health system” but appears to excel primarily at generating profits when compared to similar systems in other national contexts. The Enlightenment Era normative hedonism of Bentham, which demands that suffering be minimized and pleasure maximized at the population level, would find tremendous fault with the market’s devaluation of the experience of the poor.8 Even the pro-​market justice theories of Robert Nozick would find fault with the unjust state of the system where people would not have equal or fair opportunity to acquire care based on innate characteristics or generational wealth.9 In short, while there may be substantial argument about how to make the health system more just, there is very little room to accept the current system as a just system within existing understandings of ethics. 6 Kant, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, trans. by Mary Gregor (Cambridge: University Press, 2011), 87. 7 Aristotle, Metaphysics Lambda, ed. by Lindsay Judson (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2019), 318–​25. 8 Bentham, The Collected Works of Jeremy Bentham, ed. by J. H. Burns and H. L. A. Hart (Oxford: University Press, 2005). 9 Nozick, Anarchy, State, and Utopia (New York: Basic Books, 1974), 151.

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Who Must Take Responsibility? For the Anabaptist, vocation and faith must be integrated so a profession must be consistent with a larger calling. This is fraught with nearly insurmountable challenges in the present healthcare system. Destructive acculturation that strips away purpose and morality tends to leave behind the poor substitutes of self-​interest focusing on liabilities, rights, obligations, and professionalism. As social and personal constructs supplant love, justifications for limiting service, acquiring wealth, and generally moving away from Jesus’ method and example become more palatable and more common. Such a transition tends to develop into debates about which pieces of God’s creation should be sacrificed to “Caesar.” This ultimately has the potential to supplant the great freedom and all-​consuming responsibility of care that comes from a loving God.10 It certainly seems that the structures of the practice of medicine are designed to cause practitioners and society as a whole to give over the moral obligations that are owed to God to the state, that is, to the present emperor. As an illustrative point, consider the story of Zacchaeus (Luke 19:1–​11). As a tax collector, Zacchaeus has given himself entirely to the processes and structures of empire, collecting the money that built the Roman military, roads, governance. He supported the very occupation that the Messiah was believed to be coming to contest and yet Jesus chose to publicly embrace him and engage without precondition. The recorded result is that Zacchaeus is freed, both of the burden of advancing the empire and of his wealth as he promises to pay back those from whom he has over-​collected. It seems reasonable that his life after this point would appear to be much less affluent, secure, and prestigious to the outside observer. Applying these same ideas to the healthcare and medical structures of contemporary America, a troubling critique rapidly and naturally arises. Professionals in the field, from nurses to physicians, begin their preparation by entering an educational system that demands large sums of money and near academic perfection in exchange for dehumanizing wealth. The greater access a healthcare professional might wish to have to the healing powers of pharmaceuticals, procedures, and other regulated treatments, the more 10 Jesus was asked to give a robust endorsement of political action in Mark 12. Specifically, a group of leaders who had found a way to work with Rome to make life in Israel more manageable (Herodians and Pharisees) asked Jesus to clarify whether he supported them or the freedom fighters who were resisting the taxes of Rome and Roman rule. They framed the question by asking whether Jews should pay taxes to Caesar. Jesus replies, “Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” (Mark 12:17).

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prestige and wealth is offered by society and the more perfection and wealth is demanded in the educational process. In essence, it appears that the state offers the powers of God in exchange for the humanity of the healthcare worker—​requiring for Caesar what is God’s. Such an arrangement may be tolerable under some versions of two-​k ingdom theology,11 as a necessary evil to keep the broken kingdoms of the world functioning. More troublingly, inequality and injustice are openly embraced by a range of theologies built on the prosperity gospel. As an example, consider the work of Oral Roberts.12 These theologies would suggest that the wealth of pharmaceutical companies, physicians, and scientists is God’s blessing and that the pain and loss of those who are suffering in the system is evidence of their lack of blessing and brokenness. While the two-​k ingdom theology is incompatible with Anabaptism, the prosperity gospel is deeply anathema to any theologically or historically rooted form of Anabaptism. Where constructs may exist to tolerate injustice within the larger Christian umbrella, the Anabaptist-​inspired vision of Christianity prioritizes the life and teachings of an impoverished and despised Jesus. Before diving into the heart of the current system, it is worthwhile to consider Menno Simon’s quote regarding the nature of faith and the works that must follow (emphasis added): For true evangelical faith is of such a nature that it cannot lay dormant; but manifests itself in all righteousness and works of love; it dies unto flesh and blood; destroys all forbidden lusts and desires; cordially seeks, serves, and fears God; clothes the naked; feeds the hungry; consoles the afflicted; shelters the miserable; aids and consoles all the oppressed; returns good for evil; serves those that injure it; prays for those that persecute it; teaches, admonishes, and reproves with the Word of the Lord; seeks that which is lost; binds up that 11 There are many variations, but generally, two-​k ingdom theologies allow space for the Christian to behave in distinctly un-​Jesus-​like ways because of the demands of the world. There was some significant early development of the idea in the work of St. Augustine (City of God 2014). Its current iterations were developed by Calvin and Luther and, in many ways serves to strike a balance where an upright Christian might engage with a fallen world. The Lutheran Church of Australia provides an excellent example this thinking in its effort to determine how to engage in politics (Commission on Social and Bioethical Questions 2001). In short, it is not an abdication of responsibility to do good, but rather, a permission for Christians to engage in a world where rulers and laws operate in rather awful ways. Note that this is at strong odds with the Anabaptist tradition which asserts that every Christian is obligated to seek after the perfection of Christ in a way that is often articulated as separation from the world. 12 Thorpe, R. Samuel, “An Overview of the Theology of Oral Roberts,” Spiritus: ORU Journal of Theology (2018): 259–​75.

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which is wounded; heals that which is diseased; and saves that which is sound. The persecution, suffering, and anxiety which befalls it for the sake of the truth of the Lord, is to it a glorious joy and consolation.13

Indeed, under such a call, it is hard to imagine how any medical professional in the United States might justify their salary in light of the insurance debacle and medical coding arrangement that makes it possible. Perhaps more troublingly, it is difficult to imagine how any self-​proclaimed Anabaptist can justify their own wealth or security while receiving care from a system that bankrupts 250,000 people each year.14

Alternative Constructions The public generosity of American Liberalism is more appealing than the selfish idolatry of markets found in American Conservatism in much the same way that the “necessary evil” arguments of the two-​k ingdom theologies is more palatable than the graceless prosperity gospel. All the same, neither can be called Anabaptist. An Anabaptist approach is not to seek a solution where the state becomes the church nor where the church becomes the state. The experiment at Münster squashed this impulse historically and contributed to the priority placed on peaceable living. Voting so that money might be reallocated by coercive force does nothing to set the minds and the hearts of the church and might serve as a dangerous analgesic, allowing the wealthy within the community to believe that their comfort and security are justifiable because the state is dealing with those that must struggle to create the surplus. This appears to be a clear offering to Caesar of the moral service appropriately destined to God. The judgment for the American Conservative Anabaptist is no less harsh. The selfishness and pride that makes anyone believe that the wealth and privilege are a result of spiritual merit clearly contributes to the blindness to the poor, naked, imprisoned, stranger Christ among us (Matthew 25:31–​46). The tendency of the wealthy to hide behind “stewardship” and declare that their wealth all belongs to God is particularly incongruous if, indeed, the God they worship is the God of everything. If that were true and wealth is 13 Menno Simons, The Reason Why Menno Simons Does Not Cease Teaching and Writing, ed. and trans. John F. Funk (Elkhart: John F. Funk and Bros, 1871), 246. 14 Getting a firm number here is a bit of a challenge. Conservatively about 25% of non-​ business bankruptcies are attributable to medical problems (David U. Himmelstein 2019). While the number of personal bankruptcies vary greatly based on macroeconomic conditions, there have been an average of a it over 1.1 million bankruptcies per year since the year 2000 (United States Courts n.d.).

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the result of merit, it seems that locks of any sort would be entirely unnecessary—​why would God’s property need your protection? And, indeed, what could it be protected from if every living thing is God’s? It strains credulity to think that a person is managing God’s wealth well in a well-​d iversified portfolio as long as any child of God—​which is to say any child—​d ies of preventable disease or starvation, misses opportunities to grow intellectually and personally because of deprivation. It might seem that God would prefer to trade in a few shares of Amazon to give his child a loaf of bread, an essential vaccination, or the opportunity to read. As un-​A nabaptist as it is to make the government supplant the role of the church, it seems doubly inappropriate to advocate for an amoral government that allows the poor and powerless to suffer to promote this form of “stewardship.” And so, it seems that an Anabaptist solution is frustratingly simple and demanding, whether taken from the call of the rich young ruler in Mark 10:17, the example of Jesus on the cross, or the Anabaptist tradition itself. Anabaptist healthcare begins when the church takes responsibility for it, not in voting in a particular way to get others to do the right thing, but when the Church begins to do what is right. Whether through direct healing missions or the funding of every possible need in the existing system—​t he potential for impactful action is broad. Churches might pay for medical school, breaking the debt and entitlement cycle (if not the dehumanizing educational work) that physicians experience. Some acceptance of the limitations of medicine would be required so that resources were not lavished on the dying rich while the living poor struggle with untreated disease. Indeed, finding some way to support one another is celebrating life when a terminal diagnosis is received might not only limit the financial impact of a mutual aid arrangement, but might actually serve to celebrate life together while a dying brother or sister is still a part of the congregation. The Anabaptist healthcare providers might reject the wealth afforded them and perhaps others might choose to follow suit. No effort would need to be effective or complete on its own, but rather, a “true evangelical faith” need only seek to selflessly follow Jesus in Love. Perhaps there really is a real God that will bring fruit from such an effort—​if that is the case, it would seem that an effort to follow might be an appropriate first step to inviting God’s response.

Bibliography Aristotle. Metaphysics Lambda, edited by Lindsay Judson. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2019. Augustine, Aureliua. City of God, edited by Marcus Dodds. Vol. I. London: T & T Clark, 2014. https://​w ww.gutenb​erg.org/​fi les/​45304/​45304-​h/​45304-​h.htm.

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Bentham, Jeremy. The Collected Works of Jeremy Bentham: An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation, edited by J. H. Burns and H. L. A. Hart. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Carroll, Lewis. Through the Looking Glass. Minneapolis: Lerner Publishing Group, 2014. Commission on Social and Bioethical Questions. 2001. The Two ‘Kingdoms’. Commission Report, Lutheran Church of Australia. https://​web.arch​ive.org/​web/​200​5102​ 7020​412/​http:/​ /​w ww.lca.org.au/​resources/​csbq/​t wokingdoms.pdf. Constitution of the World Health Organization. New York, July 22. Accessed June 2020. https://​apps.who.int/​gb/​bd/ ​PDF/​bd47/ ​EN/​const ​itut ​ion-​en.pdf?ua=​1. David U. Himmelstein, Robert M. Lawless, Deborah Thorne, Pamela Foohey, Steffie Woolhandler. “Medical Bankruptcy: Still Common Despirte the Affordable Care Act.” American Journal of Public Health 39 (2019): 431–​33. Funk, John F., trans. “The Reason Why Menno Simons Does Not Cease Teaching and Writing.” The Complete Works of Menno Simons. Elkhart, Indiana: John F. Funk & Brother, 1871. https://​en.wik ​isou ​rce.org/​w iki/ ​The_​Com​plet​e _​Wo​rks_​of_ ​M​enno​ _​Sim​ons/​T he_​R eason_​W hy_​Menno_​Simons_​Does_​Not​_​C ea​se_​T​each​i ng_​a nd_​ Writ​ing. Kant, Immanuel. Groundwork of the Metahysics of Morals: A German-​English Edition, translated by Mary Gregor and Jens Timmermann. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Nozick, Robert. Anarchy, State, and Utopia. New York: Basic Books, 1974. Rawls, John. A Theory of Justice. Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1999. Thorpe, R. Samuel. “An Overview of the Theology of Oral Roberts.” Spiritus: ORU Journal of Theology (2018): 259–​75. https://​d igi​tals​howc​ase.oru.edu/​cgi/​v iew​cont​ ent.cgi?arti​cle=​1089&cont​ext=​spiri​t us. United States Courts. n.d. Bankruptcy Abuse Prevention and Consumer Protection Act Report. Accessed August 2, 2020. https://​w ww.uscou​r ts.gov/​sta​t ist​ics-​repo​r ts/​ analy​s is-​r epo​r ts/​b an​k rup​tcy-​abuse-​pre​vent​ion-​a nd-​consu​mer-​pro​tect​ion-​act-​ rep​ort. World Health Organization. “Preamble to the Constitution: WHO,” 1946.

Chapter 28  Among the Pains: Christianity, Disability, Healing1 J. A lex ander Sider

Introduction Modern Israel’s greatest poet, Yehuda Amichai, died in the year 2000. That same year, his translators, Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld, published Open Closed Open, a collection of Amichai’s poetry, which won the 2001 PEN Award for Poetry in Translation. Open Closed Open included Amichai’s poem, “The Precision of Pain,” from which I take my title today. Here’s an excerpt from the poem: The precision of pain and the blurriness of joy. I’m thinking how precise people are when they describe their pain in a doctor’s office … I want to describe, with a sharp pain’s precision, happiness and blurry joy. I learned to speak among the pains.2

A yellowed newsprint clipping of the poem hangs on my office door; I think about some aspect of it nearly every day, even if it’s just repeating the last line, “I learned to speak among the pains.” I especially like the tone of the poem—​t he exuberance that builds to the beginning of line six, as Amichai describes the experience of being in pain with increasing intensity and focus. Throbbing, wrenching, gnawing, burning. Here is something I can pinpoint; here is something I can locate; here is something I can communicate about 1 2

Reprinted and revised from Mennonite Health Journal. https://​menn​ohea​lth.org/​ com​muni​cati​ons/​jour​nal/​. Yehuda Amichai, “The Precision of Pain,” in Open Closed Open, trans. Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld (Orlando: Harcourt, 2000), 99.

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myself, and I know because you can find the pain too: “Right here. Precisely here, yes, yes.” The interplay between the intensity of pain experienced and the rising excitement at the prospect (and success) of communicating that pain strikes me as altogether an accurate evocation of what it is like to be in pain. There’s a nearly imperceptible oscillation back and forth between suffering and relief. Then, the subtle emotional deflation that follows when Amichai turns his attention to joy. Blurred perception and bland description: “great,” “seventh heaven,” “wonderful,” “I have no words.” Third, the quick twist of the screw, bitter and ironic, describing the desire to voice joy with the same intense specificity he can conjure when he speaks of pain. And, lastly, the slightly rueful admission about when and where he learned to speak: of course it makes sense, Amichai says, that I am so good at speaking my pain, yet so inept at naming joy—​“I learned to speak among the pains.” The poem structures most of my thinking about and experience regarding questions related to religion and health, and not least about the stressed three-​way intersection among Christianity in its taught and lived dimensions, disability in its theoretical and experiential dimensions, and healing, as often dimensioned in disappointment as in hope. Its structures, as well, the dynamic to which I’d like to attend in this talk, namely, the “in between” of disability and healing. What do I mean by the “in between”? The Jewish social theorist and political philosopher, Gillian Rose, described it well in Love’s Work, which she wrote while dying of metastatic ovarian cancer at the age of 48. Rose began Love’s Work with an epigraph from St. Silouan of Athos. Silouan was an early twentieth century Orthodox monk, who received in ecstasy a vision of Christ and then, when it faded, lapsed into a 15-​year-​long major depressive episode, at the end of which God granted him assurance in the form of a saying: “Keep your mind in hell, and despair not.”3 Love’s Work is part philosophy, part theology, part memoir, and its title is ambiguous—​deliberately so, I suggest. It may be possessive: “the work of love,” or it might be a contraction: “love is work.” Anyone who attempts to write honestly about love or life will know that it is no field for soupy platitudes or facile moralizing. It is also not a field accepting of predetermined outcomes. If there was one thing Rose couldn’t stand, it was the faith people put in predetermined outcomes. She recognized a persistent structure in human thinking that pits two justifiable but potentially incompatible claims against each other and then dictates how the ensuing controversy will work itself out. Within contemporary Christian thought, you might recognize that such 3

Gillian Rose, Love’s Work (London: Chatto & Windus, 1995), 3.

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an opposition is often proposed between faith and reason, or love and justice, faithfulness and effectiveness, or science and religion. Such enquiries are, without exception, boring. You know how they will work out before you ever engage them. Their purpose, moreover, is not to grapple with the question of how to speak truthfully about the world; it is, instead, usually to reinforce a perspective that you or others already hold on different grounds. And I ask you to consider what it is like to have a perspective that you already hold reinforced by someone else. Words like “validating,” “vindicating,” and even “stabilizing,” come to mind. But, as we can easily see in our polarized political climate, feeling validated in one’s views because of your camaraderie with others is quite different than grappling truthfully with the perspectives of those who disagree with you. It is a way of repairing a relationship without having to engage it. Against this ideology of repair, Rose argued for the integrity of the “in between.” Human lives, she insisted, are often marked by difficulties that cannot be easily ameliorated. If we are to live and love truthfully, Rose claimed, it will only be by committing to the long and potentially unrewarding work of peacemaking mediation, which just as often as not, involves living into and with irreconcilable differences.4 If I were going to reflect on Rose at more length, I would have a lot to say about the challenges her view of the “in between,” or, as she calls it elsewhere, “the broken middle,” poses too many contemporary Christian understandings of peace, conflict, forgiveness, and reconciliation.5 But, here, I want to reflect on the commitment to the “in between” in terms of Christian responses to disability, particularly as they are filtered through stories of healing. Christian narratives about human illness and impairment often give persons with disabilities two options: miraculous healing or heroic suffering. These narratives create the impression that with great faith or effort persons with disabilities can overcome physical limitations and social barriers, but these same narratives often ignore discrimination and disabling social policies. I will explore resources within the Christian tradition for framing human illness, impairment and disability—​and, by extension, healing—​as fundamental matters of social justice.

4 5

See Andrew Shanks, Against Innocence: Gillian Rose’s Reception and Gift of Faith (London: SCM Press, 2008), 32–​39. J. Alexander Sider, To See History Doxologically: History and Holiness in John Howard Yoder’s Ecclesiology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011), 202–​07.

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Definitions Part and parcel of any exploration of subjects as fraught as “disability,” “Christianity,” and “healing,” is wrought to create a shared understanding of ideas and concepts. We have to hold some conceptualizations in common in order to avoid simple misunderstanding, and, because the topics with which we are dealing are complex and sensitive, also to avoid giving offense. I do not propose to have the final word on any of these concepts, but I want you to understand how I’m using them, if for no other reason than to provide a basis for further consideration and conversation. In the next few minutes, we’ll discuss a list of six terms that are essential for framing Christian theological engagement with experiences of disability. I have arranged the list in order of complexity—​t hat is to say, I’ve begun with the concepts that are basic for this discourse and built toward the concepts that depend for their intelligibility on those basic concepts.

Impairment6 We begin with the concept of impairment, which is sometimes used interchangeably with disability, but which most disability studies scholars say should be distinguished from it. In fact, when we use the term impairment as a synonym for disability, as in the phrase “mobility impaired,” we are actually engaging in the use of a euphemism that feels less stigmatizing than terms like “handicapped” or even “disabled.” But most disability theorists suggest that impairment signifies a diminishment in function or ability when measured against a typical benchmark, while disability involves the conversion of impairment to an obstacle, that is to say, disability names both the condition of impairment plus its negative social consequences. In 1980, for instance, the WHO document, “International Classification of Impairments, Disabilities and Handicaps” (or ICIDH for short), defined impairment as “any loss of abnormality of psychological, physiological, or anatomical structure or function,” while it defined disability as “any restriction or lack, resulting from an impairment, or ability to perform an activity in the manner or within the range considered normal for a human being.”7 The emphasis on restriction is important: my broken leg might impair me, but it only becomes disabling when I need to climb a flight of stairs that someone has put in my way. 6 William C. Gaventa, Disability and Spirituality: Recovering Wholeness (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2018), 18. 7 Quoted in William C. Gaventa, Disability and Spirituality: Recovering Wholeness (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2018), 18.

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The concept of impairment, according to the social theorist Michael Ralph, did not originate in connection with modern medicine or disability activism. Instead, it began with changes in the US life insurance industry that followed upon the abolition of slavery in 1865. Ralph argued that “as a term, [impairment] served to condense several different classes of risk—​ including region, race, family medical history, and national origin—​[in a way that] avoid[ed] language that suddenly conflicted with the imperative to forge an ostensibly free society.” By the 1890s, when states began to adopt anti-​d iscrimination laws, insurance underwriters continued to charge African Americans higher rates for life insurance than they charged whites by reclassifying the risks associated with insuring them as due to mental impairment. So, Ralph continued: The concept of “impairment” thus emerged from the scientific assessments of medical experts, actuaries, and underwriters concerned to fix the monetary value of social difference and debility. Turning their attention to family medical history, blood and urine samples, and emerging physiological indices like blood pressure, scientists established medical impairment as the ground for differentiating between demographics. In the process, the hierarchical calculus of value that was explicit in the context of legalized enslavement now became the basis for private medical assessments. These scientific developments effectively privatized inequality. I quote Ralph at length because his analysis serves as a useful reminder that, like disability, the concept of impairment is a construction that depends on social arrangements and expectations—​it is not a neutral description, but one forged in the fires of policy debate and the drive to monetize the value of human life. The struggle to define impairment has positive consequences for some people and negative, dehumanizing ones for others.

Disability I’ve already given one description of the term disability, “impairment plus its negative social consequences,” and that description expresses what Rachel Adams, Benjamin Reiss, and David Serlin call “a central tenet of disability studies: that disability is produced as much by environmental and social factors as it is by bodily conditions.”8 Because many of you work in the healthcare professions, you will no doubt be used to encountering the myriad ways that bodies and their social environments interact. You will probably also be more accustomed than many audiences to considering the fact that such interactions are not stable across space and time. What is considered disabling 8 Rachel Adams, Benjamin Reiss, and David Serlin, “Disability,” in Keywords for Disability Studies, 5.

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in one social context may not be considered disabling in another—​indeed, disability is situational. Some Down syndrome researchers and activists, for instance, have noted that Down syndrome as a disability depends on what aspects of a person’s life one is considering. There may be social costs that often attach to a DS diagnosis in terms of access to employment, obtaining a driver’s license, managing personal finances, and so on, but a person with a DS diagnosis will typically not experience that diagnosis as a defining feature of home or family life, and may even enjoy social benefits in terms of higher-​than-​typical emotional intelligence quotients—​a lthough I admit the research here is controversial.9 In other words, contrary to what might seem to be common sense, there is no specific set of conditions or impairments that “just are” disabling regardless of time, place, and social setting. Yet, despite the fact that disability is socially constructed, it tends to provoke a common set of reactions wherever and however it occurs. As Nancy Eiesland, author of The Disabled God, put it: Although people with disabilities span a broad spectrum of medical conditions with diverse effects on appearance and function … whatever the setting, whether in education, medicine, rehabilitation, social welfare policy, or society at large, a common set of stigmatizing values and arrangements has historically operated against us.10

Medical Model of Disability The concept of disability and its history of use are so multifaceted that it is useful to make some rough and ready distinctions whenever we discuss them. One of those distinctions has to do with comparing and contrasting “models” of disability. Generally, the claim is that, in disability studies and public policy, a social model of disability has replaced a medical model of disability and that this transition represents a more sophisticated use of the term disability that has positive social consequences for persons with disabilities. But what is the medical model that has been replaced? In essence, the medical model of disability focuses on disability as a set of conditions that accrues to an individual and places him or her in proximity to the medical community as 9 Much of the research is based on anecdotal evidence. Current controlled studies suggest that persons with Down syndrome show similar levels emotional intelligence to typically abled persons. See, e.g., R. Pochon and C. Declercq, “Emotion Recognition by Children with Down Syndrome: A Longitudinal Study,” Journal of Intellectual and Developmental Disability, 38, no. 4 (December 2013): 332–​43. doi: https://​doi.org/​10.3109/​13668​250.2013.826​346. 10 Nancy L. Eiesland, The Disabled God: Toward a Liberatory Theology of Disability (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1994), 14.

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the primary gatekeeper for access to services and accommodations. In other words, on the medical model of disability a person with a disability is considered sick or diseased and in need of treatment. While it is the case that some persons with disabilities are unhealthy and that, on Likert-​type scale questionnaires administered in the US, adults with disabilities are four times more likely to report their health to be “fair” or “poor” than people with no disabilities (40.3% vs. 9.9%), it is not the case that disability and illness are synonymous.11 I say this with one important caveat, namely, that the line between chronic illness and disability is extraordinarily fuzzy, particularly when one considers acquired disabilities in aging populations as well as in relation to women’s reproductive health. So, for instance, Women’s Studies scholar Susan Wendell has argued that the displacement of the medical model of disability by the social model puts persons with both chronic illnesses and disabilities—​most of whom are older and/​or women—​at a systematic disadvantage by silencing increased attention to advocacy for medical care in the disability community.12 This, as a side note, is one of the reasons that it’s important for Christians to pay attention to Old Testament texts about female infertility.

Social Model of Disability The model of disability that typically gets contrasted with the medical model is the social model, which began its ascendancy in the late 1960s as activist groups began to advocate for disability as a “positive identity category” and thus to shift public awareness of disability from medical concerns to social justice ones.13 By the time of the passage of the ADA in 1990, the disability rights movement in the US had advanced sufficiently to put perceptions of and social attitudes toward disability in the spotlight, and, on the world stage, the 2008 UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities defined disability as resulting “from the interactions between persons with 11 Tawara D. Goode, “Health Disparities at the Intersection of Race, Ethnicity, and Disability: The Role of Faith Communities,” Lecture, Summer Institute of Theology and Disability (Raleigh, NC: June 12, 2018). Cf. G.L. Krahn, D.K. Walker, and R. Correa-​De Araujo, “Persons with Disabilities as an Unrecognized Health Disparity Population,” American Journal of Public Health, 105: Suppl 2 (April 2015): S198–​S206. doi: https://​doi.org/​10.2105/​AJPH.2014.302​182. Epub February 2015. 12 Susan Wendell, “Unhealthy Disabled: Treating Chronic Illnesses as Disabilities,” in The Disability Studies Reader, 5 e, ed. Lennard J. Davis (New York: Routledge, 2017), 160–​72. 13 Adams, Reiss, and Serlin, “Disability,” 8.

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impairments and attitudinal and environmental barriers that hinders their full and effective participation in society on an equal basis with others.”14 This definition highlights the basic shift from the medical model: whereas the medical model treated a person with a disability as an isolated individual in need of treatment, the social model of disability focuses on reshaping society at large through legislation, accommodation, accessibility, and inclusion work, and efforts to address the stigma that has attached to disability and led to disparities in opportunity for persons with disabilities. One additional feature of the social model of disability is its emphasis on perceptions of the world shared by persons with disabilities, which is sometimes called “disability subjectivity” or even a “biocultural model of disability.” Adams, Reiss, and Serlin elaborate: While it may be true that to lose one’s leg, or to be visually impaired, or to have a chronic illness in the twenty-​fi rst-​century United States is incommensurate with what those impairments or conditions meant in eighteenth-​century Europe or ancient Egypt, disability itself always begins and ends with the subjective impressions of the individual who experiences the world through her body.15

The point here is to note that a person’s perceptions are neither a function of the body in isolation nor of the built social environment, but rather of the interplay between the person and her or his societies and environments.

Cure and Healing While summarizing the medical model of disability, I noted that in it persons with disabilities were treated as diseased (exhibiting the symptoms of a pathological entity) or ill (experiencing a diseased state), in any event as standing in need of medical intervention.16 16 When we traverse the ground between medicine and religion, we find a distinction, arising from religious studies but finding its way into the medical humanities, social sciences, and progressive clinical practice, between “cure” and “healing.” If I were to try to give a full history of the origin of this distinction, I would point to the period between the end of the US Civil War and World War I and cite two themes that converged in Christian studies at that time. As the Catholic historian David Endres has noted, the first theme arose in response to the advent of the “new” medicine, including “the introduction 14 “Disability,” 8. 15 Ibid., 9. 16 G. Thomas Crouser, “Illness” in Keywords for Disability Studies, 105.

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of the x-​ray; the first successful blood transfusion; the discovery of the pain-​ reliever, aspirin; the development of tests for tuberculosis and syphilis; the finding of an antitoxin for diphtheria and tetanus; and the widespread use of surgery to correct ailments including hernia, appendicitis, and tonsillitis.”17 Christians varied in how they viewed such medical advances. Some, like Mary Baker Eddy and the Christian Science movement rejected the claims of modern medicine and created the modern faith healing tradition, while U.S. Catholicism saw a sharp rise in the number of reported miraculous cures and a correspondingly sharp rise in pilgrimage to shrines associated with such cures. Still others embraced some version of compatibilism, arguing that medical intervention and Christian belief need not be pitted against each other. In any event, it was during this period that American Christians begin to distinguish the concept of “cure,” which may be (though not always was) a function of medicine, from “healing,” which is holistic and (always) depends fundamentally on God’s grace. The second theme arose in biblical studies, and particularly in connection with critical reflection on the ministry of Jesus. Scholars representing Protestant Liberalism and the “quest for the historical Jesus” tended to view the healing ministry of Jesus as depicted in the canonical Gospels as a complex set of metaphors. The point of the stories, they argued, was not that Jesus cured blindness, say, but rather that the blind person’s faith in Jesus healed him in a holistic, spiritual sense. Again, reactions among contemporary Christians varied. Many, buoyed by their newfound trust in the powers of modern medicine, accepted the interpretations of Protestant Liberal scholars, while others, in the midst of the Fundamentalist-​Modernist controversy, rejected such claims as the height of impiety and modern unbelief. Interestingly, this distinction arose at a time when medical doctors were still broadly trained in the humanities; thus, there exists an entire literature devoted to explorations of biblical healings (and other miracles) by medical professionals beginning in the 1880s and continuing for a solid century. Not incidentally, many of those doctors also happened to be Christian missionaries in regions with vibrant indigenous healing traditions. The distinction between cure and healing is important for us today because of the way it has been used to structure Christian narratives about disability. As I noted at the outset of this lecture, Christian narratives about human illness and impairment often leave persons with disabilities with two options: miraculous healing or heroic suffering. Far past the passage of the 17 David J. Endres, “What Medicine Could Not Cure: Faith Healings at the Shrine of Our Lady of Consolation, Carey, Ohio,” U.S. Catholic Historian 34, no. 3 (September 2016): 28.

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ADA, Christian congregations have principally encountered disability in ways dictated by the medical model, and this has everything to do with the distinction between cure and healing as it shapes contemporary Christian practice, particularly in North America and in regions of the world where modern Christianity was given its fundamental lineaments by the American Missionary Movement. “ ‘People react weird to people with disabilities like me,’ said Rich, sitting comfortably in his modern electric wheelchair. ‘They act like a disability is something they can catch, like it is infectious. At church, most people are unable to get past my disability. They stare not at me but at my disability.’ ”18 This story, excerpted from minister and disability activist Brett Webb-​ Mitchell’s book, Beyond Accessibility: Toward the Full Inclusion of People with Disabilities in Faith Communities, is notable principally for its commonness. If you are or know a person with a disability in a Christian congregation, the chances are excellent that you have or have heard a similar story. It may be the case that persons with visible disabilities experience this kind of reaction outside of church, but Christian ableist theologies exacerbate and, in some sense, license them. I won’t go into the characteristics of ableist theology at length here, except to define it as any theology that “presume[s]‌able-​bodiedness, and by so doing, construct[s] persons with disabilities as marginalized … and largely invisible ‘others.’ ”19 For ableist Christian theologies, the main encounter with disability in the Christian tradition occurs in biblical narratives where, with a few exceptions, impairments and the disabilities that accompany them are overcome by being cured and/​or healed through the active and miraculous intervention of God. A chief characteristic of ableism in church, then, is that it thinks of disability as needing a cure, and this association means that typically-​abled Christians are often stuck encountering persons with disabilities along the lines dictated by the medical model. When that happens, an implicit question is always being asked: why won’t she get better? And, as soon as that question gets asked, then you’re off on all the usual rabbit trails about the power of prayer, the reality of miracles, the amount of faith people have, God’s sovereignty, and the meaning of suffering, none of which, of course, is to see, or treat, or take the person with a disability as a person. Often, rather than engaging with people, practitioners of ableist theologies pose questions, questions 18 Brett Webb-​M itchell, Beyond Accessibility: Toward the Full Inclusion of People with Disabilities in Faith Communities (New York: Church Publishing, 2010), 5. 19 Quoting Vera Chouinard, “Making Space for Disabling Difference: Challenging Ableist Geographies,” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 15, no. 4 (August 1997): 379–​87.

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that result in the sterile, stabilizing, and validating religious discourses that avoid the difficulty of actually encountering people in the in-​between, people whose lives are often marked by difficulties that cannot be easily ameliorated and should not be ignored.

Resources Against such ableist theologies, I want to sketch three resources that the Christian tradition provides for thinking about disability as fundamentally a matter of social justice: dependency, celebration, and friendship. Each of them could involve much further elaboration than I will give it here.

Dependency The philosopher Eva Feder Kittay recently pointed to Mitt Romney’s 2012 presidential campaign blunder of referring to 47% of the US population as “dependent,” a gaffe that contributed to Romney losing the election, as evidence that Americans despise dependence. Kittay also commented on how strange this fact is, given that we are a “thoroughly social species” for whom “[d]‌ependence on others allows for needed care, knowledge, culture, technology, and political, social and economic goods.”20 Yet, it is no secret that stigma attaches to dependency as such in our culture. Where disability is concerned, American cultural disdain for dependency probably continues to contribute to the idea that disability constitutes a social problem. Disdain for dependency even filters into Christian congregations, where human relations are often defined as interdependent. One the one hand, this move is meant to combat modern narratives of autonomy and independence; on the other, it combats inappropriate forms of dependency. Often, however, it comes at significant cost, namely, that of recasting relationships as significant to the degree that they are reciprocal. Of course, relationships of reciprocity stand a good chance of being more just than many nonreciprocal ones, but the idea of interdependence as reciprocity still participates in a vision of the common good as essentially competitive, as involving the exchange of goods that are mine-​rather-​t han-​others’ or others’-​rather-​t han-​ mine. It has not graduated, one might say, to a vision of goods that are fundamentally noncompetitive in nature, mine-​only-​insofar-​as-​others’ and others’-​only-​insofar-​as-​mine.21 One major consequence of the emphasis on 20 Kittay, “Dependency,” in Keywords for Disability Studies, 54. 21 See Alasdair MacIntyre, Dependent Rational Animals: Why Humans Need the Virtues (Chicago: Open Court, 1999), 119–​28.

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interdependency is alienation for persons with disabilities and their families, who often experience themselves and their loved ones as having little say over the degree to which their relationships are reciprocal. I do not mean to demonize the ideals of independence, or even interdependence, because their proponents aspire to produce more nearly just societies than we currently enjoy, societies that dismantle systemic dis-​ privilege wherever it occurs. However, I do think that the Christian tradition offers an alternative to such configurations of relationship, and one that speaks of justice for the most vulnerable among us, including persons with profound intellectual disability. In Christian teaching, after all, the question is never, “Am I dependent or not?”—​I am—​but rather, “In what ways do I depend on others?” The Christian tradition includes resources for reshaping our perception of dependency as such and therefore for contributing to more just structures of relationship that include persons with disabilities. One such resource can be found in the writings of the fourth century theologian, Gregory of Nyssa. Gregory was convinced that the good end Christians are promised was not a life of reciprocity with God (or with others), but rather one of mutuality. Not give and take, or interdependency in the way that idea is often construed—​Gregory, for instance thought that God was in no way interdependent with creation—​but togetherness, or, we might say, varying intensities of dependency, most of which are asymmetrical, as paradigmatically, is human creaturely dependence upon God. Acknowledge dependence—​acknowledge it in its varying intensities and learn to construe it as one of the good things about being human. More importantly, stop construing personal worth as a matter of what one gives for others to receive in relationship. Yes, reciprocity has its goods, but they are not fundamental to human personhood, which, in Christian teaching, is a matter of nothing other than being made in the image of the imageless God.

Celebration At the center of Christian practice is celebration. There is, so far as I am aware, no other major religious tradition that construes its primary reason for the worship of God as celebration. Christians gather in worship to celebrate the mystery of faith, that Christ has died, Christ has risen, and Christ will come again. Yet, celebration is often missing in the lives of persons with disabilities, perhaps especially in the lives of adults with developmental and intellectual disabilities. Bill Gaventa, Chair of the National Collaborative on Faith and Disability, reflects on his own career:

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After I became the Protestant chaplain at the large Newark State School in 1975, I led a number of weekly religious services in different parts of the facility. I soon came to see the basic spiritual needs as celebration and belonging. Celebration meant a sense of identity that had meaning and value as well as the experience of being valued in a place where hundreds of people had been sent because they were devalued by the society into which they were born. One way to show value was celebrating the image of God in every person and God’s love for every person. Besides trying to embody that in my personal relationships and in religious services that focused on God’s love and celebrating the lives of my congregation, my first “objective” means of pastoral care was to structure my pastoral visiting around delivering birthday cards to my Protestant flock. Cards are simple, taken-​for-​granted expressions of worth and value to most of us, but they are conspicuous by their absence in large institutions: Who celebrates my birth and creation?22

Disability and Spirituality Gaventa is, of course, reflecting on his experience of more than forty years ago; however, the question remains as a fundamental marker of Christian identity: Let me suggest that the single most appropriate way to gauge the justice that inheres in social relationships is to answer the question, “Who celebrates with …?” And, just in case you think this emphasis on celebration as a matter of social justice is loosey goosey, let me point you to 1 Corinthians 11:16 where Paul is adamant that not “celebrating with” is, first, to show contempt for those whom God has gathered together and, second, to humiliate those whom you ignore.

Friendship Finally, friendship. The most commonly reported desire of parents of children with disabilities is for their child to have a friend. I should note, too, that this desire increases as parents and their children age. So, typically, the wish for a friend is more acute in parents of adult children with disabilities than in parents of young children. Rights, accessibility, and social inclusion, and even good person-​centered planning do not guarantee that you’ve got a friend. Since almost its inception, the Western philosophical tradition has recognized that friendship is hard. Aristotle thought that most of our friendships are matters of circumstance or convenience. He thought, furthermore, that really being friends with someone is like having a second self. That meant, according to Aristotle, that it is impossible to become friends with someone who is dissimilar to you. While Aristotle is hardly the final word on 22 Gaventa, Op. Cit., 92.

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friendship, philosophically considered, his views are both strikingly forthright and descriptive of many people’s experience—​you become friends with people with whom you are alike, who evoke in you a mimetic sense of affinity, of desire and delight. Your friends are the people in your life whom you would never consider instrumentalizing; whom you would never consider accounting for their presence and significance to you as a matter of “what you get out of it.” And, if you extrapolate just a little bit from your understanding of who your friends are, you can probably sense some of the challenges authentic friendships pose for persons with intellectual and developmental disabilities. Apart from the obvious challenge of instrumentalization (I am a friend as an act of generosity to someone in need, which is significant mainly because it tells me that I am generous), one other challenge that persons with intellectual and developmental disabilities face with respect to friendship is that they are often infantilized, that is, treated as “eternal children” or “holy innocents.”23 And this treatment impedes the growth friendship, not because it means that the person with a disability is never treated as a peer, though that often happens, but rather because it gets in the way of learning what it means to like someone without pretense. Again, however, the Christian tradition provides resources for becoming friends with others that enlarge typical assumptions about what it means to be someone’s friend. The thirteenth century Dominican theologian Thomas Aquinas, for instance, suggested that we are created for nothing less than to be God’s friends. That is to say: that we are created means that we are people whom God likes. Given that God is not a thing of any kind, and that we most certainly are, it’s easy to see how Aquinas’s view revolutionizes the classical concept of friendship. According to Aquinas, our primal experience of friendship, of being liked, is one that depends on difference; it is one for which difference is not an obstacle but friendship’s generative source. To paraphrase a contemporary Catholic theologian, James Alison, being created as God’s friend means being “ ‘liked spaciously, delighted in, wanted to give extension, fulfillment, fruition to, to share in just being.’ We are missing out on something huge and powerful and serene and enjoyable and safe and meaningful by being caught up in [relationships] that are less than that,” that fail to mirror the “astonishing gentleness” of being liked.24 If, as I said, “Who celebrates with me?” is a fundamental question of social justice, then

23 Ibid, 92. 24 James Alison, On Being Liked (New York: Crossroad, 2003), 15.

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it is so, in part, because it helps to answer the question, “Who likes me? Who is my friend?” Please notice, again, that this account of friendship does not depend on reciprocity; it depends, instead, on the much stronger and more continuous recognition that we are all, from start to finish, without remainder, nothing other than embodiments of God’s grace, of God’s liking us. And this “extraordinarily unbothered, non-​emergency”25 sense of being liked, which, in Christian teaching, is both our being and our vocation, is profoundly a matter of social justice because it extends to everyone all the time. Justice work, the kind of justice work demanded by learning to speak of friendship and being liked among the pains, is never justice work, unless it is justice-​for-​ all work.

Bibliography Adams, Rachel, Benjamin Reiss, and David Serlin, eds. Keywords for Disability Studies. New York: New York University Press, 2015. Alison, James. On Being Liked. New York: Crossroad, 2003. Amichai, Yehuda. “The Precision of Pain.” Open Closed Open, translated by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld. Orlando: Harcourt, 2000. Chouinard, Vera. “Making Space for Disabling Difference: Challenging Ableist Geographies.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 15, no. 4 (August 1997): 379–​87. Eiesland, Nancy L. The Disabled God: Toward a Liberatory Theology of Disability. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1994. Endres, David J. “What Medicine Could Not Cure: Faith Healings at the Shrine of Our Lady of Consolation, Carey, Ohio.” U.S. Catholic Historian 34, no. 3 (September 2016): 25–​49. Gaventa, William C. Disability and Spirituality: Recovering Wholeness. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2018. Goode, Tawara D. “Health Disparities at the Intersection of Race, Ethnicity, and Disability: The Role of Faith Communities.” Lecture. Summer Institute of Theology and Disability. Raleigh, NC: June 12, 2018. Krahn, G. L., Walker, D. K., and Correa-​De Araujo, R. “Persons with Disabilities as an Unrecognized Health Disparity Population.” American Journal of Public Health 105, Suppl 2 (April 2015): S198–​S206. doi: https://​doi.org/​10.2105/​AJPH.2014.302​ 182. Epub February 2015. MacIntyre, Alasdair. Dependent Rational Animals: Why Humans Need the Virtues. Chicago: Open Court, 1999. 25 Ibid.

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Pochon, R., and Declercq, C. “Emotion Recognition by Children with Down Syndrome: A Longitudinal Study.” Journal of Intellectual and Developmental Disability 38, no. 4 (December 2013): 332–​43. doi: https://​doi.org/​10.3109/​13668​250.2013.826​346. Rose, Gillian. Love’s Work. London: Chatto & Windus, 1995. Shanks, Andrew. Against Innocence: Gillian Rose’s Reception and Gift of Faith. London: SCM Press, 2008. Sider, J. Alexander. To See History Doxologically: History and Holiness in John Howard Yoder’s Ecclesiology. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011. Webb-​M itchell, Brett. Beyond Accessibility: Toward the Full Inclusion of People with Disabilities in Faith Communities. New York: Church Publishing, 2010. Wendell, Susan. “Unhealthy Disabled: Treating Chronic Illnesses as Disabilities.” The Disability Studies Reader. 5 e., edited by Lennard J. Davis, 160–​ 72. New York: Routledge, 2017.

Chapter 29  The Church on the Edge of Forever David E. Ortman

What Is the “Anabaptist” Vision? In 1943, near the end of World War II, Harold S. Bender gave the Presidential address, The Anabaptist Vision (TAV), to the American Society of Church History. It is not surprising that it would focus more on “Anabaptist” and less on “vision.” Bender’s speech introduction quotes Rufus M. Jones who pronounced the Anabaptist Movement as “one of the most momentous and significant undertakings in man’s eventual religious struggle after the truth … an absolutely free and independent religious society.”1 Bender declares that these words are “one of the best characterizations of Anabaptism and its contributions to our modern Christian culture.”2 Far less clear, however, is Bender’s Anabaptist “vision,” which he breaks into three parts: discipleship/​piety, discipleship/​separation from the world, and love/​nonresistance.3 And, in 1943, one could hardly expect an Anabaptist environmental vision during a second world war of madness. A war destroying the earth and its inhabitants, both humans and creatures,4 by land, sea, and air, including fire

1 Harold S. Bender, “TAV,” in TRAV, ed. Guy F. Hershberger, 29. Jones’ emphasis on “free and independent” was insightful given the tendency of Anabaptists to schism, split, join, leave, and rejoin as a priesthood of all believers who clearly believe different things, including things environmental. 2 Ibid. 3 Ibid, 42–​54. 4 WWII caused an estimated 70–​ 85 million human deaths and upwards of five million horse deaths during WWII. https://​en.wikipe​d ia.org/​w iki/ ​Worl​d _​Wa​ r_​I I​_​cas​ualt​ies. Accessed July 28, 2020. Nearly 3 million horses and mules were used by the Germans alone during WWII, with an estimated 750,000 killed.

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bombing and U.S. nuclear bombing of civilian cities, when no such vision was forthcoming during WWII from the earth’s major religions. Or in 1957, when Guy F. Hershberger edited TRAV in appreciation for [Bender] whose labors have made a significant contribution to an understanding of Anabaptism, its origins, its character, its history, and its meanings.”5 But, Anabaptist historians have too long ignored our environmental character, our environmental history, and its meanings. For example, Cornelius Krahn’s TRAV essay quotes German Historian H. L. B. Bentheim approvingly in Bentheim’s description of the history of Dutch Mennonites in Europe as: “ ‘the honeybees of the state.’ ”6 According to Krahn, “…they became agricultural pioneers … due in part … to their willingness to withdraw into uncultivated areas.”7 Krahn writes: In the draining of swamps and in agriculture the Dutch Mennonite refugees made outstanding contributions in East Friesland, in Schleswig-​Holstein, and in the Vistula Delta. This contribution was continued by their descendants on the plains of Russia and North America, and in vast undeveloped territories of Latin America.8

This is further confirmed by Abe J. Unruh: “Mennonite refugees fleeing from their captors in the Netherlands found their way into the delta regions of the Vistula and Nogat river valleys in Polish-​Prussia … and were experts in reclaiming waste lands with building dikes and canals.”9 Polish nobleman in Wohlynien [sic] “invited … hard working Mennonites on their estates to clear the forests and drain the swamps.”10 A typical description of land settled on by Chortiza Mennonites in Russia’s Ekaterinoslaw Province, north of the Black Sea, is “a wild, neglected stretch of steppe.”11 Russian-​Mennonites take pride in the narrative of bringing Turkey red winter wheat (Krymka) to Kansas from Russia in 1874.12 But https://​natio​nali​nter​est.org/​blog/​buzz/​forgot​ten-​fact-​nazi-​germ​a ny-​used-​cava​lry-​ world-​war-​i i-​36387#. Accessed July 28, 2020. As many as 750,000 pets were killed in England in 1939, at the start of WWII. https://​w ww.bbc.com/​news/​magaz​ine-​ 24478​532. Accessed July 28, 2020. 5 Guy F. Hershberger, ed., TRAV, Preface, v. 6 Cornelius Krahn, “In the Culture of the Netherlands,” in TRAV, ed. Guy F. Hershberger, 227. 7 Ibid. 8 Ibid., 232. 9 Abe J. Unruh, The Helpless Poles, 30–​31. Waste lands that we would today recognize as wetlands. 10 Ibid., 51. 11 George Rath, The Black Sea Germans in the Dakotas, 12–​14. 12 For a history of winter wheat production in Kansas prior to the arrival of the Mennonites in 1874 see: James C. Malin, “Beginnings of Winter Wheat Production

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little is said of the fact that in Russia “[T]‌he red wheat placed a heavy toll on the land’s fertility and in the 1890s was largely abandoned for an inferior variety” as James Urry has noted.13 Urry also notes that many Mennonite farmers in Russia “were extremely conservative and suspicious of innovations. They persisted in practicing antiquated farming methods with a stubbornness born of ignorance and prejudice.”14 Roland H. Bainton’s TRAV essay “The Anabaptist Contribution to History,” furthers this narrative in discussing the European Mennonite’s problem of survival. One way was accommodation. “The other way of survival was that of migration to a frontier, whether that of the eastern fringe of Europe … or else the frontier of the forest primeval in Canada, the Dakotas, or Paraguay.”15 in the Upper Kansas and Lower Smokey Hill River Valleys: A Study in Adaptation to Geographical Environment,” The Kansas Historical Quarterly, Vol. 10, No. 3 (August 1941): 227–​ 259. https://​kshs.org/​p/​kan​sas-​h is​tori​cal-​quarte​rly-​beg​inni​ ngs-​of-​w in​ter-​wheat-​pro​duct​ion/​12876 (accessed August 1, 2020). 13 James Urry, “Mennonite Economic Development in the Russian Mirror” Mennonites in Russia, ed. John Friesen, 105. 14 Ibid., 108. Much has been written elsewhere, not covered here, on Amish (low tech)/​Hutterite (high tech) and Mennonite farming practices in the United States. See David McConnell and Marilyn Loveless, Nature and the Environment in Amish Life (John Hopkins University Press, 2018). Elizabeth E. Evans, “Amish have complicated relationship with nature, climate change,” Religious News Services, Mennonite World Review, March 9, 2020, 1) (“They believe that God gave the earth to people for them to use,” McConnell said.”). See also S. Roy Kaufman, Healing God’s Earth (Wilf and Stock, 2013). Kaufman has also written a semi-​ regular Feature, “Rural Alternatives,” for the Freeman (S.D.) Courier. https://​w ww.freema​ nsd.com/​. Accessed July 29, 2020. Robert Friedmann, “The Hutterian Brethren and Community of Goods,” in TRAV, ed. Guy F. Hershberger, 83. 15 Roland H. Bainton, “The Anabaptist Contribution to History: Bender,” in TRAV, ed. Guy F. Hershberger, 321. We can now identify the complex ecosystems, including species (bison, beavers, passenger pigeons, Rocky Mountain locusts) and indigenous peoples, wiped out or displaced prior to the arrival of migrating Mennonites to the plains (not forests) of the Dakotas and Canada, as well the landscape alteration in Paraguay (which even today is referred to as the miracle of the Chaco): “…some men from the colonies in Paraguay came to Franconia Conference as part of a North American tour to raise money. They needed money for credit to buy farm machinery to tame the ‘Green Hell’, as the landlocked Chaco wilderness of western Paraguay was nicknamed,” writes Charlotte Rosenberger in Mennonite Mosaic, see https://​ menno​n ite​conf​eren​cex.org/​refl​ecti​ons-​f rom-​parag​u ay-​com​i ng-​toget​her-​i n-​t he-​ way-​of-​chr​ist/​. Accessed August 1, 2020. See also John P. R. Eicher, Exiled Among Nations. “Pessimistic Fernheimers believed that the Chaco was a prison, while optimists argued that God wanted them to create a garden in the wilderness,” quoted by Rachel Waltner Goossen, “Divergent Paths in Paraguay,” Mennonite World Review,

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But what is the excuse now, after 2020, the 50th anniversary of Earth Day, and in the midst of a COVID-​19 virus pandemic, for a lack of Anabaptist environmental vision that is testing our assumptions of how we live on and with our fragile little spaceship? 20 years ago, Heather Ann Ackley Bean observed: An analysis of Anabaptist theology involving environmental ethics must begin by recognizing that historically, environmental issues as we understand them today were not an Anabaptist priority (which is also true for most other Christian traditions) …. After a search of “the Anabaptist tradition for traces of environmental concern,” Mennonite theologian Walter Klaassen concludes, “Despite a commitment to nonviolence, Mennonites … have done no thinking about nonviolence toward the Earth and ‘are by no means in the Christian front ranks of creation care.’ ” Agreeing with Klaassen’s conclusion, [Calvin] Redekop confirms that “there is absolutely no reference to the preservation of the earth in Mennonite theology.”16 Indeed, here is Bender: “[The Anabaptist] must consequently withdraw from the worldly system and create a Christian social order within the fellowship of the church brotherhood. Extension of this Christian order by the conversion of individuals and their transfer out of the world into the church is the only way by which progress can be made in Christianizing the social order.”17

Pacifism to Environmentalism 1950s–​1970s—​Nuclear/​Atomic Bomb—​Nuclear/​Atomic Energy

Book Review, July 27, 2020, 7. See also Heinrich Ratzlaff Epp, “The animals complained to God that every place they went, people would occupy, forcing them to leave. God said to them, I have one place where no human being will survive, so go there and you will live in peace, and that was the (Paraguayan) Chaco … And then came the Mennonites,” quoted in Michael L. Yoder, “Mennonites, Economics, and the Care of Creation,” Creation & the Environment-​An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World, ed. Calvin Redekop, 70. 16 Heather Ann Ackley Bean, “Toward an Anabaptist/​ Mennonite Environmental Ethic,” in Creation & the Environment-​An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World, ed. Calvin Redekop, 183–​84. See also: Jason Kaufman, “Biology for service: Archival traces of Mennonite environmentalist thought,” posted December 21, 2016. http://​menno​n ite​usa.org/​a rchi​ves-​2/​biol​ogy-​serv​ice-​a rchi​val-​t ra​ces-​mennon​ ite-​envir​onme​ntal​ist-​t hou​ght/​. Accessed July 25, 2020. See also: Associated Press, “Mexico Warns [Mennonites] to stop cutting jungles,” Anabaptist World, Vol. 2, No. 11, August 27, 2021, 25. 17 Bender, 53.

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It is instructive, however, to review Mennonite reactions to some of the environmental events of the post WWII era. One intersection is Erwin N. Hiebert’s 1961 book, “The Impact of Atomic Energy.”18 Hiebert reviews the development of atomic energy and the atomic bomb including responses of religious groups, including Mennonites. Hiebert notes a joint American Friends Service Committee, Brethren Service Committee, and MCC statement in 1954, and repeated in 1958, for outlawing nuclear weapons “unconditionally and permanently.”19 Meeting in Ritzville, WA, the General Conference Mennonite Church’s Pacific District Conference issued a statement imploring the President to halt nuclear weapons testing.20 As a follow-​up, at its Centennial Conference in 1959 in Bluffton, OH, the General Conference Mennonite Church adopted a statement calling on “our leaders in government to make permanent the ban on bomb tests.” Included is a citation to Genesis 1:28: “’Subdue’ the earth and have ‘dominion’ over every living thing was part of God’s creative purpose.”21 In pushing aside the use of atomic weapons, Hiebert writes: “We do not own this planet. We are only the custodians of what God has given us, and it would be preposterous to pollute and destroy the world in the attempt to clutch it to ourselves.”22 However, the same 1959 statement called on “our men in government to assume leadership in promoting the peaceful use of atomic energy.”23 Nearly two decades later, also in Bluffton, OH, the General Conference Mennonite Church, after forming an Energy Resources Task Force,24 adopted at its tri-​annual session in 1977, a much different statement. The “Christian Stewardship of Energy Resources” resolution called on congregations and families to be good energy stewards and for General Conference churches to encourage leaders in government and industry “to reduce reliance on fossil 18 Erwin N. Hiebert, The Impact of Atomic Energy –​A History of Responses by Governments, Scientists, and Religious Groups. 280–​288. During 1944 and 1945, Hiebert, who attended Tabor Collage and graduated from Bethel (KS) College, was an experimental physical chemist on the Manhattan Project. 19 Ibid., 271. 20 Ibid., 285–​86. 21 Ibid., 286. Other text citations are to: Ps. 24:1; John 10:10; Accts 17:24; Gal. 6:7; and Rom. 6:23. 22 Ibid., 290. 23 Ibid., 286–​87. In 1964, Congress authorized a study to determine the engineering feasibility of construction a Panama sea-​level canal either through conventional means or using nuclear excavation. See David E. Ortman, “Mingling The Two Oceans,” Not Man Apart (Friends of the Earth) November 1977, cover story. 24 This task force was made up of Dr. Dwight Platt, Dennis Kauffman, Harold Regier, and David E. Ortman.

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fuels and nuclear sources of energy as rapidly as possible.”25 Genesis 1:19–​ 26; 1:27–​28; Psalm 24: 1–​2; and Isaiah 45:18–​20 are cited. The above summary documents that Mennonite opposition toward nuclear weapons after 1945 through the mid-​1970s, evolved to consideration of the environmental impacts of nuclear power.26 Other Mennonite institutions were also responding to environmental issues:

Mennonite Institutions27 Mennonite Central Committee MCC, which celebrated its 100th anniversary in 2020, is “a global, nonprofit organization that strives to share God’s love and compassion for all through relief, development and peace.”28 In 1991, MCC continued its publication of “MCC Occasional Papers,” with Art Meyer’s Christianity and the Environment: A Collection of Writings.29 According to MCC, concern for the environment and respect for the God’s creation have been part of MCC’s approach to its work since 1920. Over the decades, MCC’s awareness of the rapid pace of environmental degradation, resolutions taken by Anabaptist denominations and stories from partners about the impacts of the climate crisis on their communities have spurred efforts to enable communities to

25 “Energy-​ Christian Stewardship of Energy Resources,” adopted 1977, General Conference Mennonite Church. https://​a na​bapt ​istw ​i ki.org/​mediaw ​i ki/​index. php?title= ​Christian_ ​Stewa ​rdsh ​ip_​o​f _ ​En​ergy​_ ​R es​ourc​es_​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​(General_​Conf​eren​ce_ ​M​ enno​n ite​_​Chu​rch,_​1977. Accessed August 3, 2020; See David E. Ortman, The Myth of the Peaceful Atom, The Mennonite, August 31, 1976, cover article. 26 In June 1982, MCC published a pro (Henry D. Weaver) and con (John D. Stahl) on nuclear energy, with an introduction by John K. Stoner. No theology or reference to the 1977 General Conference statement on energy was included. John D. Stahl and Henry D. Weaver, Nuclear Energy –​Two Mennonite Views (MCC, June 1982). 27 Mennonite Disaster Service is not included as it does not have any environmental statement posted on its website guiding its rebuilding mission. https://​mds.mennon​ ite.net/​. Accessed August 17, 2020. Mennonite Economic Development Association is also not included as it is unaffiliated with the Mennonite Church (except for the use of the name), holds itself out as “an international economic development organization whose mission is to create business solutions to poverty” and “to empower business people of all income levels to act as leaders of environmentally-​responsible growth.” https://​w ww.meda.org/​. Accessed August 17, 2020. 28 https://​mcc.org/​learn/​about. accessed August 1, 2020. 29 Art Meyer, Christianity and the Environment: A Collection of Writings. The publication notes that “The papers do not necessarily reflect official MCC policy.”

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adapt to climate change, engage constituents in modifying their lifestyles to reduce harmful environmental impacts and expand advocacy efforts. For many decades, MCC has actively cared for creation by promoting reforestation and soil conservation in its agriculture and food security programming. Starting in 1994, MCC also began to systematically incorporate creation care and environmental responsibility into program planning and evaluation. This approach was formalized in 1999 when the MCC board adopted an environmental stewardship and program planning policy that articulated basic expectations for its international program.30 MCC produced a front/​ back “God’s Creation poster,” designed by Judith Rempel Smucker, 1994, along with bulletin size inserts. In addition:

• Art Meyer, MCC U.S. Global Education, wrote a guest editorial for the Mennonite Weekly Review, “Wasteful Lifestyles at Root of Oil Crisis,” September 13, 1990, p. 4. • Women’s Concerns Report, MCC Committee on Women’s Concerns, Report No. 92, September-​October 1990, focused on environmental issues by women writers. • “MCC Washington Office Guide to the Environment,” complied by Rachelle Schlabach, May 2001 (MCC Washington Memo, Vol. XXXIII, No. 6, November–​December 2001). Other examples include Emily Will’s “Colombia’s floods require innovative approaches,” MCC stories, August 10, 201131 and Rachel Bergen’s “Seven Ways MCC U.S. is caring for God’s creation,” MCC stories, April 21, 2017.32 MCC’s current vision and mission statement is that it is: a worldwide ministry of Anabaptist churches, shares God’s love and compassion for all in the name of Christ by responding to basic human needs and working for peace and justice. MCC envisions communities worldwide in right relationship with God, one another and creation.33 MCC’s Washington D.C. office also has a website on environmental issues and statements.34 However, while MCC’s 2016 Annual Report mentions environmental degradation on the 30 https://​mcc.org/​cen​tenn ​ial/​100-​stor ​ies/​mcc-​creat ​ion-​care-​sus​t ain​abil ​ity-​i nit ​iati​ ves-​over-​deca​des. Accessed August 1, 2020. 31 https://​mcc.org/​stor​ies/​colomb​ias-​flo​ods-​requ ​ire-​inn​ovat ​ive-​app​roac​hes. Accessed July 28, 2020. 32 https://​mcc.org/​stor​ies/​seven-​ways-​mcc-​us-​car​ing-​gods-​creat ​ion. Accessed July 28, 2020. 33 https://​mcc.org/​learn/​about/​m iss​ion. Accessed July 28, 2020. 34 https://​was​h ing​tonm​emo.org/​envi​ronm​ent/​. Accessed July 28, 2020.

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US/​Mexico border, there is no environmental mention in the MCC 2017–​ 2019 Annual Reports.35 The November 27, 2020, issue of Anabaptist World, carried an article reporting that since the 1960s, MCC “has been involved in tree-​planting projects in Algeria, Palestine, all over,” according to Mennonite Men U.S. coordinator Steve Thomas, who noted that MCC has responded more recently with partners to plant more than 3 million trees in Haiti.36

Mennonite World Conference Mennonite World Conference (MWC) membership in 2018 included one international association and 107 Mennonite and Brethren in Christ national churches from 58 countries. This included around 1.47 million baptized believers in close to 10,000 congregations.37 The first Mennonite World Conference was held in 1925 in Basel, Switzerland, to celebrate the 400th anniversary of Anabaptism and convenes every six or seven years.38 MWC issued a statement in 1993 statement on “Being Anabaptist Christians Today” at its Mennonite World Conference General Council Meeting Africa Mennonite and Brethren in Christ Women’s Gathering Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, 14–​21 July 1993.39 It did not include any environmental concerns. By 2006, a MWC statement on Shared Convictions, mentions “caring for creation:” As a world-​w ide community of faith and life we transcend boundaries of nationality, race, class, gender and language. We seek to live in the world 35 https://​mcc.org/ ​learn/​about/​repo​r ts. Accessed July 28, 2020. 36 Tim Huber, “How do you plant 1 million trees?,” Anabaptist World, Vol. 1, No. 4 (November 27, 2020): 21. The article also notes that Mennonites planted about 5 million trees in the 19th century in the Ukraine, and that during WWII, on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Mennonite conscientious objectors planted 17 million trees. Another article in the same issue reports that Mennonite Men (a joint organization of Mennonite Church USA and Mennonite Church Canada) approved a JoinTrees project to plant 1 million trees over the next decade. Sierra Ross Richer, “Tree-​planting initiative looks to grow,” Anabaptist World, Vol. 1, No. 4 (November 27, 2020): 21–​22. Ironically, yet another article in the same issue reports on claims that “Mennonite groups already living in Peru are deforesting thousands of acres illegally.” “Belize colony Mennonites look to Peru –​New Colonies in Peru are tied to thousands of acres of deforestation,” Anabaptist World, Vol. 1, No. 4 (November 27, 2020), 29. 37 https://​mwc-​cmm.org/​about-​mwc. Accessed August 1, 2020. 38 https://​w ww.gameo.org/​index.php?title=​Men​noni​te_​W​orld ​_​Con​fere​nce. Accessed August 1, 2020. 39 https://​mwc-​cmm.org/​sites/​defa​u lt/​fi les/​resou​rce-​uplo​ads/​being_ ​a n ​_ ​a na​bapt ​ist_​ chri​stia​n _​to​day.pdf. Accessed August 1, 2020.

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without conforming to the powers of evil, witnessing to God’s grace by serving others, caring for creation, and inviting all people to know Jesus Christ as Saviour and Lord.40 A March 21, 2014, Statement of the MWC Mission Commission on “God’s People in Mission: An Anabaptist Perspective” included: “We eagerly await Christ’s return and anticipate the final fulfillment of God’s kingdom when people of every tribe, tongue, and nation gather in worship around the throne of God and of the Lamb.”41 On June 12, 2009, a Care of Creation International Planning Committee, noting that the “birth of a new vision imminent” for MWC, offered three questions for discussion at the Mennonite World Assembly 15 in Paraguay concerning pressing problems as a result of environmental changes; how your church could respond to the impacts on the poor and vulnerable and contribute to preparedness; and whether an international network of Mennonite and Brethren in Christ could play a role in helping your churches carry out these tasks? Gen 1:24; 2:15; and Rom 8:20 are cited.42 A 2018 MWC Peace Commission statement “Declaration of Solidarity with Indigenous Peoples” approved by the MWC General Council states: We confess that the Church has benefited from the strategies of empires that have included violence, unsustainable extraction of natural resources, stolen land, colonial mission, genocide, environmental and water destruction, segregation, assimilation, imprisonment, and ongoing racial marginalization in health, housing, employment and education.43

The main biblical reference for this statement is from the Old Testament, “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, the world and those who dwell therein” (Psalm 24:1). 50 years after the original Earth Day (April 22, 1970), MWC announced the formation of a Creation Care Task Force on June 15, 2020, “to explore ways MWC members are affected by the climate crisis, access practical ways to encourage ecologically faithful living, encourage development of biblical and theological capacity relevant to the climate crisis and formulate

40 https://​mwc-​cmm.org/​sha​red-​conv​icti​ons. Accessed August 1, 2020. Adopted by Mennonite World Conference General Council, March 15, 2006. 41 https://​mwc-​cmm.org/​resour​ces/​god%E2%80%99s-​peo​ple-​m iss​ion-​a na​bapt ​ist-​pers​ pect ​ive. Accessed August 1, 2020. 42 “God’s Creation Cries Out-​Can We Hear?”, Care of Creation International Planning Committee, Mennonite World Assembly 15, June 12, 2009. 43 https://​mwc-​cmm.org/​sites/​defa​u lt/​fi les/​resou​rce-​uplo​ads/​statement_​declaration_​of​_ ​sol​idar​ity_​w ith​_ ​ind​igen​ous _​peoples-​en.pdf. Accessed August 1, 2020.

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short-​term practical responses and a comprehensive plan for MWC ecological commitment.”44

Mennonite Voluntary Service (MVS)45 By 1966, Lorraine Schneider’s poster, “War is not healthy for children and other living things,”46 brought home the point that the Vietnam “war” was not only devastating in its impacts on the people of Southeast Asia, but on its environment as well. Building on the Civilian Public Service of WWII, and I-​W service during the Korean conflict, Mennonites, with a few brave exceptions who resisted the draft, were content to serve in the military, serve in alternative service, or continue life with a high draft number. Still, when the draft ended in 1973, a shift to a Mennonite “Voluntary” Service (MVS) took place. With the help and vision of the Seattle Mennonite Church, an MVS-​unit was established in Seattle in the early 1970s, and until its closure in 2019, placed MVS volunteers at a large number of Seattle environmental organizations.47 In addition, beginning September 1, 1991, for 3 years, Tim and Paula Lehman formed an MVS unit as part of a Creation Care project, which made Tim available to speak, preach, and teach about God’s creation.48 44 https://​mwc-​cmm.org/​stor ​ies/​creat ​ion-​care-​a nd-​bapt ​ism-​rep​ort-​appro​ved-​execut​ ive-​commit​tee-​meeti​ngs. Accessed August 1, 2020. See MWC, “MWC to lift up creation care,” Mennonite World Review, May 4, 2020,3; “MWC forms task force to address creation care,” Mennonite World Review, June 29, 2020, 17. Members of the CCTF are Chair, Doug Graber Neufeld, EMU, professor of biology; Rebecca Froese, University of Hamburg, Germany, associate fellow for Research Group Climate Change and Security; Sibonokuhle Ncube, Brethren in Christ Church national coordinator of compassionate development service in Zimbabwe; Juliana Morillo, World Evangelical Association Creation Care Network Latin America facilitator; Nindyo Sasongko, GKMI Mennonite Church, Indonesia minister; Jennifer Schrock, Mennonite Creation Care Network director; and Anna Vogt, MCC Ottawa director. 45 For a history of Mennonite “Voluntary” Service, see: https://​gameo.org/​index. php?title=​Volunt​a ry_​Serv​ice. Accessed August 3, 2020. In the United States, up until the end of the Selective Service System draft, this was mostly a non-​m ilitary service obligation for conscientious objectors. It only became truly “voluntary” after 1973. 46 http://​ w w w.thep​ e ace​ c omp​ a ny.com/​ s tore/​ p rod_​ c ard​ s _​ w a​ r not​ h eal​ t hy.php. Accessed August 1, 2020. 47 Heart of America Northwest; Grist Magazine; Washington Trails Association; Washington Water Trails Association; One/​ Northwest; Washington Toxics Coalition; Government Accountability Project; Washington Citizens for Recycling; Friends of the Earth –​NW Office; Sierra Club–​N W Office. 48 Mennonite Voluntary Service, Newton, KS, handout, circa 1991.

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Mennonite Colleges and Universities • Bethel College (N. Newton, KS), offers an Environmental Science program, completed within a Biology or Natural Science Major, or as an individualized major.49 • Bluffton University (Bluffton, OH) offers a Biology Major/​M inor, where ecology and environmental biology are stressed.50 • Canadian Mennonite University (Winnipeg, Manitoba) offers an Environmental Studies Major.51 • Eastern Mennonite University (Harrisonburg, VA) offers a Biology and Environmental Science Major/​M inor and minors in Environmental Studies and Environmental Justice.52 • Fresno Pacific University (Fresno, CA) offers a B.S. in biology with an environmental emphasis, as well as a B.S. in Environmental Science; and a B.A. in Environmental Studies.53 • Goshen College (Goshen, IN) offers a Biology/​Environmental Science major as well as an Environmental and Marine Science Major.54 • Hesston College (Hesston, KS) offers a two-​ year Biology or 55 Environmental Science degree. • Tabor College (Hillsboro, KS) offers an Environmental Biology major and an Environmental Science minor.56

49 https://​w ww.bethe​l ks.edu/​academ​ics/​a reas-​study/​enviro​nmen​tal-​scie​nce. Accessed July 25, 2020. Bethel College and the University of Kansas both began offering Environmental Studies majors in 1971. In May, 1971, Bethel student Stan Senner and Professor Dwight Platt issued “The Christian Student and Spaceship Earth” as a series of outdoor study guides. Bethel has dropped its program while the University of Kansas still offers an Environmental Studies major/​m inor. http://​esp.ku.edu/​ degr​ees (accessed July 25, 2020). 50 https://​w ww.bluff​ton.edu/​sci/​index.aspx#biol​ogy. Accessed July 25, 2020. 51 https://​w ww.cmu.ca/​academ​ics.php?s=​enviro​nmen​tal. Accessed July 25, 2020. 52 https://​emu.edu/​academ​ics/​deg​ree-​progr​a ms. Accessed July 25, 2020. 53 https://​w ww.fre​sno.edu/​progr​a ms-​maj​ors/​u nderg​radu​ate. Accessed July 25, 2020. In addition, Ken Martens Friesen, PhD, FPU Associate Professor of Political Science published Energy, Economics, and Ethics (Rowman and Littlefield, 2019). The book is the culmination of his years of teaching, working, and reflecting on climate change, renewable energy, economics, international development and responsible and sustainable Christian practices. 54 https://​w ww.gos​hen.edu/​academ​ics/​enviro​nmen​tal-​mar​ine-​scie​nce/​. Accessed July 25, 2020. 55 https://​w ww.hess​ton.edu/​academ​ics/​maj​ors/​. Accessed July 25, 2020. 56 https://​tabor.edu/​u nderg​radu​ate/​u nderg​radu​ate-​acade​m ic-​progr​a ms/​. Accessed July 25, 2020.

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At the same time, there has been little analysis of either how a Mennonite theological/​ environmental vision has influenced these programs or the results/​benefits.

Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary 57 The November 1989, the AMBS Bulletin (53:1) was devoted to creation/​ ecological issues, with contributions from Perry B. Yoder, S. Roy Kaufman, Beverly Suderman, and a comment from Goshen Biblical Seminary President, Marlin E. Miller.58 Responding to a question, “Can we expand our Anabaptist emphasis on peace with God and all humans to include the creation itself?” raised by Mennonite sociologist Cal Redekop in a letter to Mennonite Weekly Review, the Fall 2005 issue, AMBS window, carried an article by AMBS president J. Nelson Kraybill. The article quotes AMBS student Matt Hickman who argues that humans cannot save the world, “…since that is God-​level redemption work … it will take an act of God to make a ‘new heaven and new earth.’ ”59 Kraybill goes on to announce the construction of a new AMBS library where “Theology books in the library testify that restoration of creation ultimately is God’s work. But we as Christians are responsible for making choices now to safeguard the natural world in obedience to Jesus, through whom all of creation someday will be set free from bondage and decay (Romans 8:21).”60 The Spring 2008 Vision: A Journal for Church and Theology, published by the Institute of Mennonite Studies and AMBS was devoted to “Creation Care.” In addition to an editorial by Dan Epp-​Tiessen and two book reviews (Earth Trek: Celebrating and Sustaining God’s Creation, by Joanne Moyer, reviewed by Matthew D. Hickman and Simply in Season, by Mary Beth Lind and Cathleen Hockman-​Wert, reviewed by Karla Stoltzfus), the journal contains 12 contributions by H. Henry Janzen, Walter Rauschenbusch, Steven Bouma-​Prediger, Joanne M. Moyer, Adrian Jacobs, David Waltner-​Toews, Wilma Ann Bailey, Jürgen Schönwetter, Yorifumi Yaguchi, Ray Vander Zaag, 57 Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary is located in Elkhart, IN. In 2012, the seminary changed the first word of its name from “Associated” to “Anabaptist.” https://​ gameo.org/​i ndex.php?title=​A nabaptist_​M​enno​n ite​_ ​Bib​l ica​l _​Se​m ina​r y_​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​(Elkh​a rt,_​ Indi​a na,_​USA. Accessed August 3, 2020. 58 AMBS Bulletin, 55:1 (November 1989). 59 J. Nelson Kraybill, “Making peace with God’s Creation,” AMBS Window 16, Issue 1 (Fall 2005), four-​page insert sponsored by Associated Mennonite Biblical Seminary, Our Faith, Fall/​W inter 2005. 60 Ibid.

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Cathleen Hockman-​Wert, and Susan Classen.61 Five of the contributors are Canadians, in addition to Mr. Jacobs of the Turtle Clan of the Cayuga First Nation of the Six Nations Iroquois Confederacy. In 2014, AMBS held the first of five “Rooted and Grounded” conferences for practitioners of creation care from scholars and food justice activists to urban gardeners and environmental justice practitioners to farmers and church members.62 In 2016, The Mennonite, reported that the Jerusalem based Interfaith Center for Sustainable Development (ICSD) named AMBS “as 12th in a list of 28 seminaries in North America that excel in offering courses on faith and ecology. The list is based on the number of courses that each school offers that focus primarily on environmental, ecological, creation-​care or nature-​based themes and their relation to faith teachings.”63 The report specifically noted four AMBS faith-​based environmental courses.64 However, a review of the AMBS 2020–​2021 course list includes only one of these four courses offered (“Thinking Ethically”).65 AMBS does offer a Merry Lea Sustainability Leadership Semester, an Environmental Sustainability Leadership concentration for students in the Master of Arts: Theology and Peace Studies program and the Master of Divinity Theological Studies: Peace Studies major. “The purpose is: to build leadership skills in community development around environmental sustainability that is grounded in practical experience, utilizing theological frameworks for interpreting appropriate sustainable responses. It involves a fifteen week-​residency at Goshen College’s Merry Lea Environmental Learning Center in Wolf Lake, Indiana, living in intentional community with a mix of graduate and undergraduate students.”66 One can question whether this is an adequate theological approach for an Anabaptist Environmental vision. 61 Vision: A Journal for Church and Theology, Eds. Mary H. Schertz and Dan Epp-​ Tiessen, Spring 2008, Vol. 9, No. 1 (AMBS and Canadian Mennonite University). 62 https://​w ww.ambs.edu/​news-​eve​nts/​roo​ted-​a nd-​groun​ded. Accessed August 5, 2020. Essays from the conference: Ryan Dallas Harker and Janeen Bertsche Johnson, Editors, Rooted and Grounded: Essays on Land and Christian Discipleship (Studies in Peace and Scripture: Institute of Mennonite Studies –​Pickwick Publications, 2016). The fifth Rooted and Grounded Conference on Land and Christian Discipleship was held at AMBS October 14–​16, 2021. Jennifer Schrock, “AMBS event reconnects with the land,” Anabaptist World, Vol. 2, No. 15, November 26, 2021, 30. 63 Annette Brill Bergstresser, “AMBS recognized for focus on faith and ecology,” The Mennonite. https://​t heme​n non​ite.org/​daily-​news/​a mbs-​rec​ogni​zed-​for-​focus-​on-​ faith-​a nd-​ecol​ogy/​. Accessed July 25, 2020. 64 Ibid. 65 https://​w ww.ambs.edu/​academ​ics/​cou​rse-​l ist-​calen​dar. Accessed July 25, 2020. 66 https://​w ww.ambs.edu/​academ​ics/​part​ners​h ip-​merry-​lea. Accessed July 25, 2020.

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Mennonite Education Agency Mennonite Education Agency (MEA) manages the endowment assets of “19 institutions, including schools, colleges, congregations, conferences and other programs” totaling more than $150 million.67 In June 2020, MEA revised its investment strategy, including excluding stocks of any companies that own fossil fuel reserves. The investment fund is managed by MEA’s investment committee, chaired by John Liechty. The environmental, social and governance subcommittee, chaired by Aaron Ziulkowski, drafted the revised strategy, which added five stewardship commitments targeting climate change.68 Wilderness Wind In contrast to treating the earth as a garden to be weeded,69 Wilderness Wind, Ely, Minnesota, was begun in 1986 by Mennonites interested in taking people on canoe trips through portions of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in northeastern Minnesota. As described in a The Mennonite article on July 21, 1998, by Larry Penner, “Wilderness Wind … seeks to teach through experience the integration of Christian spirituality care for the environment, wilderness travel and safety, wilderness ethics, outdoor

67 Mennonite Education Agency, “MEA investments prioritize climate change,” Mennonite World Review, 3. 68 Ibid. 69 The problem with this approach and a reliance on Genesis 2:15 (“And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it” (KJV)), is that it promotes treating the entire earth as garden to be tended. See Perry B. Yoder, “Scripture reflections on the ecological crises,” AMBS Bulletin, November 1989, and he continues, “Taking the whole scope of the creation tradition into account, the appropriate place of humans in the order of creation is ‘stewarding’ the garden.” Letter from USFS District Ranger Donald F. Rotell to Friends of the Earth (Northwest Office), February 15, 1990 he references the concept of “garden” with the definition of “wilderness” in the Wilderness Act (P.L. 88–​577, 1964): “A wilderness, in contrast with those areas where man and his own works dominate the landscape, is hereby recognized as an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain. An area of wilderness is further defined to mean in this Act an area of undeveloped Federal land retaining its primeval character and influence, without permanent improvements or human habitation, …,” Sec. 2(c). Genesis says to be fruitful and multiply, not be like fruit flies and multiply. We also ignore Genesis 1:22, a little used text where the first command to be fruitful and multiple is not given to humans, but rather to the fish of the sea and the birds of the air.

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education and peace and justice concerns.” Wilderness Wind was acquired by Chicago Voyagers in 2016.70

Simple Living 1970s More-​With-​Less According to Levi Miller, Anabaptists believe that “living simply and sharing the world’s resources” are the heart of a kingdom lifestyle, Christian discipleship as taught in the Bible.71 However, simple living or voluntary simplicity is not a primary tenant of the MCUSA’s Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective. There, Article 21 focuses instead on Christian Stewardship where we are “stewards of all that God has entrusted to us.”72 Still, although, not an environmental book, per se, perhaps one of the most well-​k nown Mennonite publications on consuming too much of the world’s resources remains Doris Janzen Longacre’s 1976 More-​With Less Cookbook.73 As Mary Beth Lind wrote in the forward to the 25th Anniversary edition: As Christian stewards, we need to treat all things with care and respect, including our food. Caring for animals in a humane way, treating farm workers as brothers and sisters, and caring for our soil instead of polluting it—​a ll forge a connection between the soil and our souls.74

70 The last board of Wilderness Wind included: John Daniels, First Mennonite Church, Indianapolis; Melissa Falb, Faith Mennonite Church, MN; Abby Nafziger, hometown Evanston, IL; Paula Northwood, Plymouth Congregational Church, St. Paul, MN; Gretchen Nyce, Harrisonburg, VA; Steve Mullet, First Mennonite Church Sugarcreek, OH; Dave Ostergren, Director of Environmental Education Graduate Program, Merry Lea Environmental Learning Center, Goshen College; Brenda Sawatsky Paetkau, Eighth Street Mennonite, Goshen, IN; Kevin Wilder, Psychology and Bible Instructor, Hesston College. http://​w il​dern​essw​ind.org/​index.php/​old-​ wil​dern​ess-​w ind-​inc-​board/​. Accessed July 28, 2020. The Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness was one of the bills the author lobbied Congress for passage while working for Friends of the Earth. 71 Levi Miller, Our People: The Amish and Mennonites of Ohio, quoted in Heather Ann Ackley Bean, “Toward an Anabaptist/​Mennonite Environmental Ethic,” in Creation & the Environment-​An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World, ed. Calvin Redekop, 198. 72 Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective, “Article 21 Christian Stewardship,” 77–​80. 73 Doris Jansen Longacre, More-​With-​Less Cookbook. 74 Mary Beth Lind, forward to Doris Jensen Longacre, More-​With-​Less Cookbook, 25th Anniversary Edition, viii.

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This was followed by Longacre’s Living more with less (1980),75 Joetta Handrich Schlabach’s Extending the Table … A World Community Cookbook (1991),76 and Mary Beth Lind and Cathleen Hockman-​ Wert’s Simply in 77 Season (2005). An eloquent plea for the “more with less” tradition appeared in the July 27, 2020, Mennonite World Review, from David Lapp Jost, Bammental, Germany: “Mennonites have many beautiful examples of sustainable living in our heritage … The ‘more with less’ tradition of simplicity is prophetic.”78 Yet, simple living is not so simple after all. As Calvin Redekop has written, … Anabaptists face the great challenge of discerning the “laws” of the “kingdom of God” and transforming them into a concrete—​praxis. There has been considerable slippage and even rejection of this heritage among Anabaptists and, hence, degradation of the environment.79

And in Tom Sine’s (author of The Mustard Seed Conspiracy80), book Wild Hope, Sine writes, “And not even Mennonites are immune to encroaching secularization. There are signs that they are beginning to relinquish their historical concerns for peace, justice, and social responsibility to embrace a more popular and privatized brand of Christianity and a more comfortable way of life.”81

1980s MC/​GC Stewardship of the Earth Politically in the United States, through the election of the Reagan Administration in 1980, and with the confirmation of James Watt as Secretary 75 Doris Jansen Longacre, Living more with less. 76 Joetta Handrich Schlabach, Extending the Table … A World Community Cookbook. 77 Mary Beth Lind and Cathleen Hockman-​Wert, Simply in Season. 78 David Lapp Jost, “What will we do about environmental crisis?” Mennonite World Review, July 27, 2020, 11. 79 Calvin Redekop, “The Environmental Challenge Before Us,” in Creation & the Environment-​An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World, ed. Calvin Redekop, 211. See Bartimaeus Cooperative (whose staff includes Ched Myers and Elaine Enns), “Sabbath Economics.” https://​w ww.bcm-​net.org/​progr​a ms/​sabb​ ath-​econom​ics. Accessed August 5, 2020. See Christine & Tom Sine, Living on Purpose—​finding God’s best for your life. See David E. Ortman, “Churches can conserve resources,” The Mennonite, February 26, 1980, 145. 80 Tom Sine, The Mustard Seed Conspiracy (Dallas: Word Publishing, 1981). 81 Tom Sine, Wild Hope (Dallas: Word Publishing, 1981), 231. In his chapter, “Waking Up to the Birth of a New Creation,” (page 230). Sine goes on to approvingly quote Paul (Rom. 8:21) for the proposition that “God is preparing for the birth of a new creation –​a new heaven and a new earth.”

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of Interior and Anne Gorsuch (later Burford) as EPA Administrator, environmental concerns came under attack. Watt gained notoriety when on February 5, 1981, he told a committee of the U.S. House of Representatives that “I do not know how many future generations we can count on before the Lord returns.”82 This response would be consistent with both a God of Creation and a literal six-​day creation story, a universal flood, and a God of Consumption, as spelled out in Revelation 21:1–​5, with the passing away of the first heaven and first earth, and the coming of a new heaven and new earth.83 On the other hand, as Tim McCarthy noted in a National Catholic Reporter article, “Philippine bishops issue ecology pastoral,” on March 11, 1988, the struggle to understand how to do justice is now expanding to encompass justice for the earth, or what the Catholic Bishops of the Philippines have called “the ultimate pro-​life issue.” By the end of the 1980s a Mennonite environmental message was also beginning to appear. But, as the Mennonite Church (MC) and the General Conference Mennonite Church (GC) moved toward integration and into the 21st century, what message were MC and GC denominations sending about caring for this world? When the Mennonite Church General Assembly and the General Conference Mennonite Church met together in August 1989 at “Normal 1989,” a significant resolution was adopted.84 It had a “stewardship” theme: Stewardship of the Earth: Resolution on Environmental and Faith Issues. It called out that God’s creation is good; Christians are directed by many Scriptures to care for the natural creation as God’s stewards (Gen. 1:26–​28; Exod. 20:8–​11; Lev. 25–​26; Luke 4:16–​22, et al.); and Christians look forward to the time when all of creation, including humankind, will be fully restored/​redeemed (Rom. 8-​18-​25; Col. 1:15–​23, John 1:1–​5, et al.). In addition to calling on Mennonite congregations and conferenced to promote discussion and action on ways the Christian faith relates to environmental issues; encouraging Mennonite schools and colleges to place special emphasis on environmental issues; and encouraging MCC to promote creation

82 Ron Arnold, At the Eye of the Storm: James Watt and the Environmentalists, quoted in Robert Booth Fowler, The Greening of Protestant Thought, 47. 83 Biblical creationism culminating in a new heaven and new earth has long been a fundamentalist foundation. See Theodore H. Epp, The God of Creation (Lincoln, NB: Back to the Bible Publication). For a discussion of Menno Simons and early Anabaptist walking the line between “sola scriptura” and taking “all of the Bible with a kind of bald literalism,” see John C. Wenger, “Biblicism of the Anabaptists,” in TRAV, ed. Guy F. Hershberger, 167–​79. 84 The resolution was reprinted in the MCC publication “food+​hunger notes”, MCC, No. 77, January-​February 1994, 1–​2.

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stewardship, it also called on the appointment of a joint MC-​GC task force to promote environmental concerns “among us.”85

Joint MC/​GC Mennonite Environmental Task Force (1991–​2001)86 A Mennonite Environmental Task Force (ETF) was created in response to the Stewardship of the Earth resolution.





• The ETF and Mennonite Board of Congregational Ministries jointly prepared handouts dated July 23, 1991—​Action/​Ideas/​Suggestions for Congregational Use; Worship/​Study Resources for Congregations; and Resources for Action for Congregations. • An initial ETF meeting was held during the Mennonite Board of Congregational Ministries General Assembly, Oregon 91 (August 3, 1991), with an all-​ day August 1 Environmental Seminar/​ Environmental Friendly Practices, Eugene, OR.87 • ETF hosted a seminar, “Living Faithfully with the Earth,” on Friday of the General Conference/​Mennonite Church sessions in Sioux Falls, SD, July 22–​ 26, 1992.88

Environmental Task Force prepared a Congregational Transportation Energy Audit bulletin insert. In addition, ETF member Melvin D. Schmidt produced a video in 1992: “God so Loved the World, Telling the Salvation Story as if

85 Stewardship of the Earth: Resolution on Environment and Faith Issues, Adopted by the Mennonite Church General Assembly and General Conference Mennonite Church, August 3, 1989. https://​a na​bapt ​istw ​i ki.org/​mediaw ​i ki/​index.php?title= ​Stewa​ rdsh​ip_​o​f _​t h​e _​Ea​r th:_​R esolution_​on_​En​v iro​n men​t _​a n​d _​Fa​ith_​Issu​es_​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​(General_​ Conf​eren​ce_​M​enno​n ite​_​Chu​rch,_​Menno​n ite​_​Chu​rch,_​1989. Accessed August 3, 2020. In 1997, ETF members were Mennonite Church: Clair Mellinger, VA; Jocele Meyer, OH; Carolyn Raffensperger, ND; Steve Cheramie Risingsun, LA—​General Conference Mennonite Church: Roberta Krehbiel, IA; David Neufeld, Toronto, ON; David E. Ortman, WA; Melvin D. Schmidt, MD. 86 A short history of the MC/​G C Environmental Task Force, “Our history as the Joint (MC/​G C) Environmental Task Force –​The earth is the Lord’s,” by Carolyn Raffensperger Rogovin, appeared in the June 1994 Builder (An educational Magazine for Congregation Leaders, published by Herald Press, Scottdale, PA), which had an environmental theme with contributions from Tim Lehman, Perry Yoder, Ron Sider, Marjorie Waybill, Abe Bergen, Monica L. Schroeder, Ken Hawkley Dorcas Lehman, Dale W. Stoltzfus, April Yamasaki, G. Edwin Bontrager, and Marlene Bogard. 87 Minutes of Environmental Task Force, MGCM General Assembly, Oregon 91, August 3, 1991. 88 Letter from Robert Hull, GCMC Peace and Justice Secretary, “A Message from the Joint MC/​G C Environmental Task Force,” July 1992.

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the Earth Mattered.”89 The General Conference Mennonite Church Central District sent Schmidt out on a four-​state speaking/​video tour to promote the video and environmental concerns.90 Despite the efforts of the ETF to promote a concern about saving this earth, the MC and GC were going in a different direction. In 1992, the MC and GC prepared a Hymnal: A Worship Book which included a 1983 hymn, “New earth, heavens new” (#299).91 Amazingly, “Amazing grace!” appeared with four verses in the 1940 version of The Mennonite Hymnary 92 and the 1969 version of The Mennonite Hymnal.93 However, the 1992 Hymnal version (#143) added two new verses including v.5: “The earth shall soon dissolve like snow, the sun forbare to shine; …” Another addition was a 1970 hymn, “Beyond a dying sun” (#323): “I see a new world coming …” It is as if the Hymnal Committee deliberately turned their face from this world.94 Then, in 1993, despite their initial commitment, both Mennonite conferences defunded the ETF. This was the same year that the National Religious Partnership for the Environment 95 planned a $4 million campaign to select 70,000 congregations for pilot programs using environmental education kits.96 But the ETF would not go away.97 Note the following:

• The Mennonite’s October 11, 1994, front cover was labeled, “Learning to respect the Earth.” It included my article, “The Earth needs friends in the church,” two articles by Carla Reimer, “From selling cloths to saving the environment,” and “Helping blow the whistle on toxic junk,” and a Peter-​ Sprunger-​Froese feature “Ride a bike,” (which carried a box that the such features “do not necessarily reflect the view of The Mennonite.), as well as my book review of “Patching God’s Garment: Environment and Mission in

89 Melvin D. Schmidt, “God so Loved the World, Telling the Salvation Story as if the Earth Mattered,” (Alexandria, VA: Empire Video, 1992), VHS video. 90 Melvin D. Schmidt, Wholly Holey, Holy, 189–​200. 91 Hymnal: A Worship Book. 92 The Mennonite Hymnary. 93 The Mennonite Hymnal. 94 In 2020, the Mennonite Worship and Song Committee published a new hymnal –​ Voices Together. Although it added one song to the Telling God’s Story –​Creation section from the 1992 Hymnal and dropped verses 5–​6 from “Amazing Grace” (#163), it retains both “New Earth, Heavens, New” (#377) and “Beyond a Dying Sun” (#416). Voices Together (Harrisonburg, VA: MennoMedia, 2020). 95 http://​w ww.nrpe.org/​. Accessed July 25, 2020. 96 “Churches plan ecology campaign,” National Catholic Reporter, January 22, 1993, 10. 97 “Environmental Task Force Makes Plans Despite Lack of Funds,” Mennonite Weekly Review, December 10, 1992.

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the 21st Century,” by W. Dayton Roberts (MARC, Division of World Vision International, 1994), along with an alternative book list.98 • The ETF published its first ETF Newsletter, in Winter 1994 (Vol. 1, Number 1). A second ETF Newsletter in Fall 1994 (Vol. 1, Number 2) included a 12-​page environment list of Mennonites contacts in the US, Canada, and overseas. • Because the ETF had not been consulted, in November 1994, the Environmental Task Force approached the MC/​G C conferences planning the July 1995 joint sessions (Wichita ‘95) about adding an environmental tour to the agenda, to no avail.

1995—​MC/​GC Confession of Faith Two significant and seemingly unrelated events occurred in 1995. The first was ETF’s three-​day creation summit held at Camp Lake, WI, February 24–​26, 1995.99 The summit was held in conjunction with the Inter-​ Collegiate Peace Fellowship.100 Out of this conference came Creation and the Environment: An Anabaptist Perspective, a book edited by Calvin Redekop and published in 2000 by John Hopkins Press on Anabaptist understandings of the environment and theology.101 It contained 13 chapter contributions in four Parts: Human Activities & Their Alternation of the Creation, Anabaptist/​Mennonite Life & the Environment, Anabaptists’ Theological & Historical Orientation, and The Challenge to Take Care of the Earth. Later that year The Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective was adopted 98 The reading list included: Ghillean T. Prance and Calvin B. DeWitt, eds., Missionary Earthkeeping (Mercer University Press, 1992); Al Gore, Earth in the Balance (Houghton Mifflin, 1993); Clive Ponting, A Green History of the World (St. Martin’s Press, 1991). Paul Harrison, Inside the Third World (Penguin Books, 1994); Loren Wilkinson, ed. Éarthkeeping in the Nineties (Eerdmans, 1991). 99 Presenters, responders, and worship leaders included Conrad Grebel College professor emeritus Walter Klassen; Eastern Mennonite Summary professor Dorothy Jean Weaver; Harvard Divinity School professor Dr. Theodore Hiebert; Canadian Mennonite Bible College Assistant Professor Gordon Zerbe; Dr. Perry B. Yoder, Mennonite Biblical Seminary; Lawrence Hart, MCC US Board member-​ at-​ large; Amish farmer and writer David Kline, Holmes County, OH; Appalachian Ministries Educational Resource Center Environmental Theologian Richard Cartwright Austin; Anette Eisenbeis, Freeman, SD; Professor Tom Finger, Eastern Mennonite Seminary; Carolyn Raffensperger, Director Science and Environmental Health Network; and Doug and Jude Krehbiel, The Roadless Travelled. Creation Summit -​1995 handout. 100 Larry Penner, “Conference aims to create green theology,” The Mennonite, March 14, 1995, 13–​14. 101 Creation & the Environment-​An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World, ed. Calvin Redekop.

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at the delegate sessions of the General Conference Mennonite Church and the Mennonite Church, meeting at Wichita, Kansas, July 25–​30, 1995. The ETF book contained one fleeting reference to the Confession, even though a draft Confession had been issued in October 1993.102 The same year MC/​GC defunded the ETF, and following the issuance of the 1992 Hymnal, a draft MC/​GC Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective was released in October of 1993 by the Inter-​ Mennonite 103 Confession of Faith Committee where the repetition of “new heaven and new earth” appeared eight times.104 The draft Confession of Faith contained three articles which directly refer to “creation”: Article 4, 5, and 6. These Articles, and others, contain language and concepts which were extremely unhelpful in promoting Mennonite views on creation and the environment. For example, according to Ecotheology: Voices from South and North (1994): An international WCC [World Council of Churches] consultation in 1993 developed a study document for churches on climate change. The participants debated using the Isaiah imagery of God's creating "new heavens and a new earth" (Isa. 65:17a). We eventually decided to avoid it for fear of feeding a fatalism already too present in our societies which suggests that God will look after it all, so that humans need not worry about an issue such as climate change, much less radically alter their lifestyles and societies to reduce the emission of greenhouse gases.105

The repetitive use of the phrase “new heaven/​new earth” (eight times in the draft Confession) was extremely troubling, given the tendency to literal reading leading to a conclusion of this earth as disposable. Especially when the use of the term “new heaven/​new earth” is unprecedented in historical Mennonite Confessionals and does not appear as even a minor footnote in

102 “Mennonite Central Committee Statement on the Environment,” Sept. 29, 1994 (Appendix B—​Creation and the Environment, Creation & the Environment-​An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World, ed. Calvin Redekop, 217). 103 “Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective –​Draft Articles,” General Conference Mennonite Church and Mennonite Church (Faith & Life Press, Newton, KS and Mennonite Publishing House, Scottdale, PA, October, 1993). 104 During this same time period, the World Council of Churches issued a book, An Ecumenical Response to UNCED: Searching for a New Heaven and New Earth (Geneva Switzerland: World Council of Churches’ Unced Group, 1992). 105 Ecotheology: Voices From South and North, ed. David G. Hallman, 8. Compare this with the Mennonite Publishing Network’s Spring 2010 Leader eight-​week “Worship Resources for Easter-​Pentecost 2010 –​New heavens and a new earth,” written by Southeast Conference team of Jewel Shenk, Irene Sherer, Randal Spaulding, and Eugene Stutzman.

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such books as, What Mennonites Believe by J. C. Wenger (1991)106 or Readings from Mennonite Writings New & Old, by J. Craig Haas (1992).107 I reviewed the accumulated confessions of the various Mennonite church groups as set out in One Lord, One Church, One Hope, and One God, Mennonite Confessions of Faith, by Howard John Loewen (1985).108 Of the 34 historic Mennonite or related Confessions, only six use the term “new heaven/​new earth” in the text. Of the eight main General Conference and Mennonite Church Confessions, only one uses the term “new heaven/​new earth.” It was clear that the term “new heaven/​new earth” is not a part of any historical Mennonite Confessions. All Confessions using this term are from after 1945, the end of World War II, when the production and use of nuclear weapons made the man-​made destruction of this world a clear possibility. In addition, it influenced MCC’s September 29, 1994, statement: “Stewards in God’s Creation” which quoted directly from the “Confession of Faith in Mennonite Perspective, Draft October 1993”: We believe that God has created “the heavens and the earth” and all that is in them, and that God preserves and renews what has been created in accord with the divine will. We believe that God has begun the new creation in Jesus Christ and sustains it through the power of the Holy Spirit. We look forward to the redemption of creation and the coming of a new heaven and a new earth, where God’s purposes for all of creation will be fully realized.109

ETF Post 1995110 The ETF continued it work until it was dissolved in 2001 during the reorganization that created the MCUSA: • The Mennonite, ran a cover article, “Justice down the bayou –​Environmental racism In Louisiana cries out for justice,” by Steve Cheramie (ETF member), July 14, 1998, 8. 06 J. C. Wenger, What Mennonites Believe. 1 107 J. Craig Haas, Readings from Mennonite Writings New & Old. 108 Howard John Loewen, One Lord, One Church, One Hope, and One God, Mennonite Confessions of Faith. 109 https://​was​h ing​tonm​emo.files.wordpr​ess.com/​2016/​0 4/​ste​ward​s _​go​ds_​c​reat​ion. pdf. Accessed August 1, 2020. As noted above, in the 1995 final Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective, the term “new heaven and new earth” appears twice in Article 21 and commentary, three times in Article 24 and commentary, and once in the Summary Statement. 110 During the mid-​1990s the Mennonite Weekly Review ran an occasional column by Joe Blowers, of Portland, Ore., a science teacher and environmentalist, titled “What on Earth?” See Joe Blowers, “Nature Just Might Surprise You,” Mennonite Weekly Review, October 24, 1996, 5.

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• Greg Bowman, Christy Risser, David Hockman-​Wert, Jocele Meyer, Rose Mary Stutzman, and Joyce Shutt contributed to the July 1999 Builder (An educational Magazine for Congregation Leaders, published by Herald Press, Scottdale, PA) with a theme of “Creation waits for eager longing –​Showing fear for the Creator by valuing the Creation.” • As of 1999 (MC/​G C Triennial Assembly St. Louis, MO, July 24–​27), since Wichita ’95, the ETF Prepared, reviewed and/​or updated environmental resource materials. • Provided workshops on faith and environmental concerns (Orlando, FL (1997)) • Contributed articles on environment and faith issues for Mennonite Publications. • Produced and distributed an ETF newsletter. • Sponsored and art contest for environmental designs to be used to promote awareness and concern for God’s creation. Winning entries were published in the May 19, 1998, issue of The Mennonite. • Signed a book publishing contract with John Hopkins University Press with ETF 1995 Creation Summit on creation theology and earth stewardship which was edited by Calvin Redekop.111 • Developed an Art Meyer Creation Care Award to recognize an individual or group working to protect and promote God’s creation. • Created a website for the ETF. • According to a The Mennonite article “Task Force considers ideas for care of the creation,” (June 12, 2001, 12), the ETF met near New Orleans and discussed how it could encourage MCUSA to “reject the notion of a disposable earth and embrace creation care as a core value of Mennonite programs, service and mission.”

The ETF also prepared materials for Peace Sunday Worship 2001.

MENNONITE CHURCH USA112 Mennonite Church USA (MCUSA) approved a Creation Care Resolution at its convention in Phoenix in July 2013, which included the following: “God’s mission is creation-​encompassing: it is to recreate creation, to bring new creation (Isa 65:17; 66:22: Gal 6:15). God’s mission is to make all things new

111 A recent Mennonite World Review article carried a profile on Calvin Redekop, including his environmental work (August 10, 2020, 12). 112 A program of MCUSA is the Mennonite Mission Network (MMN). MMN formed a Peace and Justice Support Network (PJSN) in 2002 which published “Beyond Ourselves,” including an issue, “Creation is Christ’s,” in May 2009. Beyond Ourselves, Mennonite Mission Network, Vol. 8, No.2, May 2009. In July 2021, MMN closed the PJSN. Tim Huber, “MMN ends peace and justice network,” Anabaptist World, Vol .2, No.13, October 8, 2021,19.

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(Col 1:20; Rev 21:5), humans with ‘hearts of flesh’ in right relationship to God (Ezek 36:26), humans reconciled to their bitterest enemies (Isa 19:23–​ 24), and the whole of creation restored as a place where justice is at home (2 Pet 3:13).”113 MCUSA also resolved:

• to explore the theological concepts and biblical resources that inform our commitment to creation care. • to discern together how the Bible, our theological understandings and the realities of the 21st century guide our relationship with creation. • to discern responses to questions regarding simple lifestyle and pursuing peace and justice as they relate to caring for creation. • to provide leadership during the next two years to develop resources for study, discernment and response to the concepts in this resolution.114 The MCCN posted a curriculum for use on its website.115

Mennonite Creation Care Network In 2004, after the demise of the Joint ETF in 2001, the Mennonite Church Canada and MCUSA formed a Mennonite creation care planning group, which led to the formation of a Mennonite Creation Care Network (MCCN) in 2005. It is a mission of Mennonite Church Canada and MCUSA, and is coordinated by the Creation Care Council, consisting of two Canadian and six American Mennonites. Two sponsoring organizations enable the work of MCCN. Merry Lea Environmental Learning Center of Goshen College116 provides a half-​ t ime staff person and Everence, the stewardship arm of MCUSA, provides a budget that covers advertising, board member travel and other administrative expenses. Both organizations are in Goshen, Indiana. Mennonite Church Canada and MCC Canada also contribute.117 In 2018, the Center for Sustainable Climate Solutions partnered with MCCN and appointed Pastor Doug Kaufman, Goshen, IN, as its director of pastoral ecology to develop a curriculum and lead learning experiences that enable church leaders to teach, preach and lead in ways that respond to 113 https://​mennoc​reat​ionc​a re.org/​w p-​cont​ent/​uplo​ads/​2017/​02/​0 -​R eso​luti​onFI​ NAL.pdf. Accessed July 28, 2020. 114 Ibid. 115 https://​mennoc​reat ​ionc​a re.org/​every-​creat​u re-​sing​ing. Accessed July 28, 2020. 116 A recent Mennonite World Review article carried a profile on Luke Gasho, who retired in 2019, after leading the Merry Lea Environmental Center of Goshen College for 22 years and helped start the MCCN in 2005 (August 10, 2020, 20). 117 https://​mennoc​reat​ionc​a re.org/​about/​mccn-​coun​cil/​h ist​ory-​of-​t he-​mennon​ite-​ creat ​ion-​care-​netw​ork/​. Accessed August 5, 2020.

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climate change.118 Other examples of MCCN work include providing a grant to partially fund solar panels at the Taftsville Chapel Mennonite Fellowship in Vermont. “The congregation also implemented a yearlong creation care plan,” according to a May 2020, Mennonite World Review article. Taftsville Chapel received MCCN’s 2019 Art and Jocele Meyer Award, which recognizes exemplary creation care at the congregational level and the liaison’s role in communicating with the broader network.119 Wendy Janzen of Kitchener, Ontario, Canada, received the 2020 Art and Jocele Meyer Award for her work with the forest or wild church movement.120 The MCCN has a list of Mennonite creation care statements and a list of Green Patchwork Congregations who have been active in creation care on its website.121

Pertinent Books Anabaptist/​Mennonite sources were often absent from more mainstream ecotheology books.122 But by the 1990s, Herald Press (Scottdale, PA) and Faith and Life Press (Newton, KS), along with other publishers, were printing books by Mennonites on this subject, such as:

• Art Meyer and Jocele Meyer, Earthkeepers—​Environmental Perspectives on Hunger, Poverty, & Injustice (1991).123

118 https://​mennoc​reat​ionc​a re.org/​kauf​man-​to-​eng​age-​past​ors-​i n-​work​i ng-​agai​nst-​ clim​ate-​cha​nge/​. Accessed August 5, 2020. The Center for Sustainable Climate Solutions is described as an initiative of Eastern Mennonite University, Goshen College and MCC, with Doug Graber Neufeld as CSCS director, and was planning a Climate bike ride across the United States during mid-​2021. “Climate group organizing cross-​country U.S. bike ride,” Anabaptist World, Vol. 1, No. 4, November 27, 2020, 30. 119 Camille Dager, “Vermont chapel a model of creation care,” Mennonite World Review, May 4, 2020, 14. See: https://​mennoc​reat​ionc​a re.org/​nurtur​ing-​a-​cult​ ure-​of-​creat​ion-​care-​in-​congre​gati​ons/​. Accessed March 17, 2021. 120 “Forest Church trailblazer receives creation care award,” Anabaptist World, Vol. 2, No. 1 (January 22, 2021), 24. 121 https://​mennoc​reat​ionc​a re.org/​our-​congre​gati​ons/​. Accessed July 28, 2020. 122 See John Carmody, Ecology and Religion: Toward a New Christian Theology of Nature (1983), 170–​74; Robert Booth Fowler, The Greening of Protestant Thought (1995), 238–​4 2; Howard A. Snyder, EarthCurrents-​The Struggle for the World’s Soul (1995), 321–​34; Christian Scholar’s Review –​Theme Issue: The Fate of the Earth (Summer 2003); Roger S. Gottlieb, A Greener Faith—​Religious Environmentalism and Our Planet’s Future (2006), 281–​88; Sallie McFague, A New Climate for Theology—​God, the World, and Global Warming (2008), 193–​98. 123 Art Meyer and Jocele Meyer, Earthkeepers—​Environmental Perspectives on Hunger, Poverty, & Injustice.

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• Donna Lehman, what on Earth can you do?—​Making Your Church a Creation Awareness Center (1993).124 • Tim Lehman, Seeking the Wilderness—​a Spiritual Journey (1993).125 • Tom Finger, Evangelicals, Eschatology, and the Environment (1998).126 • Steve Ratzlaff, 7 steps to End War & Save the Planet (2008).127 • Some of which were referenced in other books: • Janice E Kirk and Donald R. Kirk, Cherish the Earth—​The Environment and Scripture (1993), includes quotes from Art and Jocele Meyer’s Earthkeepers (see above) and Garry Friesen with J. Robin Maxson’s Decision Making and the Will of God.128 • W. Dayton Roberts, Patching God’s Garment—​Environment and Mission in the 21st Century (1994), index does not list Anabaptists or Mennonites, but Living more with less is mentioned in Chapter 15.129 • Steven Bouma-​Prediger, for the beauty of the earth—​a Christian vision for creation care (2001), lists Thomas Finger’s monograph, Evangelicals, Eschatology, and the Environment, in the bibliography (see above).130

The Mennonite Quarterly Review In 1999, John D. Roth, Editor of the MQR acknowledged that “very few (if any!) articles have appeared in MQR which focus explicitly on environmental or ecological concerns.”131 Two decades later, the January 2020, MQR was devoted to creation care, environmental ethics, and climate change.132 Peter 124 Donna Lehman, what on EARTH can you do?—​Making Your Church A Creation Awareness Center. 125 Tim Lehman, Seeking the Wilderness—​a Spiritual Journey. 126 Tom Finger, “Evangelicals, Eschatology, and the Environment.” 127 Steve Ratzlaff, 7 steps to End War & Save the Planet. For a fuller Bibliography, see Creation & the Environment-​An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World, ed. Calvin Redekop, 249–​67. 128 Art Meyer and Jocele Meyer, Earthkeepers, 37, and Garry Friesen, with J. Robin Maxson, Decision Making and the Will of God, 213, cited in Janice E. Kirk and Donald R. Kirk, Cherish the Earth—​T he Environment and Scripture, 119, 125. 129 W. Dayton Roberts, Patching God’s Garment, Environment and Mission in the 21st Century, 121, 122, 153–​68. 130 Tom Finger, “Evangelicals, Eschatology, and the Environment.” cited in Steven Bouma-​Prediger, for the beauty of the earth—​a christian vision for creation care, 77. 131 Letter from John D. Roth, MQR Editor, to author, December 9, 1999. 132 Table of Contents: Peter Dula, “Anabaptist Environmental Ethics: A Review Essay,” and “Anabaptist Creation Care Bibliography”; Luke Beck Kreider, “Varieties of Anabaptist Environmentalism and the Challenge of Environmental Racism”; Laura Schmidt Roberts, “The Theological Place of Land: Watershed Discipleship as Re-​placed Cultural Vision”; Regina Shands Stoltzfus, “The Effects of Racial Segregation on Theologies of Creation Care”; Doug Kaufman, “Caring About

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Dula, in his lead “Anabaptist Environmental Ethics: A Review Essay,” notes, “Over the course of the last year, I reviewed dozens of books and articles by Anabaptist-​Mennonite writers on environmental ethics. While stewardship discourse dominates the early work, it seems to have faded in significance as Anabaptist theology increasingly appropriates varieties of eco-​spirituality, to which we now turn.” His essay, however, does not mention the Mennonite expectation of a new heaven and new earth.133

A Summary of a Mennonite Ecological Desideratum134 As noted earlier, Anabaptists, as a priesthood of all believers, who do not all believe the same things, will not move to an Anabaptist environmental vision, so long as they cling to the literal bookends of Genesis and Revelation.135 What use is a Church if you don’t have a habitable planet to put it on? Promoting the Genesis 1 version of having dominion, or the Genesis 2 version of gardening, leading to a revelation of a new heaven and new earth containing only a city, no garden, no wildlife, one tree, and one sterile river is a narrative that cannot lead to creation care. Still, there is a kernel in Anabaptist theology and belief focusing on simple living that could serve as a model and could sustain our fragile little spaceship with limited supplies of air and water so long as we understand that the Church is on the edge of forever.

Climate Change: An Anabaptist Cruciform Response”; Sarah Nahar, “Research Note: Are We Flushing Peace Down the Toilet? Discipleship and Defecatory Justice.” Relevant book reviews included: McConnell, David L., and Marylyn D. Loveless. Nature and the Environment in Amish Life, Reviewed by David Weaver-​Zercher and Douglas, Mark; Christian Pacifism for an Environmental Age. Reviewed by Luke Beck Kreider. MQR, XCIV (January 2020), https://​w ww.gos​ hen.edu/​mqr 2020/​03/​january-​2020-​table-​of-​contents-​a nabaptist-​climate-​care-​ environmental-​t heology/​. Accessed November 9, 2020. 133 Ibid., pp. 7–​41. 34 “Something needed and desired.” 1 135 The Confession of Faith (1995) Articles 6 and 7 presents Adam and Eve as real people. While there are theological efforts to interpret “new heaven and new earth” as a renewal of creation (see Thomas Finger, “Evangelicals, Eschatology, and the Environment” (1998) the average pew sitter is right to be confused when Genesis and Revelation are treated literally. Cf. Gordon Kaufman, In the Beginning: Creativity (Augsburg Fortress, 2004). See also Fresno Pacific University Assistant Professor and Program Director Melanie A. Howard’s column, “From ashes of destruction to a bright future,” concerning the vision of a new heaven and a new earth in Revelation 21:1–​8: “Total ecology and cosmic destruction is reported in the span of one short verse.” Anabaptist World, Vol. 1, No. 1 (September 25, 2020), 42.

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A Mennonite Environmental Confession We confess that, as a Mennonite people, our history is one of environmental manipulation and contribution to our environmental crises. As rural people, we have engaged in farming practices at the expense of native peoples and the natural environment. We have failed to acknowledge that our aggressive agricultural methods have drained wetlands, caused deforestation, destroyed prairies, minimized biodiversity, and polluted rivers, streams and groundwater at the expense of fish and wildlife throughout the world. As an urban people, we contribute to urban environmental problems by our means of production, our habits of consumption and our inability to separate wants from needs. We confess that we have understood stewardship to mean only use of the earth, rather than protection and that we have been active participants in non-​sustainable development. We confess that the earth is “good” and that “the earth is the Lord’s.” We call for a new vision of the natural world which accepts the custody of the earth with the responsibility to our fellow creatures and for the maintenance of a habitable planet. As God so loved the world, so do we declare our love for the world, as well.

Bibliography AMBS Bulletin 55, no. 1, Managing Editor John Bender (November 1989, 1–​16). Arnold, Ron. At the Eye of the Storm: James Watt and the Environmentalists. Chicago: Regency Gateway, 1982, quoted in Robert Booth Fowler, The Greening of Protestant Thought. The University of North Carolina Press, 1995. Bainton, Roland H. “The Anabaptist Contribution to History: Bender.” In TRAV, edited by Guy F. Hershberger. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1957. Bean, Heather Ann Ackley. “Toward an Anabaptist/​Mennonite Environmental Ethic.” In Creation & the Environment-​An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World, edited by Calvin Redekop. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000. Bender, Harold S. “TAV.” In TRAV, edited by Guy F. Hershberger. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1957. Bergstresser, Annette Brill. “AMBS recognized for focus on faith and ecology.” The Mennonite, February 22, 2016. https://​The Mennonite.org/​daily-​news/​a mbs-​ recognized-​for-​focus-​on-​faith-​a nd-​ecology/​. Accessed July 25, 2020. Bouma-​Prediger, Steven. For the Beauty of the Earth—​a Christian vision for creation care. Grand Rapids, Michigan: Baker Academic, 2001. Carmody, John. Ecology and Religion: Toward a New Christian Theology of Nature. New York/​R amsey: Paulist Press, 1983.

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Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective, General Conference Mennonite Church and Mennonite Church. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1995. Christian Scholar’s Review, XXXII, no. 4. Don W. King, Editor (Summer 2003). Entire issue focused on the fate of the earth. Dager, Camille. “Vermont Chapel a Model of Creation Care.” Mennonite World Review, May 4, 2020. Eicher, John P. R. Exiled Among Nations. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University, 2020. “Energy-​Christian Stewardship of Energy Resources.” General Conference Mennonite Church. Adopted 1977. https://​a na​bapt ​istw ​i ki.org/​mediaw ​i ki/​index.php?title=​ Christian_​Stewa​rdsh​ip_​o​f _​En​ergy​_ ​R es​ourc​es_​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​(General_​Conf​eren​ce_​M​enno​n ite​_​ Chu​rch,_​1977). Accessed August 5, 2020. Finger, Tom. “Evangelicals, Eschatology, and the Environment.” Scholars Circle monograph #2. Evangelical Environmental Network, 1998. Fowler, Robert Booth. The Greening of Protestant Thought. Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press, 1995. Friesen, Garry with J. Robin Maxson. Decision Making and the Will of God. Portland, OR: Multnomah Press, 1980. Gottlieb, Roger S. A Greener Faith—​Religious Environmentalism and Our Planet’s Future. New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2006. Haas, J. Craig. Readings from Mennonite Writings New & Old. Intercourse, PA: Good Books, 1992. Hallman, David G., ed. Ecotheology: Voices from South and North. Geneva: WCC Publications, 1994. Hershburger, Guy F., ed. TRAV. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1957. Hiebert, Erwin N. The Impact of Atomic Energy—​A History of Responses by Governments, Scientists, and Religious Groups. Newton, KS: Faith and Life Press, 1961. Hymnal: A Worship Book. Rebecca Slough, Managing Editor. Elgin, IL: Brethren Press; Newton, KS: Faith and Life Press; Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1992. Jost, David Lapp. “What will we do about environmental crisis?” Mennonite World Review, July 27, 2020. Kaufman, Gordon. In the Beginning: Creativity. Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress, 2004. Kirk, Janice E., and Donald R. Kirk. Cherish the Earth—​T he Environment and Scripture. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1993. Krahn, Cornelius. “In the Culture of the Netherlands.” In TRAV, edited by Guy F. Hershberger. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1957. Kraybill, J. Nelson. “Making Peace with God’s Creation.” AMBS Window 16, Issue 1, Fall 2005; AMBS, Our Faith, Fall/​W inter 2005. Lehman, Donna. What on EARTH Can You Do?—​Making Your Church A Creation Awareness Center. Scottdale PA: Herald Press, 1993.

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Lehman, Tim. Seeking the Wilderness –​A Spiritual Journey. Newton, KS: Faith and Life Press, 1993. Loewen, Howard John. One Lord, One Church, One Hope, and One God, Mennonite Confessions of Faith. Elkhart, IND: IMS, 1985. Longacre, Doris Jansen. More-​With-​Less Cookbook. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1976. —​—​—​. Living More with Less. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1980. “Mennonite Central Committee Statement on the Environment,” Appendix B—​Creation and the Environment, Sept. 29, 1994. Creation & the Environment-​An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World, edited by Calvin Redekop. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000. https://​was​h ing​tonm​emo.files.wordpr​ess.com/​ 2016/​0 4/​ste​ward​s _​go​ds_​c​reat​ion.pdf. Accessed August 1, 2020. Mennonite Church General Assembly and General Conference Mennonite Church. Stewardship of the Earth: Resolution on Environment and Faith Issues. Adopted, August 3, 1989. https://​a na​bapt ​istw ​i ki.org/​mediaw ​i ki/​index.php?title= ​Stewa​ rdsh​ip_​o​f _​t h​e _​Ea​r th:_​R esolution_​on_​En​v iro​n men​t _​a n​d _​Fa​ith_​Issu​es_​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​(General_​ Conf​eren​ce_​M​enno​n ite​_​Chu​rch,_​Menno​n ite​_​Chu​rch,_​1989). Accessed August 3, 2020. Mennonite Education Agency. “MEA investments prioritize climate change.” Mennonite World Review, June 29, 2020. Mennonite Weekly Review, “Environmental Task Force Makes Plans Despite Lack of Funds,” December 10, 1992. Meyer, Art. Christianity, and the Environment: A Collection of Writings. MCC Occasional Paper No. 13, May 1991. Meyer, Art and Jocele Meyer. Earthkeepers—​ Environmental Perspectives on Hunger, Poverty, & Injustice. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1991. Miller, Levi. Our People: The Amish and Mennonites of Ohio. Quoted in Heather Ann Ackley Bean, “Toward an Anabaptist/​Mennonite Environmental Ethic.” In Creation & the Environment-​An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World, edited by Calvin Redekop, 198. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000. National Catholic Reporter. “Churches plan ecology campaign.” January 22, 1993. Penner, Larry. “Conference aims to create green theology.” The Mennonite, March 14, 1995. Rath, George. The Black Sea Germans in the Dakotas. Freeman, SD: Pine Hill Press, 1977. Ratzlaff, Steve. 7 steps to End War & Save the Planet. Bloomington, IN: Xlibris Corporation, 2008. Redekop, Calvin, ed. Creation & the Environment-​An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000. —​—​—​. “The Environmental Challenge Before Us.” In Creation & the Environment-​ An Anabaptist Perspective on a Sustainable World, edited by Calvin Redekop. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000. Roberts, W. Dayton. Patching God’s Garment—​Environment and Mission in the 21st Century. Monrovia, CA: MARC/​World Vision International, 1994.

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Rogovin, Carolyn Raffensperger. “Our history as the Joint (MC/​G C) Environmental Task Force—​The earth is the Lord’s.” Builder, June 1994. Schmidt, Melvin D. Wholly, Holey, Holy. Newton, KS: Mennonite Press, 2016. —​—​—​. God so Loved the World, Telling the Salvation Story as if the Earth Mattered. Alexandria, VA: Empire Video, 1992. Sine, Tom. Wild Hope. Dallas: Word Publishing, 1991. Sine, Christine and Tom. Living on Purpose—​Finding God’s Best for Your Life. Grand Rapids, MI: Third Printing, 2004. Snyder, Howard A. EarthCurrents—​T he Struggle for the World’s Soul. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995. Stahl, John D., and Henry D. Weaver. Nuclear Energy—​Two Mennonite Views. MCC, June 1982. The Mennonite Hymnary. Walter H. Hohmann and Lester Hostetler, Editors. Berne, IN: Mennonite Book Concern and Newton, KS: Mennonite Publication Office, 1940. The Mennonite Hymnal. Vernon H. Neufeld, Chairman, Joint Hymnal Committee. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press and Newton, KS: Faith and Life Press, 1969. Unruh, Abe J. The Helpless Poles. Freeman, SD: Pine Hill Press, 1980. Urry, James. “Mennonite Economic Development in the Russian Mirror.” Mennonites in Russia, edited by John Friesen. Winnipeg: CMBC Publications, 1989. Wenger, J. C. What Mennonites Believe. Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1991. World Council of Churches’ UNCED Group. An Ecumenical Response to UNCED: Searching for a New Heaven and New Earth. Geneva Switzerland: World Council of Churches, 1992.

List of Contributors

Altaras, Cameron PhD, University of Toronto Independent Scholar and Spoken Word Artist [email protected] and www.voce-redisuum.com Buller, Rachel Epp PhD, University of Kansas MFA, University of Plymouth Associate Professor of Visual Arts and Design, Bethel College [email protected] Cruz, Daniel Shank PhD PhD, Northern Illinois University Independent Scholar Twitter: @shankcruz Falcón, Bryan Rafael MFA, Western Illinois University Artistic and Managing Director, Scoundrel and Scamp Theatre (Tucson, AZ) [email protected] Friesen, Duane ThD, Harvard University Professor Emeritus, Bethel College [email protected]

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C ontr ibutor s

Friesen, Lauren PhD (with honors), Graduate Theological Union and University of California Berkeley David M. French Professor Emeritus, University of Michigan [email protected] Funk, Clayton EdD, Teachers College, Columbia University Associate Professor of Teaching, The Ohio State University [email protected] Gingerich, Charlene BMus, University of Western Ontario Production Pianist, Stratford Festival, Stratford, Ontario [email protected] Graber, Katie PhD, University of Wisconsin Lecturer, The Ohio State University [email protected] Gundy, Jeff PhD, Indiana University Professor, Bluffton University [email protected] Harding, Vincent PhD, University of Chicago Late professor of Religion and Ethics at Ilif School of Theology Hart, Lawrence MDiv, Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary Cheyenne Chief and Mennonite Pastor (retired) Hostetter, Doug MA, New School for Social Research Pax Christi International [email protected] Kauffman, Rudi PhD, University of Cincinnati Practice Manager, Hickory Medical Direct Primary Care, LLC [email protected]

List of Contributors

465

Kaufman, S. Roy MDiv, Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary Retired pastor, author [email protected] Kennel, Maxwell PhD, McMaster University Postdoctoral Fellow, University of Toronto [email protected] Koehn, Dennis MDiv, Harvard Divinity School PhD, Chicago Theological Seminary Independent Scholar [email protected] Krall, Ruth Elizabeth PhD (Personality and Theology) Southern California School of Theology at Claremont, Claremont, CA Professor Emerita of Religion, Nursing and Psychology and Program Director Emerita, Peace, Justice and Conflict Studies, Goshen College [email protected] Logan, James Samuel PhD, Princeton University Interim Dean, Earlham College [email protected] Nofsinger, Dave Cover Images MFA, University of Arizona Associate Professor of Scene Design Western Michigan University [email protected] Ortman, David E BA, Bethel College (KS); Attorney-​at Law (Washington State Bar Association) Land use attorney (Sound Law Center) [email protected]

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Peters, Lorin AB Physics/​UC Berkeley Teacher of physics and of Gandhian nonviolence, retired [email protected] Ratzlaff, Keith MFA, Indiana University Professor Emeritus, Central College (Iowa) [email protected] Reimer, Julia PhD, Southern Illinois University, Carbondale Collaboration Coordinator, Near Far Theatre (Fresno, CA) [email protected] Samatar, Sofia PhD, University of Wisconsin-​Madison, Department of African Languages and Literature Assistant Professor, English, James Madison University [email protected] Schirch, Lisa PhD, George Mason University Professor and Chair of Peace Studies, University of Notre Dame and Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies [email protected] Schnupp, Alvin PhD, University of California Los Angeles Professor Emeritus, California Polytechnic State University [email protected] Schumm, Darla PhD, Vanderbilt University Interim Associate Provost and Professor, Hollins University [email protected] Sider, J. Alexander PhD, Duke University Professor, Bluffton University [email protected]

List of Contributors Witmer, Douglas MFA, The Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. Studio Artist [email protected] Zimmerman, Diana R BA, Goshen College Novelist, Poet, Surfer, and Property Management (Tamarindo, CR) [email protected]

467

Index

Absolute Order  23, 26, 29, 32–​4, 45 academic misconduct  398–​400 Adams, Rachel  419, 420 affinity violence  228, 230, 231 agrarian cultures  254–​8 and anabaptist theology  258–​65 Anabaptist vitality  265–​70 revitalization of  266–​70 Alexander, Michelle  126 Alison, James  428 All My Sons (Miller)  152, 153, 186 Altaras, Cameron  15 American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City  16, 308 American racism  150, 154, 156 American Society of Church History  10, 289, 349, 431 Amichai, Yehuda  415, 416 Amish Mennonite  205, 209, 213 Ammann, Jakob  207, 347 Anabaptism  5, 6, 16, 217, 219–​21, 227, 289, 290, 342, 346, 347, 357, 364, 365, 404, 410, 431, 432, 438 agrarian character of  256 bends toward justice  158–​60 community of faith  235 history of  254 inheritors of  9 re-​envisioning  359–​6 4 and shifting terrain  13 theological machinations  215–​21 theological themes of  258–​65

virtue ethics  131–​4 Anabaptist Christians  ethical teaching of  133 historic and theological tenant of  407 Anabaptist churches  254–​6 Anabaptist history  51, 53, 57, 59, 62, 216, 353 Anabaptist identity  10, 52 Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary (AMBS)  442–​3 Anabaptist movement  5, 44, 54, 57, 81, 235, 343, 347, 348, 389n1, 431 Anabaptist music  diversity, represent of  195–​8 imagining  193–​5 Anabaptists  9, 12, 52, 59, 63, 175, 207, 208, 216, 219, 375, 385, 401, 411 bender’s  351–​2 environmental vision  457 ethic of  81 European descent of  195 experience of  11 faith and cultural traditions  326 healthcare  412 history of  58 intra-​community violence  230 Mennonite church  352–​4 origins and theologies  347–​8 pacifism vs. fascism and antisemitism  349–​51 peacebuilding practice  354–​8 peace theology  342–​5

470 racial purity, illusions of  348–​9 radical break  220–​1 risks of faith  131 waterlanders  365 Anabaptist vitality  10, 265–​70, 326 anti-​racist awakening  180–​1 anti-​racist casting room  190–​1 appropriate response  407–​8 appropriation  188–​90 Aquinas, Thomas  147, 428 Aristotle  14, 124, 137–​41, 143–​5, 149, 156, 159, 427 Astin, Alexander W.  393 Bainton, Roland H.  433 Baldwin, James  382 Barth, Karl  133 Bauman, Clarence  63 Bayrak, Tosun  109–​13, 118 Bean, Heather Ann Ackley  434 Bechtel, Trevor  60 beggars  167–​9 believability  181, 182, 185, 187, 189, 191–​2 Bellamy, Sarah  186 Bender, H. S.  5, 6, 10, 23, 56, 62, 158, 208, 212, 216, 219, 220, 255, 287–​ 90, 292, 297, 303, 349, 354, 431, 433, 434 Bentheim, H. L. B.  432 Bergen, Jeremy  51, 52 Berry, Malinda  70, 71 Beyond Accessibility: Toward the Full Inclusion of People with Disabilities in Faith Communities (Webb-​ Mitchell, Brett)  424 Bible  28, 44, 45, 83, 90, 213, 215, 287, 343, 347, 351, 354, 359–​360, 445 Black  9, 44, 151, 155, 178, 180, 187, 320, 321, 343 in classroom  134–​4 ethical ministry  126–​31 police killings of  37 responsibilities of  152 spiritual languages of  319 Black body  126–​32

I ndex Black/​Indigenous/​People of Color (BIPOC)  180, 187, 191 “Black Lives Matter”  38, 101, 131 Bloch, Chana  415 Boal, Augusto  380 Boesak, Allen  133 Bogard, Travis  151 Bonhoeffer, Dietrich  124 Bosnian Muslim  112–​114, 116–​18, 120 The Bosnian Student Project (BSP)  112–​ 14, 117–​21 Bosnian War  108–​10, 112 Boulding, Kenneth  89 Bremer, Henk  167 Brunk, George  307 Buddha  39–​41, 107, 108 Buechner, Frederick  384 Buller, Rachel Epp  17 Burkholder, J. Lawrence  24, 65–​6, 160, 287 Burkholder, J. R.  287 Canadian Mennonite  13, 351 Carl-​Klassen, Abigail  302, 303 catharsis  9, 140, 143, 149, 161 justice and liberation  141 sense of  148 Catholic bishops  87, 88, 90, 93, 95–​7 Catholic Church  10, 105 the centaur’s recipe  322–​3 TheChallenge of Peace (Letter)  97 Chavez, Cesar  156 Chekov, Anton  205 Cheney, Lois  307 Cheyenne  14, 165, 171–​5, 194 Chosen Nation: Mennonites and Germany in a Global Era (Goossen)  53 Christianity  18, 33, 34, 54, 108, 147, 259, 288, 378, 404, 410, 416, 418, 424, 446 entanglements of  61 Christianity, and the Environment: A Collection of Writings (Meyer)  436 Christian pacifism  9, 93 Christian Palestinian movement  99 Christian Peacemaker Team (CPT)  239

471

Index Christians  34, 44, 404 Anabaptist identfity  52 anxiety  60 disability  423 ethics  79 evangelism  107 human illness  423 identity  51 nature of justice  130 political involvement by  81n4 reconciliation  132 theology and biblical interpretation  45 Civil Rights movement  65, 101, 235 Cloud Tectonics (Rivera)  184, 191 Clybourne Park Improvement Association  155 Coffman, John S.  207 Cole, J.  131 The Collegiants  60–​2 colorism  185–​7 Comer, Douglas C.  172 Confucius  41, 63 Conjunctive Faith  37 Consortium on Peace Research, Education and Development (COPRED)  119 COVID-​19 virus pandemic  179, 269, 380, 434 Creation and the Environment: An Anabaptist Perspective (Redekop)  450 Cruz, Daniel Shank  16, 67–​8 Cruz, Sor Juana de la Inés  381 Davis, Angela  126, 127 Davis, Lennard J.  246 Dead Poets Society (movie)  320–​2 Dean, Diane R.  395 Denck, Hans  63 dependency  425–​6 Design for Living (Friedmann)  63 TheDifference Between Racism and Colorism (Tharpes)  185 Dillard, Annie  18, 378 disability  419–​20 cure and healing  422–​5 dependency  425–​6

medical model of  420–​1 social model of  421–​2 and spirituality  427 disability theory  242, 244, 249 TheDisabled God: Toward a Liberatory Theology of Disability (Eiesland)  420 diversity  9, 15, 25, 37, 97, 142, 165, 180, 361, 392, 458 by design  342–​3 linguistic and cultural  195 singing  198–​200 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor  205 Driedger, Leo  33 Driver, Tom  384 Du Bois, W. E. B.  321 Dutch Anabaptist  10, 29, 44 Dutch Mennonite  19, 52, 257, 432 Eaton, Matthew 352  Eddy, Mary Baker  423 Edwards, Sachi  392 Egalitarian Order  26, 29, 36, 37, 45 Eiesland, Nancy  419 TheElephants in God’s Living Room (Yoder)  353 El Teatro Campesino  156, 157 Endres, David  422 enemy love  342, 344, 355, 361 Enterprising Self  26, 35, 36, 45 Entrepreneurial Self  29, 34 Environmental Task Force (ETF)  452–​3 MC/​G C  448–​50 Epp, Marlene  211 Epp-​Tiessen, Dan  442 Ethics in the Nuclear Age: Strategy, Religious Studies, and the Churches (Whitmore)  97 evangelical pacifism  83, 84, 88–​90, 94, 101 Falcón, Bryan Rafael  14 feminist Mennonites  55, 58, 70–​1 Feuerbach, Ludwig  24 Fielder, Brigitte  150 Finn, James  91 Fitzpatrick, Cat  300 Floyd, George  101, 155, 180

472 Floyd, Virginia  152 Fowler, James  26–​9, 31–​41, 43 Free Speech Movement  237 Friedmann, Robert  62–​3 friendship  18, 69, 262, 308, 397, 425, 427–​9 Friesen, Duane  7, 13 Friesen, Lauren  77 Friesen, Patrick  66 fundamentalism  5, 352 Funk, Clayton  18 Generation on a Tightrope: A Portrait of Today’s College Student (Levine and Dean)  395 Gingerich, Charlene  16 God  13, 16, 18, 30, 35, 44, 83, 90, 92, 94, 113, 120, 130–​2, 142, 146, 262–​4, 267, 270, 284, 285, 307, 342, 354, 383, 407, 424, 426, 428, 442 on human traits  25 mission  453 powers of  410 power to reward and punish  32 reality of  101 and salvation  41 truth and issues laws  33 Goertz, Hans-​Jürgen  58–​61 Goossen, Benjamin W.  52, 53, 217 the Gospel of All Creatures  58, 60, 61 Graber, Katie  15 Graves, Clare W.  25, 26, 28–​30, 32–​ 8, 41, 42 Grebel, Conrad  217 Greene, Maxine  385 Gundy, Jeff  17, 288, 293 Haas, J. Craig  452 Hansberry, Lorraine  154–​6, 186 Haraway, Donna  326 Harder, Lydia Neufeld  66 Harding, Vincent  14, 165 Harold S. Bender  5, 56, 158, 208, 212, 255, 287, 288, 349, 352, 354, 431 Hart, Lawrence  14, 165 Hassan, Egla Birmingham  188

I ndex Hauerwas, Stanley  86, 89–​90 healers  233–​4 healthcare system  404–​7 hegemony of normalcy  245–​8 Heggen, Carolyn  353 Herman, Judith  234 Herod  145–​8 Hershberger, Guy F.  432 hexadecaroon  14, 183, 185, 188–​90 Hickman, Matthew D.  442 Hiebert, Erwin N.  435 Hiebert, Kyle Gingerich  66 Hip Hop culture  129–​31 Hockman-​Wert, Cathleen  442, 446 Hollenbach, David  87 Holocaust  350, 352, 353, 358–​9, 362, 363 Holy Spirit  45, 168, 169, 262, 452 Hooley Yoder, Anita  290, 292 Hostetter, Doug  13 Huebner, Chris  51 identity  10 and race  14–​15 weakness in  12 impairment  242, 248, 418–​20, 422–​4 Individuative-​Reflective  34–​6 institutional engagement, ethics of  17–​19 institutional loyalty  346 Integrating Being  29, 38, 45 integrity  26, 54, 204, 213–​17, 219, 221, 397, 417 interdisciplinary approach  24, 54, 55, 72, 73 Intuitive Existence  28, 29, 38, 39, 41, 45 Intuitive-​Projective Faith  27 Islam  see Muslims Jeanette S. Cureton  394 Jesus  15, 17, 25, 30, 41, 45 care and community, teachings of  341 caring  345 discipleship  259 faithful and effective  345 hop  345 humanitarian vision  347

473

Index justice, peace, truth, mercy, and love  344 kindness  345 life and teachings  349 peacemaking  100 politics of  56, 132 salt, light, and leaven vision  12 suffering and death  361 Jews  100, 109, 113, 117, 347, 349, 350, 352, 353, 358, 360, 362, 363 Johnson, James  79, 80 Jones, Rufus M.  431 Jost, David Lapp  446 Judaism  33 Juhnke, James C.  193 justice  84, 89, 91, 101, 126, 130–​2, 144, 149–​53, 344 commitments to  37 ethics of  13–​14 restoration of  137–​4 2 struggles for  12 values of  68 just war  13, 79, 82, 83, 85, 88, 97, 107, 247 complementarity of  93 convergence of  87 peace and justice  89 Kafer, Alison  243 Kant, Immanuel  408 Kasdorf, Julia Spicher  287, 288, 292 Kauffman, Daniel  207, 212 Kauffman, J. Howard  33 Kauffman, Ralph C.  62 Kauffman, Rudi  18 Kaufman, Edmond G.  11 Kaufman, Gordon  24, 25, 160 Kaufmann, Britt  291 Kaufman, S. Roy  16, 442 Kehler, Grace  68, 69 Keim, Albert N.  287, 288 Keller, Catherine  97 Keller, Joe  153 Kennel, Maxwell  13, 21 King, Martin Luther, Jr.  160 Kittay, Eva Feder  425 Klaassen, Walter  434

Knopf, Alfred A.  293 Koehn, Dennis  13 Krahn, Cornelius  432 Krall, Ruth  15, 353, 354 Kraybill, J. Nelson  442 Kroeker, Travis  66, 68 Kronfeld, Chana  415 Kropf, Marlene  193 Lachman, Becca J. R.  301, 302 Lanier, James  14 Lao-​Tzu  41 Latinx  9, 16, 290, 299 Lederach, John Paul  363, 365 L’Engle, Madeleine  382 Letter, Pastoral  97 Levine, Arthur  393, 394, 395, 396 Liberating Rites: Understanding the Transformative Power of Ritual (Driver)  384 Liechty, John  444 Lind, Mary Beth  442, 446 Lindsay, Nick  17 Lindsay, Vachel  317, 318, 321, 322 literary Mennonites  13, 56–​8, 66–​7, 70 Loewen, Howard John  452 Logan, James Samuel  13 Longacre, Doris Jansen  446 Longmore, Paul  244 love  19, 31, 36, 39, 43, 62, 70, 113, 115, 121, 131, 148, 149, 151, 152, 156, 168, 175, 178, 184, 344 ethic of  264, 265 Maharaj, Sri Nisargadatta  214 mass incarceration  126–​32 McCarthy, Tim  447 Meehan, Francis X.  82, 93 Meeks, Wayne  267 Mennonite Abuse Prevention (MAP)  356 Mennonite Central Committee (MCC)  106, 107, 349–​51, 354, 358, 362, 363, 436–​8, 447, 454 Mennonite church  16, 192, 194, 217, 245, 254, 268, 275, 348, 351, 389 agrarian cultures of  263

474 antisemitism in  358 conflicts in  360, 365 music involvement  277 Mennonite Church Canada  193, 268, 454 Mennonite Church (MC)/​General Conference Mennonite Church (GC)  446–​7 confession of faith  450–​2 Mennonite environmental task force  448–​50 Mennonite Church United States of America (MCUSA)  132, 193–​5, 228, 253, 267, 268, 445, 452–​4 Mennonite Church USA (MCUSA)  453–​4 Mennonite Creation Care Network (MCCN)  268, 454–​5 Mennonite Education Agency (MEA)  444 Mennonite environmental confession  458 Mennonite ethics  50, 65, 158, 346 Mennonite institutions  356–​8 Mennonite Life  7 Mennonite literary  67–​8, 67–​68, 298, 313 Mennonite peace building ethics  358–​9 Mennonite peace education  354–​5 Mennonite Quarterly Review (MQR)  289, 456–​7 Mennonite Studies  13, 21, 49, 52, 54–​6, 63, 72, 73, 289, 300 Mennonite theology  50, 51, 53, 56, 57, 62, 63, 67, 290, 346, 434 Mennonite values  16, 23, 55, 57, 250, 289 Mennonite Voluntary Service (MVS)  440 Mennonite World Conference (MWC)  438–​40 mercy  215, 281, 344 Methodist bishops  84–​6, 90, 91, 96 Meyer, Art  436 Miles, John D.  174 Millar, Robert  352 Miller, Arthur  152–​4, 186 Miller, Levi  445

I ndex Miller, Marlin  24 misfitting  15, 16, 242, 248–​51 Moderate Mennonite Male Managers (MMMM)  364 A Moon for the Misbegotten (O’Neill)  150–​2 Moorefield, Renee  27, 28, 30, 32, 35, 38, 39, 42 More-​With Less Cookbook  445–​6 Moses  41, 309 Mosher, Gregory  187 Mouw, Richard  89 Moyer, Joanne  442 Muslims  100, 109, 113, 116, 117, 118, 374 Mystical/​Communal  28, 36–​8, 42 Mythic-​Literal Faith  27 Nafziger, Kenneth  193 Nafziger, Tim  364 narcissism  35 Nevertheless (Yoder)  83 TheNew Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in an Age of Colorblindness (Alexander)  126 new mennonite political theologies  66 Niebuhr, R. Richard  24 North American Mennonites  5, 10, 11, 15, 21, 45, 56, 165, 197, 292, 299, 351, 353 Nouwen, Henry  233, 234 Nozick, Robert  408 Oeur, Freeden  155 O’Neill, Eugene  150–​2 One Lord, One Church, One Hope, and One God, Mennonite Confessions of Faith (Loewen)  452 ontological peace  63–​4 Open Closed Open (Amichai)  415 Orthodox Christians  109, 116 Ortman, David E.  19 Osborne, Troy  52, 53 pacifism  environmentalism  434–​6 vs. fascism and antisemitism  349–​51 pacifist epistemology  63–​4

Index peace  96, 100, 106, 111, 120, 121, 241, 247, 259, 276, 290, 342, 344, 437, 445 commitments to  37 ethics of  13–​14 issues of  80 Mennonite education  354–​5 ontological  63–​4 policy  173 values of  68 peacebuilding practice  355–​6 Mennonite institutions  356–​8 Mennonite peace education  354–​5 peacemakers  227, 234 Peace Shall Destroy Many (Wiebe)  292 Peck, M. Scott  28, 31, 32, 34, 35, 37, 38, 42 Penner, Larry  444 Peters, Lorin  15 Petter, Rodolphe  174, 175 philosophical Mennonites  62, 65 Picasso, Pablo  380 pilgrimage  6, 15–​16, 423 Plato  25, 30–​4, 36, 40, 43, 132, 141 Plett, Casey  300 political Mennonites  58, 65–​6 The Politics of Jesus (Yoder)  56, 353 Powerful Self  26, 29, 30 Protestant churches  10, 105 Queering Mennonite Literature: Archives, Activism, and the Search for Community (Cruz)  67 TheQuest for Peace (Johnson)  79 race  9, 85, 91, 182, 184–​91, 213, 246, 377, 419 ethical ministry  126–​31 and identity  14–​15, 183–​4 issue of  149 racial purity  348–​9 Radical Reformation  57, 247, 404 A Raisin in the Sun (Hansberry)  154, 186 Ralph, Michael  419 Ramirez, Elizabeth C.  157 Ramsey, Paul  86 rationality  29, 36

475 Rawls, John  139, 160, 407 Readings from Mennonite Writings New & Old (Haas)  452 reconciliation  93, 130–​4, 342, 375, 417 Redekop, Calvin  442, 446, 450 Redekop, Magdalene  159 re-​envisioning anabaptism  accountability and healing, not scapegoating  362–​3 Bible  359–​60 community, not banning/​ shunning  363–​4 democratic decision making, not authoritarian rule  364 ethics, not ethnicity  360–​1 humility and self-​reflection, not superiority  361 leaders with visions, not moderate managers  364 trauma healing and social justice, not redemptive suffering  361–​2 victim narratives  361–​2 Reimer, A. James  60, 66 Reimer, Julia  18 Reiss, Benjamin  419, 420 Reist, Hans  347 religion  41, 58, 61, 64, 77, 112, 117, 127, 241, 259, 291, 359, 371, 403, 416, 417, 422 function of  29 of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam  33 psychology of  24 in public life  125 reconciliation  342 relationships  342 Remer, Molly  291, 292 Ritual Ground (Comer)  172 ARitual to Read Together: Poems in Conversation with William Stafford (Lachman)  301 Rivera, José  184 Roman Catholic  109, 234 Rose, Gillian  416, 417 Rosenzweig, Franz  24 Roth, John D.  456 Ruth, John L.  290 Ryken, Leland  384

476 Salvation  41, 45, 99, 203, 258, 259, 307 Samatar, Sofia  17 Sattler, Michael  260 Schirch, Lisa  17–​19 Schlabach, Joetta Handrich  446 Schlabach, Theron  287 Schmidt, Daryl  87 Schmidt, Melvin D.  448 Schneider, Lorraine  440 Schnupp, Alvin  16 Scoundrel and Scamp (S&S)  179, 188 secular humanism  34, 373 secular Mennonites  57–​8, 61, 70 self-​ fulfillment  35, 266 Serlin, David  419, 420 sexual abuse  57, 343, 352–​4, 356, 357, 359, 361–​3 Sexual Abuse in Christian Homes and Churches (Heggen)  353 sexual violence  68, 70, 228, 230, 231, 354, 356, 363, 365 Shakespeare, William  148–​50 Shelter Management (Carl-​Klassen)  302 Shin, Roger  380 Sider, J. Alexander  18, 50, 71 Simons, Menno  81, 133, 216, 347, 348, 410 Simply in Season (Lind and Hockman-​ Wert)  442 Sine, Tom  446 Socrates  30 Sophocles  141, 144–​5 Spingarn, J. E.  321 spirituality  26, 38, 39, 77, 102, 283, 427 function of  29 Graves developmental model  42 Tribal  26 Stassen, Glen  100 Suderman, Beverly  442 Survival  26, 28 Swiss Anabaptist  10, 29 Synthetic-​Conventional Faith  33 Tharpes, Lori  185 The Anabaptist Vision (TAV)  5, 10, 16, 23, 56, 208, 254, 255, 260, 262, 263, 265, 288, 339, 353, 355, 431

I ndex failure of  256–​8 pacifism vs. fascism and antisemitism  349–​51 peacebuilding  342–​5 The Recovery of the Anabaptist Vision (TR AV)  9 Thiessen, J. J.  351 Thistlethwaite, Susan  100 Tillich, Paul  97 Toews, Miriam  66, 68–​70 Tolkien, J.R.  133 Tranquillitas Ordinis (Weigel)  88 Tribal  27, 28, 29, 45 truth, lies, and stereotypes  181–​3 Turner, Victor  380 Tyrone, Jim  150 Undifferentiated Faith  28 Universalizing Faith  38, 39, 41 Unruh, Abe J.  432 Urry, James  433 Valdez, Luis  156–​8 violence  14 Anabaptist theology and praxis  228–​31 communal and interpersonal  226 exclusion and methodological  50 gender-​ based  355 in liberation movements  86 military  235 sexual  68 traumatic wounds of  226 Voices Together  193–​9 Wall Kimmerer, Robin  342 Warren, Elizabeth  189 Weaver-​Zercher. Valerie  352 Weigel, George  88, 91 Welborn, L. L.  97 Wenger, J. C.  207, 214, 452 What Mennonites Believe (Wenger)  452 When Dreams and Heroes Died (Levine)  393 When Hope and Fear Collide (Levine)  394 Whiteshield, Harvey  174, 175 Whitmore, Todd  97

477

Index wholeness  28, 41, 141, 147, 159, 284, 285, 372, 379 Wiebe, Rudy  292, 293 Wilderness Wind  444–​5 Wilkerson, Margaret B.  155 Wink, Walter  261 Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC (Buechner)  384 Witmer, Douglas  17, 335 Women Talking (Toews)  68–​70 World Health Organization (WHO)  404, 405

TheWounded Healer (Nouwen)  233–​4 Wright, N. T.  267 Yoder, John Howard  56, 57, 83, 101, 207, 216, 217, 219, 220, 353 Yoder Nyce, Dorothy  352 Yoder, Perry B.  442 Yugoslavia  108–​10, 112–​14, 119 Zacarías, Karen  381 Zimmerman, Diana  17