Colonialism and the Bible: Contemporary Reflections from the Global South 1498572766, 9781498572767

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Colonialism and the Bible

Postcolonial and Decolonial Studies in Religion and Theology Series Editor: Sheryl Kujawa-Holbrook, Claremont School of Theology Series Editorial Board: Jon Berquist, Stephen Burns, Cláudio Carvalhaes, Jennifer Te Paa Daniel, Lynne St. Clair Darden, Christine J. Hong, Wonhee Anne Joh, HyeRan Kim-Cragg, Boyung Lee, Aprilfaye Tayag Manalang, Loida Yvette Martell, Stephanie Y. Mitchem, Jea Sophia Oh, Nicolas Esteban Panotto, Jeremy Punt, Patrick Reyes, Joerg Rieger, Fernando Segovia, Melinda McGarrah Sharp, Kay Higuera Smith, Jonathan Y. Tan, Mona West, and Amos Yong. This series responds to the growing interest in postcolonial studies and re-examines the hegemonic, European-dominated religious systems of the old and new empires. It critically addresses the colonial biases of religions, the academy, and local faith communities, in an effort to make these institutions more polyvocal, receptive, and empowering to global cultures and epistemologies. The series will engage with a variety of hybrid, overlapping, and intersecting definitions of postcolonialism—as a critical discursive practice, as a political and ideological stance concerned with exposing patterns of dominance and hegemony, and as contexts shaped by ongoing colonization and decolonization. Books in the series will also explore the relationship between postcolonial values and religious practice, and the transformation of religious symbols and institutions in postcolonial contexts beyond the academy. The series aims to make high-quality and original research available to the scholarly community. The series welcomes monographs and edited volumes which forge new directions in contextual research across disciplines and explore key contemporary issues. Established scholars as well as new authors will be considered for publication, including scholars “on the margins” whose voices are under-represented in the academy and in religious discourse. Authors working in sub-disciplines of religious studies and/or theology are encouraged to submit proposals.

Titles in the Series Colonialism and the Bible: Contemporary Reflections from the Global South, edited by Tat-siong Benny Liew and Fernando F. Segovia.

Benny Liew and Segovia_9781498572750.indb 2

22-03-2018 17:57:07

Colonialism and the Bible Contemporary Reflections from the Global South

Edited by Tat-siong Benny Liew and Fernando F. Segovia

LEXINGTON BOOKS Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB Copyright © 2018 by Lexington Books Chapter six was previously published in Faith in the Face of Empire: The Bible through Palestinian Eyes. Maryknoll: Orbis, 2014. Chapter ten was previously published as “Evoking the Bible at a Funeral in an IndianChristian Community,” Asia Journal of Theology 26, no. 1 (April 2012): 124-130. Ramona Álamo’s hymn “A Empezar De Nuevo” was previously published in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in Puerto Rico’s hymnbook “Himnos del Avivamiento.” Used with permission. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Liew, Tat-siong Benny and Fernando F. Segovia, editor. Title: Colonialism and the Bible : contemporary reflections from the global south / edited by Tat-siong Benny Liew and Fernando F. Segovia. Description: Lanham : Lexington Books, 2018. | Series: Postcolonial and decolonial studies in religion and theology | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018001501 | ISBN 9781498572750 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781498572767 (electronic) Subjects: LCSH: Bible—Postcolonial criticism. Classification: LCC BS521.86 .C65 2018 | DDC 220.609172/4—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018001501 ∞ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Acknowledgments vii Introductions

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Colonialism and the Bible: A Critical Stock-taking from the Global South Fernando F. Segovia Bible and Colonialism: What Does the New Testament Really Say? Tat-siong Benny Liew

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PART I: AFRICA AND THE MIDDLE EAST 1 Interrogating Identity: A Christian Egyptian Reading of the Hagar-Ishmael Traditions Safwat Marzouk

1 3

2 The Bible as Tool of Colonization: The Zimbabwean Context Dora Rudo Mbuwayesango

31

3 Postwar Hermeneutics: Bible and Colony-Related Necropolitics Kenneth Ngwa

43

4 The Bible as a De-Colonial Tool for Palestinian Christians Today Michel Elias Andraos

75

5 Israeli Cinema's Interpretations of the Biblical Imperative of Colonization 87 Yael Munk v

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6 Towards a Postcolonial Hermeneutics for the Palestinian Context 103 Mitri Raheb PART II: ASIA AND THE PACIFIC 7 Colonial Storms and Postcolonial Moves: Exploring Alternative Filipino Biblical Hermeneutics Eleazar S. Fernandez 8 Carrying Out “The Great Commission” until the “Second Coming of Christ”?: Overseas Mission Currents in the Context of US Military Imperialism Nami Kim 9 The Jesuit Missionary Enterprise: Christianity, Slave Trade, and Gun Powder Enter Japan Hisako Kinukawa

129 131

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10 Evoking the Bible at a Funeral in an Indian-Christian Community187 J. Jayakiran Sebastian 11 Bible and Colonization: Aotearoa New Zealand Jenny Te Paa Daniel

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PART III: LATIN AMERICA AND THE CARIBBEAN

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12 The Most Burning of Lavas: The Bible in Latin America Nancy Elizabeth Bedford

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13 La biblia, la mar y el Caribe/The Bible, the Sea, and the Caribbean: Late 19th to Early 21st Century Carlos F. Cardoza Orlandi 14 Without the Bible: A New Liberation Theology Ivan Petrella 15 Transfiguration: The Figural Approach to Reading the Bible in Latin America Vítor Westhelle

233 251

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Conclusion

Colonialism and the Bible: Trajectories, Evaluations, Proposals Fernando F. Segovia

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Index329 List of Contributors

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Acknowledgments

This volume has been made possible due to the assistance and support of a good number of people, to whom we are deeply indebted and most thankful. First and foremost, to all those who took part in the project, for their gracious acceptance of our invitation and fine contributions. Second, to Mr. Luis Menéndez Antuña, who, as a doctoral student in New Testament and Early Christianity within the Graduate Department of Religion at Vanderbilt University, served as editorial assistant for the project, for his superb editing of the manuscript. Third, to Ms. Jennifer Whelan of the College of the Holy Cross for her bibliographical research, editorial expertise, and preparation of the index. Fourth, to the chair of the Editorial Board of the series “Postcolonial Studies in Religion and Theology” for the kind acceptance of the volume for publication in the series. Finally, to the entire publications staff of Lexington Books, and especially Sarah Craig, for their impeccable assistance throughout the process of publication.

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Introduction Colonialism and the Bible: A Critical Stock-taking from the Global South Fernando F. Segovia

This project addresses the problematic revolving around the relationship between the project of colonialism and the role of the Bible in such an enterprise. Such a critical inquiry could be undertaken in any number of ways, depending on the angle of vision adopted and the focus of attention deployed. Thus, the task could be approached from a variety of spatial-geopolitical perspectives: the center or metropolis, the Global North or the First World of yesteryear; the margins or periphery, the Global South or the Third World of yesteryear; both sides at once, a combination of Global North and Global South. Similarly, the task could be pursued—regardless of spatial-geopolitical perspective selected—at a variety of spatial-geographical levels of attention: the local, such as the nation; the regional, such as a group of nations or a continent; the global, involving a multi-continental or pan-continental focus. All such variations would constitute appropriate and revealing lines of inquiry. This project takes up the colonialist-biblical problematic from a peripheral perspective and at a global level, namely, the Global South as a whole. As a peripheral undertaking, the angle of vision set forth is that of the margins, the descendants of the colonized, drawing on faces and voices from the Global South. As a global undertaking, the focus of attention assumed is pancontinental, the descendants of the colonized everywhere, bringing together such faces and voices not only from throughout the Global South but also from within the Global North as well. On the one hand, the project presents a broad array of reflections from across the Global South. This it accomplishes by calling on voices and faces from its various spatial-geographical components, following standard configurations in this regard—Africa and the Near East, Asia and the Pacific, Latin America and the Caribbean. On the other hand, the project includes voices and faces who are active in the home countries, in the diaspora, or in both at once. This it does on account of the ix

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ever-larger presence of the Global South in the Global North, given the massive patterns of migration from South to North that have been taking place for a good number of decades now. In pursuing the colonialist-biblical problematic in this way, the primary objective of the project is to survey the lay of the land at this point in time from the underside of imperial-colonial frameworks. In effect, the project seeks to offer a critical account of the state of the question regarding the problematic at a most significant time in its trajectory, the turn from the 2010s to the 2020s, for these years constitute, in various respects, a landmark moment in this trajectory. In so doing, the project casts its eyes on both the past and the future as a way of calibrating the present, establishing thereby the conditions brought about by its wherefrom as well as the possibilities laid open for its whereto. Looking back, it revisits and appropriates the past, scrutinizing contexts and legacies; looking forward, it envisions and embraces the future, marking parameters and directions. As such, the project defines the present: retrieving the contexts and legacies of the past as foundations and junctures for today; turning the parameters and directions of the future into programs and strategies for today. A closer look at the dynamics and mechanics of such critical stock-taking is in order, and this I should like to unfold in threefold fashion. I begin by describing what I have characterized as the highly symbolic nature of this particular moment in its trajectory for the pursuit of the problematic—a time for remembrance and commemoration. I continue by situating the project within the field of biblical criticism as presently configured and practiced—an exercise in imperial-postcolonial criticism, a variation of ideological criticism.1 I conclude by showing how the project marks a return to and resumption of key critical impulses present at the beginning of imperial-postcolonial criticism—a quest for justice and morality. PURSUING THE PROBLEMATIC: A TIME FOR REMEMBRANCE AND COMMEMORATION The years revolving around 2020, as stated above, prove highly memorable in various respects. As such, the project undertakes its critical analysis of the state of the question regarding the colonialist-biblical problematic in a spirit of remembrance and commemoration. Three developments in particular are to be noted. First, there takes place the fiftieth anniversary of the religioustheological movement of Liberation, whose impact so marked the whole of the Global South—and, ultimately, the Global North as well. Second, with this anniversary there comes the academic-scholarly recognition of the vast amount of work produced on the problematic of colonialism and the

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Bible over the course of these years, unremittingly so throughout the Global South—but not without representation in the Global North as well. Third, there takes place the seventieth anniversary of the social-cultural process of decolonization, encompassing a variety of movements for liberation across the Global South and radically changing the state of affairs throughout—with radical repercussions as well for the Global North. All three developments are closely interwoven. Thus, the religious-theological movement of Liberation, with its foundational reflections on colonialism and the Bible, is profoundly inspired by and indebted to the social-cultural process of decolonization, underway by then for over two decades. Further, the religious-theological discourse of Christian Studies in the Global South, which began with Liberation and has expanded in so many directions since, intersects and interacts throughout with the social-cultural discourse of Third World Studies in the Global South, which commenced with anticolonialism and has proceeded since then along multiple paths as well. It is such anniversaries, such movements and processes, and such accomplishments that the project remembers and commemorates. This it does with a sense of celebration regarding the past and commitment regarding the future. In what follows I should like to expand on the character and significance of these key developments underlying and guiding the project: the fiftieth anniversary of Liberation; the fifty years of work on the relation between colonialism and the Bible; and the seventieth anniversary of decolonization in the Third World. The Liberation Movement To begin with, the project has in mind the fiftieth anniversary of the irruption of religious-theological reflection in and from the Global South, with the emergence of Liberation Theology in Latin America in the late 1960s and early 1970s and its swift expansion to other areas of the Global South. In retrospect, this can certainly be described as one of the most important developments in Christian affairs and Christian Studies of the twentieth century; indeed, in the eyes of the Global South, it is, unquestionably, the most significant such development. Its impact made itself felt in all areas of Christian life and across the spectrum of Christian thought. I use an extended reference of time with respect to this anniversary because, rather than speak in terms of a singular point of origins, I find it more appropriate to do so in terms of a set of circumstances that, taken as a whole, may be viewed as constituting its foundational phase. Various key events should be noted, stretching from 1967 through 1971, thus marking these years as the beginnings, a collective point of origins, of Liberation as a social-religious and cultural-theological movement.2

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The first two events are material, institutional, in character: they have to do with ecclesial gatherings and resolutions. Both followed shortly upon and were directly inspired by the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965), as the bishops of the Roman Catholic Church took up the mandate of the Council to address the modern world in both their respective contexts at home and the global context as a whole. The first event, dating from 1967, was “A Letter to the Peoples of the Third World,” drafted by a group of bishops from the Third World.3 This document was a harbinger of things to come. Without reference to Liberation as a movement, the letter addresses the question of poverty in the undeveloped world, presents it as the result of exploitation by the developed nations, the system of “monetary imperialism,” and calls for a world of human dignity and social justice, in the light of “the Bible and the gospel.”4 The second, taking place in 1968, was the Second General Meeting of the Episcopal Conference of Latin American Bishops (CELAM II) in Medellín, Colombia. Out of this gathering came the first formal articulation and appropriation of the preferential option for the poor as a fundamental principle for the church of Latin America, explicitly conveyed by its “Document on the Poverty of the Church.”5 Again without reference to Liberation as a movement, the document points to the “woeful poverty” and “inhuman misery” of Latin America, explains it as a consequence of the existing “economic and power structure,” unidentified, and calls for “human betterment” and “personal dignity” for the poor, in the light of the values of Jesus and the gospel.6 The other three events are discursive, intellectual, in nature: they involve academic-scholarly publications and proposals. In and through them the movement of Liberation begins to take form. The third event, occurring in 1969, was the appearance of A Theology of Human Hope by the Brazilian Presbyterian theologian Rubem Alves. This work was originally titled “Toward a Theology of Liberation” as a dissertation submitted to the faculty of Princeton Theological Seminary in New Jersey (1968).7 The fourth, occurring in 1970, was the publication of Teología de la liberación: una evaluación prospectiva by the Brazilian Catholic theologian Hugo Assmann.8 This brief publication set out to present Liberation within the context of theological movements in Europe. The final event, dating from 1971, was the appearance of Teología de la liberación: Perspectivas by the Peruvian Catholic theologian Gustavo Gutiérrez.9 This work, which would become the classic statement of the movement, had been anticipated in various publications and presentations prior to its publication.10 Other events could certainly be mentioned, not only within the span of this quinquennium but also before and after. Thus, for example, both the focus on poverty and the concept of liberation had been under discussion for some time already prior to 1967 among Latin American bishops and theologians.

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There exists, therefore, a broad material and discursive trajectory leading up to these events. Similarly, the concept of liberation and the focus on poverty are pursued in a torrent of publications and gatherings after 1971. There exists, consequently, an ample material and discursive trajectory following upon these events as well. As such, the selection of the period comprising 1967–1971 as a collective point of origins is by no means beyond discussion; other configurations are possible. Still, to my mind, the pivotal nature of these events and the creative ferment of the years in question, institutionally as well as intellectually, renders such a designation for this quinquenium as more than acceptable. Fifty Years of Theological-Critical Engagement In addition, the project also bears in mind the process of theological (political-liberationist) as well as critical (imperial-postcolonial) engagement with the relation between the colonialist project and the biblical tradition that has transpired in the course of these decades. Such critical reflection goes back to the beginnings of the Liberation movement and continues—in one way or another, to one degree or another—in all subsequent religious-theological production of the Global South. Worthy of note in this regard is the formation of a network of theologians devoted to the formulation of a Christian theology with poverty and oppression at its core, the Ecumenical Association of Third World Theologians (EATWOT). This organization held its first meeting in 1976 at Dar es Salaam, in Tanzania, and has remained active since.11 The Process of Decolonization Lastly, the project further bears in mind the seventieth anniversary of the process of decolonization that unfolded in the Global South in the decades following upon the conclusion of World War II. This too can be described, in retrospect, as certainly one of the most significant developments in global affairs and Global Studies of the twentieth century; indeed, from the point of view of the Global South, it is, undoubtedly, the most important such development. Here too, as in the case of the Liberation movement, an extended reference of time is appropriate with respect to a demarcation of its beginnings. Indeed, if anything, a point of origins proves even more elusive, given the number and timing and breadth of the struggles for liberation that broke out in Asia and the Pacific as well as in Africa and the Middle East in the 1940s, some going back to pre-war times. No event captures this process as much as the independence and partition of India in 1947, a development that would continue apace through the 1950s and beyond. Worthy of mention in this regard is the effort to bring together these new nations of the Global

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South into an independent, transnational movement, first at the Bandung Conference of 1955 in Indonesia and then at the La Habana Tricontinental Conference of 1966 in Cuba. A Time for Celebration This critical project is keenly aware, therefore, of the multiple contexts and trajectories within which it stands and works: the religious-theological foundations forged by the Liberation movement; the religious-theological production on the colonial-biblical problematic emanating from the Global South; and the social-cultural matrix provided by the anticolonial and postcolonial movements of the Global South. In all respects, there is cause for much, and extended, celebration. SITUATING THE PROJECT: AN EXERCISE IN IDEOLOGICAL CRITICISM For a better understanding of the project, it is helpful to situate it within the ambit of biblical criticism as presently conceptualized and practiced. This I shall do by relating it to three umbrella models of interpretation operative in the field today: the paradigm of ideological criticism; the paradigm of religious-theological criticism; and the paradigm of social-cultural criticism. For such disciplinary contextualization, in turn, a more detailed exposition of its dynamics and mechanics proves helpful as well. Let me summarize the discussion thus far: the project constitutes an exercise in critical stocktaking from the Global South in the tradition of liberationist and decolonizing discourses and movements. Its objective is to ascertain the state of the conjunction or, perhaps better, collusion between the project of colonialism and the role of the Bible, and thereby the fate of the impulses of liberation and decolonization at work since decades ago. The project may be further outlined in terms of presuppositions, parameters, and contributions. With regard to foundations, first of all, the project approaches the colonial project not as a historical and outmoded phenomenon, but rather as an enduring and impinging one. It views the dynamics and mechanics of geopolitical domination and subordination, therefore, not as having ceased with the end of territorial occupation by the imperial powers, but rather as having continued in any number of ways, materially and discursively. The colonial project is thus viewed as ongoing, in fact pervasive as well as encompassing, though transmogrified, along multiple variations of neocolonialism. Consequently, what applies to the project as a whole is taken to apply to the problematic in particular, that is, the use of the Bible in such circumstances.

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With regard to scope, secondly, the project addresses the state of affairs of the problematic in expansive fashion, taking into consideration the overall course of its trajectory—the past, the present, and the future. As such, contributors cast a glance in various directions at once. They look back, surfacing material and discursive paths—revisiting historical contexts and trajectories. They look around, ascertaining and weighing the extent and mode of the legacies left behind—offering critical analyses and evaluations. They look ahead, forging ways and tools for dealing with such ramifications—advancing constructive visions and proposals. With regard to execution, finally, the project approaches its global focus in limited fashion, given the immensity of the task envisioned,12 calling upon a representative number of faces and voices from the various spatial-geographical configurations of the Global South. In so doing, the project acknowledges and activates the multiplicity of trajectories of the problematic throughout the Global South. In so doing, moreover, the project also grants and appropriates the constructive nature of all, and any such, trajectories offered. In so doing, lastly, the project further acknowledges and affirms the multiplicity of the voices and faces that lie not only immersed within such trajectories but also behind their conceptualizations. This exercise in liberationist and decolonizing stock-taking may be summarized as follows. In terms of presuppositions, it takes the process of decolonization, like the project of colonialism, as unfinished and imperative. Thus, sustained attention to the colonialist-biblical problematic is regarded as essential. In terms of parameters, it understands the task of stock-taking as complex and overarching. Thus, it calls for utter clarity regarding the present, in the light of utter awareness regarding the past and with a sense of utter determination regarding the future. In terms of contributions, it approaches stock-taking as a task that demands diversity across the board—in coverage, in narratives, in representation. Thus, it brings together critical inclusion of all the regions in question, critical awareness regarding the dynamics and mechanics of all accounts advanced, and critical attention to the contextualperspectival dimensions of all individuals involved. With this expanded exposition of its dynamics and mechanics in mind, then, the task of situating the project within the critical spectrum of the field at present becomes easier. Its primary grounding lies, I would argue, in ideological criticism. At the same time, given the nature of the undertaking, the project is also related to religious-theological criticism as well as social-cultural criticism. Critical Context: Ideological Criticism This exercise in stock-taking may be classified, first and foremost, as an exercise in imperial-postcolonial criticism, a critical approach within the

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paradigm of ideological criticism. All variations within this umbrella model of interpretation foreground differential formations and relations of power in society and culture. The imperial-postcolonial approach does so by highlighting the axis of geopolitics along the lines of imperial-colonial frameworks. This it does in two ways. The imperial trajectory focuses on the material or social dimension of these frameworks. It stands in the line of Empire Studies, a field of studies that pursues the problematic of empire trans-historically and cross-culturally. It is by and large not in critical dialogue with such studies, although it does draw extensively on studies of the Roman Empire.13 The postcolonial trajectory focuses on the cultural or discursive dimension of such frameworks. It stands in the line of Postcolonial Studies, a field of studies that pursues the problematic of (post)coloniality in trans-cultural and transhistorical fashion as well. It draws extensively on such studies, with particular reference to studies of the British Empire.14 These two lines of inquiry are not mutually exclusive. Against this background, a more precise delineation of the project, its moorings and leanings, is in order. To begin with, the project is certainly concerned with the texts and contexts of the Bible in the ancient world. For the most part, however, the essays do not engage in detailed critical analysis of the texts and contexts as such, seeking to interpret them from the perspective of ideological criticism, whether along imperial or postcolonial lines. The project does not follow the path, therefore, of a work such as A Postcolonial Commentary of the New Testament Writings, where such close analysis of texts and contexts is foremost.15 In addition, the project is much concerned also with interpretations and interpreters of the biblical texts in the modern and postmodern worlds. Yet, by and large, the essays do not enter into sustained critical conversation with the tradition of imperial or postcolonial analysis of the texts, whether in part or as a whole. Its modus operandi is, consequently, not that of a work like The Colonized Apostle: Paul through Postcolonial Eyes, in which the tradition of imperial and postcolonial analysis within Pauline Studies is taken up and advanced.16 Further, the project is clearly concerned with matters of method and theory. Aside from certain, limited moves here and there, however, the essays do not envision or seek a different methodological or theoretical turn, a development or innovation, within the repertoire of imperial or postcolonial criticism. As a result, the volume does not follow the path signaled by a work such as Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: Interdisciplinary Intersections, where precisely such questions of method and theory are contemplated and encouraged.17 Lastly, the project does draw on biblical critics as contributors. Yet, the majority of contributors come not from inside but rather from outside the field of Biblical Studies. Most do so from other fields of Christian Studies and work out of a Christian framework, while one hails from cultural studies and comes

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from a Jewish background. All pursue analysis of the problematic in broad religious-theological and social-cultural terms. Even the minority contingent of biblical critics take up such analysis along the same broad lines, religioustheological as well as social-cultural. Consequently, all contributors, including those having academic-scholarly training in the field and membership in its professional guild, may be described as critics broadly writ. As such, the project is closely related to two other umbrella models of interpretation at work in contemporary biblical criticism: the religioustheological paradigm and the social-cultural paradigm. Here a point about the field of biblical criticism today is in order. At present, criticism encompasses within its object of attention both the realm of production, the construction of the text (composition; relationality; contextuality), and the realm of consumption, the reception of the text (interpretation; discussion; consequences). This is true of all umbrella models of interpretation as well as of all critical approaches within such paradigms. It is true, therefore, of ideological criticism in general and imperial-postcolonial criticism in particular. In this project it is the realm of reception that predominates by far, establishing thereby connections with two other paradigms of interpretation. A word about these is in order. Critical Context: Religious-Theological Criticism This umbrella model of interpretation may be viewed as having a variety of foci, ranging from the pointed to the expansive: analyzing the religioustheological orientations, explicit or implicit, underlying the exercise of biblical criticism, whether as a system or by way of individual critics; examining the appeal to and deployment of the biblical texts in areas of Christian Studies other than Biblical Studies within the curriculum of theological studies; scrutinizing the status and role accorded to the biblical texts in Christian Studies or Jewish Studies within Religious Studies and thus within the curriculum of the humanities curriculum—whether by themselves or in comparative fashion alongside other scriptural texts. The project falls within the second line of inquiry, with the exception of Yael Munk, but with links to the other two. First, most contributors are profoundly familiar with and interested, indeed vested, in the texts and contexts of the Bible. Second, they possess ample acquaintance with the interpretive traditions of these texts and contexts, especially those relevant to their particular sites of reflection. Third, they are deeply conversant with and committed to such sites of reflection within their respective imperial-colonial frameworks. In their work as critics writ broadly, therefore, they attend to the use of the Bible, its invocation and application, within their respective imperial-colonial frameworks in the Global South.

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With respect to range of attention, such use they pursue in various combinations of historical trajectory and contemporary application—sometimes emphasizing the one angle, sometimes the other, and sometimes both. With regard to mode of attention, such use they carry out in terms of the Bible in general or in part—working with a sense of the text as a whole or focusing on specific units and traditions, themes and motifs, within it. Consequently, in the end they deal with the Bible as a religious-theological tool wielded, in multiple ways and with multiple ends, within the project of colonialism as a social-cultural undertaking of global dimensions. Critical Context: Social-Cultural Criticism This umbrella model of interpretation may be described as attending to the invocation and application of the Bible in the social and cultural realms at large, beyond the realm of Christian Studies, whether construed as an area of studies in the theological curriculum or in the humanities curriculum. As such, it encompasses a broad number of foci: on the social or material side, for example, economics or politics; on the cultural or discursive side, for example, the literary arts or the visual arts. The project touches on both realms of interest. Yael Munk does so by way of primary concentration, with his focus on reception in films within the context of Israeli history and politics. The others address and integrate social and cultural contexts more along the lines of secondary concentration—quite important, to be sure, but not primary. In effect, contributors, from both inside and outside the field of studies, undertake a close look at the reception of the Bible in imperialcolonial frameworks throughout the Global South and the junction between colonialism and Bible in such frameworks. A Step Forward Given its ideological angle, the project reveals a decidedly sharp edge and import, with a focus on the situation of the subordinate, the colonized, from the point of view of morality and justice. In looking back, around, and forward as they do, therefore, these critics provide an excellent reading of the state of affairs regarding the colonial-biblical problematic, and hence a solid point of departure for moving forward the tradition of liberation and decolonization. Seventy years after the commencement of this process, fifty years after the emergence of religious-theological reflection from the Global South by way of Liberation, and five decades of work along these lines, the volume seeks to offer, in the light and spirit of such traditions, a step forward. In so doing, I would argue, the volume touches base with the foundations of the imperial-postcolonial approach in criticism.

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RESUMING FOUNDATIONAL IMPULSES: A QUEST FOR JUSTICE AND MORALITY For a better understanding of how the project resumes the foundations of the imperial-postcolonial approach as it seeks to advance the tradition of liberation and decolonization, it is helpful to recall the path of such beginnings and the critical impulses that animated it. In an earlier mapping of imperialpostcolonial criticism, I argued that its origins lie in the period comprising the years 1996–1999, with a preliminary step toward such critical interaction taking place a couple of years earlier, in 1994.18 This was followed, I added, by a period of expansion and consolidation encompassing the years 2000–2007. Both stages I outlined in broad strokes. Now, a decade later, and following what could be described as a period of entrenchment and maturation, a thorough and pointed account of this launching phase has, to the best of my knowledge, yet to be written and remains very much in order, given the passage of time and the development of this approach since then, with its ever-expanding diversity, complexity, and conflictedness. To my mind, a revisiting and reviewing of origins—or, indeed, of any period of development in a critical discourse—always constitutes a salutary and revealing exercise. It is not my intention, however, to do so here; such a task lies beyond the parameters of this study and must await a different occasion. My objective, rather, is to look more closely at a trio of works from this initial phase, which together constitute the very first steps in the conceptualization and formulation of this critical approach. They prove essential for my purposes here, insofar as they assert and embody a set of critical impulses that the present project affirms and replicates as driving impulses of its own. This review I shall undertake in three steps. I begin with a summary account of these foundational years. I then go on to set forth the critical impulses at work by way of the three publications in question. I conclude by attending to a number of important points raised by Tat-siong Benny Liew in his introductory reflections on pursuing the colonialist-biblical problematic at this point in its trajectory, for such observations touch directly on the question of critical impulses at work in any such undertaking. Addressing the Problematic: Launching Phase Taken as a set, I have characterized the four years extending from 1996 to 1999 as the period of formation and definition for imperial/postcolonial biblical criticism. This initial phase involved a number of groundbreaking initiatives—in biblical criticism as such, in the areas of research and publication, and in the circles and venues of the profession. The pace was one of swift

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crescendo. Indeed, by the beginning of the twenty-first century, this critical approach had already become well-represented in both the academy and the profession. Prior to this initial phase, I have also identified a particular publication from outside the field that serves, in hindsight, as a critical harbinger for such developments to follow within the field. I have in mind the collection of essays edited by Susan VanZanten Gallagher in 1994, Postcolonial Literature and the Biblical Call for Justice.19 This project had its base in Literary Studies and brought together, spearheaded by VanZanten Gallagher, a number of literary critics with a common threefold agenda: interest in the emerging literatures of the postcolonial world and their widely shared call for justice; interest in the parallels between such calls and the call for justice to be found in the Bible, which involved interpretations of biblical texts in such works; and commitment as critics to the furtherance of justice in their own poststructural world. In this volume one finds no reference to the field of biblical criticism and no interpretation of biblical texts as such. Its focus is on the appeal to the Bible on the part of postcolonial authors in the formulation of their calls for justice in the postcolonial world—a call for justice which these critics sought to further by bringing out this unremarked dimension of postcolonial literatures. Two years later, then, in 1996, one finds the first attempt to bring Postcolonial Studies and Biblical Studies together. The driving force for this project also came from outside the field of biblical criticism, a signifier of the novelty of this critical lens and approach, although it did include a good number of biblical critics. This was a collection of essays edited by Laura Donaldson, a literary and cultural critic, which was published as an issue of Semeia, the experimental journal published by the Society of Biblical Literature, and was titled Postcolonialism and Scriptural Reading.20 Its aim was to shed light on the multiple and complex legacies of colonialism: in the biblical texts and contexts; in biblical criticism, both in the history of interpretation and in its ways of reading; and in the practices of Christianity. As such, the volume contains interpretations of biblical texts, critiques of biblical criticism, and analyses of literary texts as well as cultural frameworks of recent vintage. Its focus is on the voices behind the project and legacies of colonialism—the recovery of those silenced by the dominant. Subsequently, from 1997 to 1999, a process of institutionalization takes place through the appearance of major publications and the launching of publication projects. In 1997 Sheffield Academic Press announces the start of a new series, “The Bible and Postcolonialism,” the first volume of which, edited by R. S. Sugirtharajah, appeared in 1998, The Postcolonial Bible. Bringing this foundational period to a climax, one finds the launching of a new program unit in 1999 within the Society of Biblical Literature under the name of “New Testament Studies and Postcolonial Studies,” with a first

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session scheduled for that year’s Annual Meeting, “Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: Delineation and Configurations.” While both VanZanten Gallagher and Donaldson brought, in their projects and introductions, the colonialist-biblical problematic to the surface, a work that appeared at the beginning of this period of formation and definition, did so in extensive and pointed fashion. This was The Bible and Colonialism: A Moral Critique, published in 1997 and authored by Michael Prior, a biblical critic by training with express interest in the theology and hermeneutics of Liberation. Prior foregrounded the theme of land possession and conquest in both the texts of the Bible and the use of such texts in the history of colonialism, for which he used colonial projects in Latin America, South Africa, and Palestine as examples. His objective was to raise the question of ethics with regard to such texts and such interpretations, the claims that were advanced and the consequences that unfolded. Approaching the Problematic: Driving Critical Impulses It is evident, therefore, as the works of VanZanten Gallagher, Donaldson, and Prior show, that the colonialist-biblical problematic played a leading role at the inception of imperial-postcolonial criticism. It is evident as well that such a role included the question of evaluation on the part of criticism, both with regard to the texts and contexts of the Bible and with respect to the interpretations of such texts and contexts in imperial-colonial frameworks. With foregrounding of the problematic, in other words, came ideological critique. It is worth recalling the spectrum of positions that emerged out of such critique as a way of situating the present project in context and perspective. Toward this end, the contributions by VanZanten Gallager and Donaldson readily provide two poles for such a spectrum. Toward one end, VanZanten Gallagher advances a more positive view of the problematic.21 The nefarious consequences of colonialism for the peoples and countries in question are affirmed, and the involvement of Christianity in this enterprise is similarly acknowledged, especially through the dynamics and mechanics of the missionary system. At the same time, such a process and such a collusion are portrayed as having had unintended beneficial consequences as well, which ultimately functioned as a basis and means for resistance among the colonized. One such component was the introduction of the biblical text, which would be used as both a weapon in the imposition of colonialism and a tool in the struggle against it. VanZanten Gallagher moves rapidly past its use in domination to bring out its use against oppression. She points to the sustained call for justice conveyed, from Exodus through Isaiah to Jesus, and the sustained vision of justice offered, from Daniel to Revelation, by the texts. This biblical call for justice, she argues, has been

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recovered in various ways within Christianity itself, most importantly by way of Liberation. It is this call for justice, she further argues, that has been appropriated in diverse and complex ways by postcolonial authors, in light of their own “commitment to the ideal of justice that crosses cultural barriers and is shared by numerous people in very different historical circumstances.”22 It is imperative to bring out, she concludes, such intertextual appellations and commitment in the study of postcolonial literatures. Toward the other end, Donaldson presents a more negative view of the problematic.23 This she does with VanZanten, among others, in mind. To begin with, the disastrous ramifications of colonialism on peoples and nations are acknowledged, with special emphasis on indigenous groups, as is the participation of Christianity in this endeavor. One cannot, however, speak of unintended positive effects in this regard, she argues in direct opposition to VanZanten Gallagher, but rather of sometime, wily acts of resistance on the part of the indigenous. In addition, in direct contrast to VanZanten Gallagher, there is no mention of the biblical texts as providing a possible basis for resistance. To the contrary, the dynamics and mechanics of colonialism are affirmed as present there as well, along with its injurious consequences. Lastly, unlike VanZanten Gallagher, the participation of biblical criticism in colonialism is posited as well. Following Said, she asserts, biblical scholarship was thoroughly involved in the project of orientalism, the discursive representation of the East by the West in terms of a Self-Other binomial for the benefit of the West, through its period of formation in the nineteenth century.24 This state of affairs demands an integration of postcolonial criticism at all levels of criticism. Only such criticism can expose and counter the workings of colonialism in the practices of Christianity, in the biblical texts, and in the field of studies. This it is able to do because of its oppositional type of reading, which must be conducted not simply in terms of an imperial-colonial binomial but rather in terms of multiple axes of interpretation, and hence including the various dimensions of human identity and existence within imperialcolonial frameworks. Such reading can retrieve the faces and voices of those suppressed or marginalized by dominant discourses and practices as a tool in resisting colonialism. Such reading is characterized as “reading like the Canaanites,” invoking the representation of the classic underside of the exodus model of liberation as signifier and signaling liberation for all as driving goal.25 Given this spectrum, Prior’s work occupies a middle position. The devastating consequences of colonialism on peoples and territories, which are portrayed as wide-ranging and far-reaching not only in the past but also through his own times, as well as the complicity of Christianity in such endeavors stand as a given.26 In this collusion the centrality of the Bible is

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foregrounded, given its use as the ideological justification, what he calls the “redeeming idea,” for the colonial projects. This the Bible provides—via the land traditions of the Pentateuch and Joshua—by way of a program of “ethnic cleansing” directed at conquest and possession mandated by God.27 These traditions have, in turn, been readily absorbed and deployed by the colonial ideologies and projects of the West, thereby “‘legitimising’ the destruction or displacement of indigenous peoples.”28 Furthermore, these traditions have also been passively handled in the critical tradition of the West: considered above questioning in light of their biblical provenance; given an orientalist turn with regard to the victims in question; or approached as unrelated to ethical concerns or human-rights issues. What is needed, therefore, is a different approach altogether. This approach, which he also describes in terms of reading like the Canaanites, calls for a reading that has a moral critique of texts and interpretations always and foremost in mind and that thus demands attention to and engagement with the social issues of the day. This type of reading approaches the texts not as records but as constructions of the past for the sake of the present, the time of writing. It calls for putting aside straightforward interpretation and adopting instead ideological analysis in criticism. It demands, therefore, not contextual abstraction but vigorous engagement by way of moral critique, subjecting texts and interpretations throughout to critical scrutiny in the light of human rights, with the lens of the victims foremost in mind. Such an approach represents the best strategy for tearing aside the collusion of colonialism and the Bible and, with it, the invocation of the Bible as the “redeeming idea” of colonialism. Prior’s work thus stands closer to that of Donelson than to that of VanZanten Gallagher. It is so in terms of moorings: his work has nothing to do with postcolonial literatures and authors, but is grounded instead in biblical criticism, both in terms of production and reception. At the same time, in relation to Donaldson, his engagement with the critical tradition is more extensive, while his appeal to postcolonial studies is minimal. It is also so in terms of evaluation: his work does not harp on the centrality of the biblical call for justice, but brings out instead the deleterious dimension of the texts with regard to colonialism. In relation to Donaldson, however, his emphasis is more restricted, insofar as he has a specific biblical tradition in mind, that of land conquest and possession in the books of Deuteronomy, Exodus, and Joshua. It is so as well in terms of approach: his work does not bypass the negative dimensions of the texts, but calls instead for critique of all texts and interpretations alike. At the same time, in relation to Donaldson, his focus is more limited, given his emphasis on the victims of ethnic cleansing in general, without attention to the multiaxial components of such victims.

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Advancing the Problematic: Critical Observations In his methodological-theoretical introduction to this project, Tat-siong Benny Liew revisits this early phase of imperial-postcolonial criticism by way of Michael Prior and his work on the colonialist-biblical problematic in order to offer critical comments toward an appropriate mode of pursuit, of engagement and advancement, at this point in time. For this purpose various fundamental components of Prior’s work are highlighted. The first is the call for moral critique of the texts involving land possession in the Hebrew Bible and the use of such texts in the colonial ventures of the West. The second is the need to address this juxtapositions of texts and ventures not by bypassing the texts and weighing the interpretations but rather by foregrounding the texts themselves alongside their interpretations. The third is the call for broad expansion in the pursuit of such moral critique, bringing in not only other examples of appropriation by the West but also other scholars in the development of this critical enterprise. Liew’s comments come from what could be called a mixture of postmodernist and poststructuralist perspectives, stressing the presence of diversity, the complexity of interpretation, and the need for collaboration. The observation on the first component constitutes a pointed qualification, and thus a caveat. On the question of moral critique, he argues, it is important to avoid any use of essentialism or binomialism, especially with respect to the question of stance regarding complicity with or resistance to colonialism on the part of the Bible. On the one hand, one should not override the many traditions and positions regarding imperial designs in general and land possession in particular in the writings of the Hebrew Bible. On the other hand, one should not bring the New Testament to bear on the Hebrew Bible as a way out of the problem, setting aside thereby the many traditions and positions regarding imperial designs and land possession in these writings as well. The existence of diversity must not be bypassed. The observation on the second component also represents a pointed qualification, and hence a further caveat. On the matter of addressing the texts themselves, Liew argues, it is important to emphasize a point driven home by poststructuralist literary theory to the effect that there is no text without an interpreter, that the text is read in different ways by different interpreters, and that interpretation cannot be set aside in looking at the texts as such. As such, the binomial of text and interpretation has been ruptured and instead the politics of interpretation has come to the fore as inescapable. This Liew demonstrates through his own analysis of the postcolonial character ascribed to Luke-Acts, 1 Peter, and Revelation in the New Testament, showing how different interpreters assign the same writing to different positions within the complicity-resistance spectrum. The complex character of interpretation must never be avoided.

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The observation on the third component constitutes a ringing approval, and thus an endorsement for the future. On the question of a broad-based inquiry, Liew argues, it is important to adopt as expansive a comparative framework as possible. A characterization of the Bible as complicit with or resistant to colonialism is not a matter of either/or, but rather one that requires attention to the multiplicity of traditions in the Bible itself as well as the politics of reading in interpretation. To pursue the problematic appropriately, the inquiry needs to be conducted in as broad a scope as possible, and this, he points out, is precisely what the project sets forth to do by involving a variety of scholars from a variety of global contexts. The outcome should be the establishment of a comparative framework into which readers and interpreters can delve and with which they can interact in order to, as Liew puts it, “reaffirm our need to think and work others to make ethically or morally responsible choices.” Here, then, one clearly detects the critical impulses for justice and morality espoused from the beginning in imperial-postcolonial criticism and in the pursuit of the colonialist-biblical problematic—now expressed on a different, postmodernist and poststructuralist key. This is a key where, again, the diversity of stances, the complexity of interpretation, and the need for collaboration prevail—beyond essentialism and binomialism, beyond textualism, and beyond individualism. A Step toward Critique The return to and resumption of the critical impulses animating the launching of imperial-postcolonial criticism on the part of the present project stand beyond question. What VanZanten Gallager, Donaldson, and Prior emphasized from early on, each in their own way, the contributors to the present project appropriate and continue, each in their own way as well. The significance of the biblical call for justice for postcolonial literatures and circumstances; the retrieval of marginalized voices behind biblical texts and interpretations alike; the importance of moral critique regarding the colonizing traditions of biblical texts and their embrace as ideological justification for colonizing undertakings on the part of the West—all these variations on the integration of ethics and justice in criticism are sustained in the present project, with its focus on the state of the colonialist-biblical problematic in the Global South, among the descendants of the colonized, today. This focus the contributors develop in manifold ways, constructing, in the process, the sort of comparative scenario envisioned by Liew for all further analysis and discussion of the problematic. I could not agree more: the élan of ideological critique, the insistence on raising the issue of what is just and what is moral in criticism, is and must be a sine qua non in any such endeavor addressing the problematic—indeed, in any critical undertaking, period.

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A CONCLUDING COMMENT The earliest contributions in imperial-postcolonial criticism provide a solid point of departure for the pursual of the present project. From the very beginning, the colonialist-biblical problematic emerged as pivotal in this critical approach. The relationship between the colonial project and the role of the Bible was seen as beyond question. From the very beginning as well, the problematic elicited a variety of approaches and evaluations. On the colonialist side, there was agreement on the power and reach of its ramifications. On the biblical side, a variety of positions emerged regarding the tenor of the Bible as such as well as the proper approach to the Bible. With respect to character, the range extended from the largely positive to the largely negative, with a combination of both in the middle. With respect to the latter, the range extended from parallel usage and integration by way of postcolonial literatures to subjection to ideological critique in nuanced and interlaced fashion, with the exercise of moral critique in the middle in terms of the victims of ethnic cleansing. At the heart of such endeavors was ideological critique, with justice and morality in mind. This project revisits the colonialist-biblical problematic a couple of decades after these initial interventions as an exercise in stock-taking. It is an attempt to establish what has been accomplished and what remains to be secured. This it sets out to do from the point of view of the descendants of the colonized from throughout the Global South. At its core lies ideological critique as well, with justice and morality similarly in view. In so doing, the project recalls and celebrates the tradition within which it stands: all the work done since the problematic was first raised in the theological and hermeneutical movement of Liberation, now observing its fiftieth anniversary, in the light of the decolonization process of the Global South, presently marking its seventieth anniversary. Such stock-taking, therefore, may be seen as a further, and necessary, exercise, a step forward, in liberation and decolonization— and a solid point of departure for future analyses and discussions. NOTES 1. The designation imperial-postcolonial criticism is meant to capture two variations of such criticism, both arising at about the same time. For this distinction, see below. 2. On this early history of the movement, I have always found the work of David Tombs most valuable: Latin American Liberation Theology (Boston-Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers, 2002). 3. Third World Bishops, “A Letter to the Peoples of the Third World” (August 15, 1967). See The Peruvian Bishops’ Commission for Social Action, Between

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Honesty and Hope: Documents from and about the Church in Latin America, trans. John Drury (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1970), 3–12. The group consisted of eighteen bishops in all, with representation from Asia and the Pacific, Latin America, the Arab world (North Africa and the Near East), and Eastern Europe (Yugoslavia). The Brazilian contribution was most prominent, comprising nine bishops in all, including Dom Hélder Câmara, Archbishop of Olinda and Recife, whose name heads the list of signatories. 4. Third World Bishops, “A Letter to the Peoples of the Third World,” paragraphs 5 and 17. Paragraph 5 identifies “monetary imperialism” as the reigning economic system: “The current social doctrine of the church, reaffirmed by Vatican II, has already rescued it from the clutches of monetary imperialism—one of the forces to which it seemed bound for some time in the past.” Paragraph 17 identifies “the Bible and the gospel” as the source for the message of the letter: “Let no one bother to look for political motives as the reason for these words. Our only source is the word of him who spoke to the prophets and the apostles.” 5. See Second General Conference of Latin American Bishops, The Church in the Present-Day Transformation of Latin America in the Light of the Council: II Conclusions (2nd ed.; Washington, DC: Division for Latin America—United States Catholic Conference, 1973). 6. The Peruvian Bishops’ Commission for Social Action, Between Honesty and Hope, 211–216, paragraphs 1, 7, and 11. Paragraph 1 portrays the situation of the poor: “The Latin American episcopate cannot remain indifferent to the tremendous social injustices that exist in Latin America. These injustices keep the majority of our peoples in woeful poverty, which in most cases goes as far as to be inhuman misery.” Paragraph 7 declares that the spirit of poverty “will inspire Christians to organize the whole economy and power structure around the welfare of the community,” an effort that will require, as outlined in paragraph 8, both a “denunciation of injustice and oppression” and “a process of dialogue with the groups responsible for this situation that will help them appreciate their obligations.” Paragraph 11 names the driving aim: “Human betterment must be the thrust of our activity in favor of the poor,” a goal that includes respect for their “personal dignity” as well as, in the terms of paragraph 7, “justice, solidarity, witness, commitment, and extra effort to carry out fully the salvific mission entrusted to her by Christ.” 7. R. Alves, A Theology of Human Hope (Washington: Corpus Books, 1969). Alves followed this up with a paper in which the term “liberation” did appear. See Rubem Alves, “Theology and the Liberation of Man,” in In Search of a Theology of Development. Papers from a Consultation on Theology and Development held by Sodepax in Cartigny, Switzerland, November, 1969 (Geneva: Committee on Society, Development and Peace, 1970), 75–93. 8. H. Assmann, Teología de la liberación: una evaluación prospectiva (Montevideo: MIEC-JECI, 1970). It was subsequently published, in revised fashion, as part of a collection of essays in Opresión-Liberación: Desafío a los cristianos (Montevideo: Tierra Nueva, 1971). 9. Gustavo Gutiérrez, Teología de la liberación: Perspectivas (Lima: CEP, 1971). The English translation was published in 1973: The Theology of Liberation (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1973).

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10. Two pieces in particular should be noted. First, a presentation given at a meeting of priests and laity in Chimbote, Perú, in 1968. This was titled “Hacia una teología de la liberación,” published as such (Montevideo: MIEC Documentation Service, 1969), and much later published in translation as “Toward a Theology of Liberation,” in Liberation Theology: A Documentary History, ed. Alfred T. Hennelly [Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1990], 62–76. Second, a presentation given at the SODEPAX Conference of 1969. This was published as “Notes on a Theology of Liberation,” in In Search of a Theology of Development. Papers from a Consultation on Theology and Development held by Sodepax in Cartigny, Switzerland, November, 1969 (Geneva: Committee on Society, Development and Peace, 1970), 116–179. It was also published as “Notes for a Theology of Liberation,” Theological Studies 31 (1970): 243–261. 11. See M. P. Joseph, Theologies of the Non-Person: The Formative Years of ­EATWOT, Christianities of the World (London: Palgrave McMillan, 2015). 12. Needless to say, such a modus operandi is perforce limited and limiting. While each configuration may be seen as distinctive in development and constitution, each also proves enormously complex and conflicted. The same observation would apply to the constitutive nations and peoples within each area. Similarly, while the reflections selected may be taken as representative of the whole, they constitute in the end but a fraction of the resources that could be marshaled. The factor of number is clearly at play. Further, while the number of reflections may be readily multiplied, they would represent, in the end, constructions of individual observers, each duly contextualized and perspectival. The factors of ideology and location would always be present. In brief, an inexorably limited and limiting endeavor. Thus, for a stock-taking project of this nature, no modus operandi proves fully satisfactory in the end. 13. On Empire Studies, see, for example : Michael Doyle, Empires (Cornell Studies in Comparative History; Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986) and Herfried Münkler, Empires: The Logic of World Domination from Ancient Rome to the United States, trans. Patrick Camiller (Cambridge [UK]-Malden [MA]: Polity Press, 2007). For a succinct presentation, see Stephen Howe, Empire (A Very Short Introduction; Oxford-New York, 2002). 14. On Postcolonial Studies, see, for example, Peter Childs and Patrick Williams, An Introduction to Post-Colonial Theology (London: Prentice-Hall, 1997) and Ania Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism (2nd ed.; The New Critical Idiom; LondonNew York: Routledge, 2005). For a succinct presentation, see Robert J. C. Young, Postcolonialism (A Very Short Introduction; Oxford-New York, 2003). 15. Fernando F. Segovia and R. S. Sugirtharajah, eds., A Postcolonial Commentary on the New Testament Writings. The Bible and Postcolonialism (London-New York: T & T Clark, 2007). 16. Christopher D. Stanley, ed., The Colonized Apostle: Paul through Postcolonial Eyes (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2011). 17. Stephen D. Moore and Fernando F. Segovia, eds., Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: Interdisciplinary Intersections, (The Postcolonial Bible; London-New York: T&T Clark, 2005).

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18. F. F. Segovia, “Postcolonial Criticism and the Gospel of Matthew,” in Methods for Matthew, ed. Mark Allan Powell (Methods in Biblical Interpretation; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 194–237. 19. Susan VanZanten Gallagher, ed., Postcolonial Literature and the Biblical Call for Justice (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1994). 20. Laura Donaldson, ed., Postcolonialism and Scriptural Reading (Semeia 75; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996). 21. Susan VanZanten Gallagher, “Introduction: New Conversations on Postcolonial Literatures,” in Postcolonial Literature and the Biblical Call for Justice, ed. Susan VanZanten Gallagher (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1994), 3–33. 22. VanZanten Gallagher, “Introduction,” 32. 23. Laura Donaldson, “Postcolonialism and Biblical Reading: An Introduction,” in Postcolonialism and Scriptural Reading, ed. Laura Donaldson (Semeia 75; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996), 1–14. 24. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage, 1978) and “Orientalism Reconsidered,” in Literature, Politics, and Theory: Papers from the Essex Conference 1976–84, ed. Frances Barker et al. (London-New York: Methuen, 1986), 210–29. 25. Donaldson, “Postcolonialism and Biblical Reading,” 10–12. Such reading, she declares, “might help to prepare the way for a new sort of liberation whose promised land fulfills its commitments to all of its inhabitants” (12). 26. For a pointed summary of the thesis, see Michael C. M. Prior, “The Bible and the Redeeming Idea of Colonialism,” Special Issue on Postcolonialism and Religion, Studies in World Christianity 5.2 (1999): 129–155. 27. Prior speaks of ethnic cleansing as “only one element of the stereotypical and rich vocabulary available to those bent on ridding one’s own land, or of the victims, of what one deems undesirable (unclean, profane, or simply different)”; all elements in this vocabulary are seen as leading to the same result, “the land is cleansed of defilement: it is rein (clean).” M. Prior, “The Bible and the Redeeming Idea of Colonialism,” 129. 28. Prior, “The Bible and the Redeeming Idea of Colonialism,” 130.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Alves, R. A Theology of Human Hope. Washington: Corpus Books, 1969. ———. “Theology and the Liberation of Man.” In In Search of a Theology of Development. Papers from a Consultation on Theology and Development held by Sodepax in Cartigny, Switzerland, 75–93. November, 1969. Geneva: Committee on Society, Development and Peace, 1970. Assmann, H. Teología de la liberación: una evaluación prospectiva. Montevideo: MIEC-JECI, 1970. Childs, Peter, and Patrick Williams. An Introduction to Post-Colonial Theology. London: Prentice-Hall, 1997.

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Donaldson, Laura. “Postcolonialism and Biblical Reading: An Introduction.” In Postcolonialism and Scriptural Reading, edited by Laura Donaldson, 1–14. Semeia 75 Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996. ———, ed. Postcolonialism and Scriptural Reading. Semeia 75. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996. Doyle, Michael. Empires. Cornell Studies in Comparative History. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986. Gutiérrez, Gustavo. Hacia una teología de la liberación. Montevideo: MIEC Documentation Service, 1969. English translation: “Toward a Theology of Liberation.” In Liberation Theology: A Documentary History, edited by Alfred T. Hennelly, 62–76. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1990. ———. “Notes on a Theology of Liberation.” In In Search of a Theology of Development. Papers from a Consultation on Theology and Development held by Sodepax in Cartigny, Switzerland, November, 1969, 116–179. Geneva: Committee on Society, Development and Peace, 1970. See also: “Notes for a Theology of Liberation.” Theological Studies 31 (1970): 243–261. ———. Teología de la liberación: una evaluación prospectiva. Revised versión in Opresión-Liberación: Desafío a los cristianos. Montevideo: Tierra Nueva, 1971. ———. Teología de la liberación: Perspectivas. Lima: CEP, 1971. English translation: The Theology of Liberation. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1973. Howe, Stephen. Empire. A Very Short Introduction. Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 2002. Joseph, M. P. Theologies of the Non-Person: The Formative Years of EATWOT. Christianities of the World. London: Palgrave McMillan, 2015. Loomba, Ania. Colonialism/Postcolonialism. 2nd ed. The New Critical Idiom. London-New York: Routledge, 2005. Moore, Stephen D., and Fernando F. Segovia, eds. Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: Interdisciplinary Intersections. The Postcolonial Bible. London-New York: T&T Clark, 2005. Münker, Herfried. Empires: The Logic of World Domination from Ancient Rome to the United States. Translated by Patrick Camiller. Cambridge [UK]-Malden [MA]: Polity Press, 2007. Prior, Michael, C.M. “The Bible and the Redeeming Idea of Colonialism.” Special Issue on Postcolonialism and Religion. Studies in World Christianity 5.2 (1999): 129–155. Said, Edward. Orientalism. New York: Vintage, 1978. ———. “Orientalism Reconsidered.” In Literature, Politics, and Theory: Papers from the Essex Conference 1976–84, edited by Frances Barker et al., 210–229. London-New York: Methuen, 1986. Second General Conference of Latin American Bishops. The Church in the PresentDay Transformation of Latin America in the Light of the Council: II Conclusions. 2nd ed. Washington, DC: Division for Latin America—United States Catholic Conference, 1973.

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Segovia, Fernando, F., and R. S. Sugirtharajah, eds. A Postcolonial Commentary on the New Testament Writings. The Bible and Postcolonialism. London-New York: T & T Clark, 2007. ———. “Postcolonial Criticism and the Gospel of Matthew.” In Methods for Matthew, edited by Mark Allan Powell, 194–237. Methods in Biblical Interpretation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Stanley, Christopher, ed. The Colonized Apostle: Paul through Postcolonial Eyes. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2011. Third World Bishops. “A Letter to the Peoples of the Third World” (August 15, 1967). In The Peruvian Bishops’ Commission for Social Action, Between Honesty and Hope: Documents from and about the Church in Latin America, 3–12. Translated by John Drury. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1970. Tombs, David. Latin American Liberation Theology. Boston-Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers, 2002. VanZanten Gallagher, Susan. “Introduction: New Conversations on Postcolonial Literatures,” in Postcolonial Literature and the Biblical Call for Justice, edited by Susan VanZanten Gallagher, 3–33. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1994. ———, ed. Postcolonial Literature and the Biblical Call for Justice. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1994. Young, Robert J. C. Postcolonialism. A Very Short Introduction. Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 2003.

Introduction Bible and Colonialism: What Does the New Testament Really Say?1 Tat-siong Benny Liew

One of the earliest, though often forgotten, interdisciplinary works on Bible and colonialism is The Bible and Colonialism: A Moral Critique by the late Michael Prior.2 Prior’s book is in many ways quite unique for a book about the Bible, given how it gives in wonderful and helpful details the colonial history of three very different regions of the world since the onset of modernity: the Americas, South Africa, and Palestine. Prior is also careful to point out that the cause and facilitation of colonialism, which Prior characterizes as the experience of people being “turned into strangers in their own land” by quoting José Oscar Beozzo,3 could not and should not be reduced to any single factor; however, Prior is at the same time insistent that the Bible did and continues to play a role in the colonial history and reality of these regions.4 Looking at the colonial history of these three regions comparatively, Prior concludes that colonialism often involves the fabrication of several myths, including “myths of origins” and other myths that cast a targeted area as a “virgin land” but present the colonial selves not only as racially superior but also with a civilizing mission or a religious mandate to penetrate and possess the “empty” land.5 Despite his choice to address first the colonization of Latin America and South Africa because they took place earlier (starting in the fifteenth and seventeenth century, respectively), Prior’s main critique is really Zionism of the twentieth century. In addition to giving Zionism its own set of “colonial myths,”6 Prior emphasizes how the Zionist claim and occupation of Palestine was partly confused and justified by the narratives in the Hebrew Hexateuch that God has chosen and promised to give them a land. For Prior, it is important that scholars of religion and people of faith acknowledge and confront the problematic nature of those biblical texts about the “chosen people” and the “promised land.” These texts, according to Prior, must not be taken xxxiii

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literally as factual; they are, in Prior’s words, “stories” rather than “histories.”7 Like myths and as myths, these stories are powerful and influential, especially when they are read as canonical Scriptures.8 In Prior’s “moralliterary analysis,”9 these exclusionary, nationalist, and xenophobic narratives from the Hexateuch give the violent and immoral mandate to annihilate the existing population in Canaan. In fact, they portray an imperialistic God. Unfortunately, Prior’s “moral critique” ends up promoting a kind of supersessionist reading of the Bible that reeks of Christian imperialism by focusing its first chapter on the “biblical traditions on land”—that is, the problematic promise and occupation of land in the Hebrew Hexateuch—but his penultimate chapter on the New Testament as the key remedy to “rehabilitat[e] the Bible,” despite his scattered admission that the Bible contains diverse, competing, and contradictory strands and traditions here and there.10 According to Prior, the New Testament not only effectively de-territorializes the Hexateuch’s focus on land with a new emphasis on a “citizenship in heaven” (Phil. 3:20) and a heavenly city rather than earthly cities (Gal. 4:25–26; Heb. 11:13–15; 12:22; Rev. 3:12; 21:2, 10), but also successfully transforms God’s election beyond the racial/ethnic and national(ist) categories of the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament through its “universal” declaration (Rom. 9:4).11 In his argument about the “universal appeal” of the New Testament, Prior highlights, despite acknowledging that Acts has been used to justify apartheid in South Africa, Luke-Acts by pointing to (1) Peter’s lesson about not making any distinction between clean and unclean food and hence between different ethnic groups (Acts 10:28–35); (2) the Christian mission’s extension from Jerusalem “to the ends of the world” (Acts 1:8) and hence not being tied to a single, specific territory; and (3) the Lukan Jesus’s reinterpretation of Isaiah 61 and hence of the doctrine of election through his references to Gentiles and pronouncement of good news for all who are oppressed (Luke 4).12 Land is, of course, significant. We may, however, want to remember that the term “neocolonialism” is meant to point precisely to the continuation of colonial or imperial dynamics without the literal setting up of physical colonies through the occupation of foreign land. We may also need to remember that the diversity of strands and traditions within both the Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament and the New Testament effectively discredits the stark binary understanding that Prior ends up implying about his two testaments—or, at least, between the Hexateuch and Luke-Acts. Furthermore, Prior’s conclusion about the New Testament despite its diversity undercuts his own assertion that the biblical text plays a more important and determinative role than the reader in the reading process.13 Referring to the Bible, Prior writes, “It is the narrative itself, rather than the sophisticated exegesis of it, that has fuelled colonial adventures.”14 Immediately after his criticism of those who “exonerat[e] the biblical authors . . . by ascribing to the reader alone any

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morally dubious predispositions,” Prior quotes another scholar approvingly that “the Bible itself is a serious problem to people who want to be free.”15 Trinh T. Minh-ha, commenting on political criticism, stresses the significant distinction between “what a text could mean” (the possibilities in the production of meaning) and “what a text does mean” (the issue of its reception and political effectivity), and concludes that “it has become more and more difficult to approach a subject by asking ‘what’ or even ‘how’ without also asking ‘who,’ ‘when,’ and ‘where.’”16 In a way that echoes Trinh’s sentiment, Michel Foucault writes, “I would say that to begin the analysis with a ‘how’ is to suggest that power as such does not exist.”17 With that provocative statement, Foucault is suggesting that rather than looking for a single or general theory of power, one should focus on looking at specific uses of power. Instead of saying that a biblical text itself is or is not problematic, I will therefore choose to scrutinize how biblical texts are being read by different interpreters. Discussions on the (colonial) politics of the Bible, in other words, must turn to the “complex, indirect interpretations of the ‘politics of interpreters.’”18 Given Prior’s argument about the reading process, the New Testament as key to “rehabilitate” the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament, and his emphasis on literary genres, I will look at one sample from each of the three genres within the New Testament—Luke-Acts, 1 Peter, and Revelation—to not only show the diversity of views within the New Testament but also argue for the primacy of the reader when it comes to what the New Testament says or not says about colonialism, empire, and resistance. In each of the samples I offer, I will show that readers since the publication of Prior’s book can interpret and have interpreted the same text as both for and against colonialism and empire. In contrast to Prior’s suggestion that looking at the “predispositions of the biblical interpreter” is making the biblical text “non-problematic” and hence “evad[ing] the problem,”19 I will show that what a biblical passage says about colonialism and empire is indeed contingent on the assumptions and interpretations of a human reader. LUKE-ACTS AND ITS INTERTEXTS As Prior points out in his reading of Luke 4, Luke is full of references to the book of Isaiah in the Hebrew Bible. While David W. Pao’s focus is primarily on Luke’s second volume (Acts), Pao points to several parallel emphases in both Acts and (Second) Isaiah to argue for reading Acts as an “Isaianic New Exodus.”20 In other words, Acts is rewriting (Second) Isaiah’s rewriting of Exodus. These parallel emphases include (1) the restoration of God’s people through the gathering of Israel’s exiles and the power of the Holy Spirit (e.g.,

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Isa. 32:14–17; 40:1–4; 44:1–4; Luke 2:25; Acts 1:8; 2:8–11); (2) the power of God’s word (e.g., Isa. 40:6–8; Acts 6:7; 12:24; 19:20); (3) the powerlessness of idols (e.g., Isa. 40:18–31; 44:9–20; Acts 7:35–43; 17:16–34); and (4) a universal salvation that includes not only eunuchs but also Gentiles (e.g., Isa. 40:5; 56:4–5, 8; Luke 3:6; Acts 8).21 According to Pao, Acts as the Isaianic New Exodus also explains why the Christ-following cult in Acts is always called “the Way” (e.g., Acts 9:1–2; 19:9, 23; 22:4; 24:14, 22).22 While Pao himself does not push his work in this direction, his intertextual reading of Acts is full of tantalizing implications regarding colonialism, empire, and resistance.23 First, Pao’s reference to (Second) Isaiah and its emphasis on a “universal salvation” for both Jews and Gentiles means that what Prior calls the “universal appeal” of the New Testament is actually not limited to the New Testament.24 Second, if the Isaianic New Exodus was, as Pao and other scholars suggest, a rewriting of Exodus because the Judeans, toward the end of their exile in Babylon, saw King Cyrus and his Persian Empire as God’s tools to bring about their deliverance, just as God once did to deliver the Israelites out of Egypt,25 then one would have to conclude also that the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament, or at least (Second) Isaiah, communicates a rather ambivalent attitude toward empire. Empire in (Second) Isaiah can both cause oppression and provide deliverance. Third, if Acts is rewriting (Second) Isaiah’s rewriting of Exodus, one will need to ask, in the context of Acts or Luke-Acts, if Luke saw the Roman Empire as oppressive like the Egyptians and the Babylonians before, or if he saw them, like the Persians in (Second) Isaiah, as being used by God to deliver the Christ-following communities. Since my focus is on how the primacy of interpretation lies with the reader who reads rather than the text being read, let me be clear that readers can and do choose the intertextual frame which they use to read Luke-Acts. Instead of referring to (Second) Isaiah as the intertext as Pao does, Marianne Palmer Bonz, in a book that was published in the same year as Pao’s, connects Luke-Acts with Virgil’s Aeneid.26 As Prior does, Bonz seeks to clarify the genre of the biblical text, which is Luke-Acts in her case. In contrast to Prior, Bonz suggests that seeing Luke as a historian does not necessarily imply the historicity of Luke-Acts.27 After a long discussion regarding how Luke-Acts has been read as mainly a theological, literary, or historical document, Bonz suggests that the genre of Luke-Acts is actually best understood in terms of Greco-Roman epic, which is characterized by not only its appropriation of the past and its universalization of human destiny but also its incorporation of “religion, drama, history, and even politics.”28 Just as Virgil appropriated the great Greek epic tradition and created a continuation of Homer’s Iliad “to celebrate Rome’s divine election and elevate Romanitas (the Roman way) to ascendancy as the universal human ideal” at the beginning of Augustus’s

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accession to power, Luke, Bonz argues, appropriated the Septuagint to author a foundational epic for the early Christian community to proclaim the Christian way as the new “universal human aspiration” during the early success of the Christian mission among Gentiles when the church became separated from Israel.29 Just as the Aeneid depicts the Romans as being ordained by the gods to rule the world out of the ruins of Troy, Luke-Acts has the Christ-­ following communities being divinely ordained to win over the world out of the disastrous First Jewish-Roman War and the destruction of the Jewish Temple.30 In both cases, Bonz argues, we have in front of us an epic that explains and promotes a remnant of people who has been destined to exercise world dominion after coming through an initial setback, an experience of being dispersed, and a period of uncertainty. Luke’s Jesus—born in adverse situation but growing strong and wise, being favored by both divine and human beings, and with access to God’s guidance and power to fulfill God’s purpose and plan (Luke 1–2)—is read by Bonz as a typical GrecoRoman hero. This hero’s birth in Luke’s Gospel, Bonz further points out, parallels, follows, and overshadows the birth of John the Baptist, just as Acts will parallel, follow, and overshadow Luke’s Gospel itself: while the Gospel ends with the judgment of Jerusalem for opposing Jesus as God’s designated (thus signaling the First Jewish-Roman War as God’s judgment), Acts shows God’s plan of salvation being broadened and extended through the mission of the church.31 For Bonz, the Pentecost story (Acts 2) is both the literary and the theological center of Luke-Acts, for it represents dramatically the Christian mission as not only having a divinely ordained origin but also resulting in a reconstitution of God’s people that expresses a theme of universalism: the mission is being brought to receptive Gentiles despite—or due to—the internal debates, divisions, and disbelief among the Israelites.32 When Prior tries to disassociate the narratives of the Hexateuch from history, he brings up an earlier suggestion that the story of Abraham might have been fashioned after that of Aeneas, the man from Troy who was divinely ordained to become the ancestor of the Romans, to suggest that Abraham might be a fictional “retrojection of David” comparable to Aeneas being a “retrojection of pious Augustus.”33 Like Pao, Prior makes this suggestion without teasing out its potential implications in terms of colonialism and empire. The same is true of Bonz. Given the parallel she sees between LukeActs and Aeneid in both form and content, does Bonz understand Luke-Acts as Luke’s attempt to reject Aeneid and the Roman Empire, as Luke’s attempt to replace them with the church as the next and best empire, or as both? We find an attempt to address or confront the question about Luke-Acts and colonialism in Virginia Burrus’s postcolonial reading of Luke-Acts.34 As Burrus insightfully points out, while the Roman Caesar does not appear as a character in Luke-Acts, the power of the Roman Empire hovers always

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already in the background, especially in light of Luke’s constant and pervasive references to “various mediating ‘brokers’ of imperial dominion,” including imperial officers and soldiers as well as client kings and Jewish elite dependent on Roman support.35 Situating Luke-Acts, therefore, squarely in the context of the Roman Empire, Burrus admits that Luke-Acts may be read as an apologist for the Roman Empire if one focuses on, for instance, its tendency to downplay Roman responsibility but blame the Jewish religious authorities for not only the crucifixion of Jesus but also the charges against Paul. Using Paul’s case as an example, Burrus suggests that the threats on Paul’s life can be read as being stalled and thwarted by the Roman officials and by Paul’s decision to appeal as a Roman citizen to Caesar (Acts 21–26). Furthermore, Paul seems to enjoy greater freedom to teach and preach about Jesus once he is under the custody of Roman officials, especially during and after his trip to Rome (Acts 27–28). The Roman Empire, then, may be understood as benign, or even as a regime that “mitigates the brutality of the ‘native’ priestly elite of Judaea and opens up providential space for an effectively ‘global’ (‘transnational’) community of believers.”36 At the same time, Burrus acknowledges that there are also materials within Luke-Acts that can be read as subversive of if not downright opposing Rome. Repeatedly, for example, Jesus or the Way of Jesus is presented in Luke-Acts as winning over centurions (Luke 7:1–10; 23:44–47; Acts 10), and hence as overpowering the representatives of Roman military power. Referring to James C. Scott’s well-known and well-used work on “hidden transcripts,” Burrus proceeds to question if what looks like Luke’s apology for Rome cannot be read as Luke’s “public transcript” to interrogate or taunt Rome’s purported values about “truth” and “justice” with its repeated report regarding Jesus’s innocence—often through the mouths of Romans officials (Luke 23:4, 13–15, 22, 40–41, 47). What is read by some as a benign regime then can be read by others as a heartless and indifferent regime that only cares about political expediency and hence the appeasement of the crowds at all cost. Instead of shifting blame from one party to another, the portrayal of the interaction between the Roman officials and the Jewish authorities in LukeActs can also be read, Burrus proposes, as an exposure of the tense, delicate, and divisive nature of colonial politics.37 Rather than choosing between a pro-imperial or anti-imperial reading of Luke-Acts, Burrus refers to Homi Bhabha’s theory of mimicry and ambivalence to highlight the ambiguities in Luke-Acts and thus Luke’s ambivalence about the Roman Empire.38 Like Bonz, Burrus also points to the question of genre, but Burrus’s point of comparison with Luke-Acts is not an ancient epic but the postcolonial novel.39 For Burrus, the presence of Acts in Luke-Acts disrupts not only the genre of Gospel but also that of history. The leaky genre of this hybrid product is excessive and reaches across boundaries as empires

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do; at the same time, Burrus refers to the rise of novel(istic) writing during the Roman Empire as well as the Bakhtinian understanding of novel as heteroglossic “parody of genres” to read Luke’s story of Jesus and the church as a “strategically flawed imitation” of the totalizing history that came out of imperial Rome.40 This imitation and hence resemblance in terms of not only genre and value but also imperial sense and sensibilities, even if it is “strategically flawed” or “deliberately … mocked,” implies for Burrus a need for readers to be more ambivalent in their assessment of Luke’s ambiguous text in relation to colonialism and empire.41 Instead of feeling ambivalent, however, some readers of Luke-Acts may also choose to capitalize on certain aspects of Luke’s ambiguous text to stake a position for Luke regarding colonialism, empire, and resistance. In fact, Burrus’s own beginning sentence in her concluding section says as much. She writes, “The ambiguities of Luke’s ideological stance cannot simply be resolved into clarities, yet we have seen that Luke-Acts may nonetheless yield distinctly anti-imperialist interpretations.”42 This is exactly what Rubén Muñoz-Larrondo does in his postcolonial reading of Acts.43 Appealing, as Burrus does, to both Scott and Bhabha, Muñoz-Larrondo sees Acts as “a hidden transcript of resistance” that speaks subtly against “two centers of power: the Roman Empire and the institutions that define Judaism.”44 To support his claim, Muñoz-Larrondo, like Pao and Bonz, refers to both Jewish scriptures and Greco-Roman writings as intertexts to read Acts, though Muñoz-Larrondo does so in the name of Said’s “contrapuntal” reading.45 According to Muñoz-Larrondo, the episodes about Peter’s rescue from jail and Herod’s death in Acts 12 were both type-scenes from Jewish scriptures to show (1) God’s rescue of those who trust and depend on God (e.g., Exodus); and (2) God’s punishment of those who usurp divine prerogatives or exalt themselves as divine (e.g., Isaiah 14; Ezekiel 28; Daniel 4).46 For Muñoz-Larrondo, Herod, as a client king of Judea under Rome but facing a fate like a fallen Satan being cast out of heaven (Luke 10:8),47 is also functioning in Acts as a representative of both Roman and Jewish authorities who oppose God. Referring to various Greco-Roman writings (e.g., Augustus’s Res Gestae), Muñoz-Larrondo points to what Acts, as a “hidden transcript,” is really targeting: imperial cults that worshipped the Roman emperors as gods.48 Though Acts may read like an apologia to imperial Rome to some, the book is quite clear to Muñoz-Larrondo that “it is necessary to obey God rather than human powers (4:12; 5:29).”49 He writes, “I suggest that the Christian community in Acts stands in opposition to the Empire and thus [is] a highly politicized entity, . . . yet not to the point of violent revolution.”50 In other words, the writing of Acts may be ambiguous, but Muñoz-Larrondo’s reading of it is not ambivalent. In fact, as he concludes his chapter on Roman imperial worship, Muñoz-Larrondo criticizes scholars who feel or stay ambivalent

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about whether living Roman emperors claimed divinity are only “try[ing] to safeguard their reputations as postmodern, free-thinkers.”51 1 PETER AND ITS STRATEGIES Many scholars have suggested that Luke’s second volume, Acts, shows Luke’s attempt to tone down Mark’s apocalyptic emphasis (Mark 9:1) by suggesting that there is still time for the church to perform its mission. A letter is, of course, not a Gospel, but 1 Peter shows that talking about the church (1 Pet. 5:13) and talking about the apocalypse need not be mutually exclusive. In addition to using literary intertexts as Pao, Bonz, and MuñozLarrondo have done with Luke-Acts, scholars of 1 Peter also argue explicitly about the specific contexts behind the letter, especially the nature of the “persecutions” being implied.52 What was the scale of these “persecutions”? Who were involved to bring them about? Were they actually taking place or only perceived in the mind of the letter writer? Despite all the questions and debates, a couple of things seem unmistakable. First, 1 Peter depicts its readers as vulnerable, troubled, and unsettled (1:17; 2:10, 12, 20; 3:14–16; 4:3–4, 14, 16), and then gives advice on how to live in a less-than-friendly and perhaps even an aggressively hostile environment. Second, the letter writer is keenly aware of the presence and power of imperial Rome. Since the letter begins by naming five regions or provinces (1:1) and concludes with a reference to “Babylon” (5:13), its target audience were subjects of Rome’s imperial rule, and, if one assumes the letter’s rhetoric is accurately portraying and reflecting its historical context, its writer was writing from Rome, the belly of the imperial beast. In addition, the letter names and hence acknowledges specifically two positions of power with governing authorities over its recipients: kings and governors (2:13–14, 17). Through a careful survey of various source materials (both literary and non-literary), Paul A. Holloway shows how, before the first empire-wide persecution of Christ-followers under Decius in the third century CE, those with popular anti-Christian sentiments often resorted to and worked through the provincial courts by bringing formal charges against their Christ-following neighbors.53 This is also supported, Holloway argues, by the seamless transition in 1 Peter from talking about verbal abuse (4:14) to talking about judicial violence (4:15–16; cf. 3:13–16).54 Given the close connection at the time of 1 Peter’s writing between the imperial legal system of Rome and “social prejudice” and provocation against Christians, arguments about whether 1 Peter has imperial oppression or social harassment in mind may represent nothing more than a red herring, especially for my purposes here.55

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A more pertinent debate for us to consider is how readers have approached and evaluated the advice they find in 1 Peter. It is clear that 1 Peter’s advice, however it may be viewed and judged, is set within an apocalyptic framework, as the letter begins and ends by referring to the hope and glory of Christ’s apocalypse (1:3–5; 5:1–4), which will also be a time of final judgment (4:17). Within this framework, 1 Peter further presents its recipients, having been “chosen” and “called” by God through Christ (1:2; 2:4–9; 5:10), metaphorically as “sojourning aliens” and “non-citizens” (1:1, 17; 2:11) with heaven as their real homes (1:3–5, 10–12; 3:18–22).56 As such, according to 1 Peter, they should not and will not feel at home before Christ’s apocalypse, even if they have not moved from their place of birth. Being reborn into the family of Christ (1:23; 2:17), taking on Christ’s name (4:14, 16), and changing their lifestyle (1:14, 4:3), they become set apart as a marked group and an easily identifiable population. Although 1 Peter also employs some rather impressive terms to describe their status as a group—“a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people” (2:9)—the letter is also clear that their decision to become members of a different family and to disengage from their ancestral or conventional practices makes them a group targeted for smears, attacks, formal charges, abuses, or harms by their neighbors, previous associates, and perhaps even (former?) family members (2:12; 3:13–16; 4:4, 14–15). Having set up this scenario, 1 Peter stresses two points to console or encourage its readers. First, the sufferings they experience actually parallel those of Christ. Just as they shared in Christ’s election and righteousness (2:4, 9; 3:12, 14, 18; 4:18) and his status as “living stones” (2:4–5), they need to see their negative treatments as sharing in Christ’s sufferings (1:6, 11; 2:18–25; 3:17–18; 4:1; 5:1, 9–10). Furthermore, Christ’s model shows that his followers will, like him, be vindicated eventually by God (1:3–7, 21; 2:4–8; 4:12–13; 5:4, 6, 10). In the word of Holloway, the logic found in 1 Peter is “as with Christ so with Christians.”57 Second, 1 Peter assures its readers repeatedly that their sufferings will not last long, because Christ’s apocalypse will happen in “a little while” (1:6; 5:10; cf. 4:7). It is one thing to encourage, it is quite another to give advice. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza reads the letter as one of authoritative advice from the imperial center, Rome (5:13), on how to become good and proper colonial subjects by highlighting two observations she makes on the text.58 First, the text’s arguments revolve around the image of the household. In addition to presenting Christ-followers as having been reborn into a new family in the beginning, as we have already mentioned, 1 Peter contains a version of the household codes (2:18–3:7) and ends by addressing the Christ-following household of God (4:17), particularly the elders (5:1–11). Second, Schüssler Fiorenza points to the letter’s repeated emphasis on subordination. Specifically, she points to the four injunctions in which recipients or specific groups

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among its recipients are told to “submit” (2:13, 18; 3:1; 5:1–5); this indicates to her a clear hierarchical power relations since the same word is used to describe what angels, authorities, and powers have to do in relation to the resurrected and ascended Christ (3:22). Of course, that same verse is clear that Christ’s ruling and powerful status has something to do with him being seated on the right side of God. In other words, 1 Peter’s portrayal of God as the mighty “father” of this new, motherless household or family (1:3, 17; cf. 2:9; 5:6) is in many ways comparable to the powerful paterfamilias who sat at the top of all the various sociopolitical pyramids within the Roman Empire. 1 Peter assumes and teaches, therefore, “the dominant kyriarchal ethos of Roman imperialism and request[s] that the subordinates realize and live it in their practices of subordination.”59 As Burrus suggests, “the close resemblance of ‘counter-empire’ to ‘empire’ . . . may call for a more ambivalent assessment.”60 Schüssler Fiorenza, however, goes for a more nuanced but arguably less ambivalent assessment of 1 Peter’s rhetoric. In light of the letter’s apparent emphasis on loving or being humble to one another (4:8–10; 5:5–6), including even an imperative to husbands and elders to be(come) considerate of their “subordinates” (3:7; 5:3), Schüssler Fiorenza complexifies the power of domination as working both vertically and horizontally, so one should not let a single manner of power occlude one’s analysis and critique of kyriarchy.61 Pointing to how Greco-Roman household literature combines fear and love as well as promotes fidelity and cooperation for the purpose of imperial unity and stability, Schüssler Fiorenza shows not only that domination may seem benevolent but also that colonial governance may work through household management. She points, for example, to how the household codes in 1 Peter (2:18–3:7) immediately follow the letter’s injunction to accept the authority of human institutions and to honor the emperor (2:13–17), and how the constant promotion of “good” conducts (2:15; 3:6, 11, 13, 16–17; 4:19) is related to the repeated emphases to “submit” (2:12–13, 18; 3:1; 5:1–5). Alongside the advice to “disidentify,” recipients of 1 Peter are also advised to avoid doing anything that may offend their “pagan” neighbors by submitting to current customs, prevailing etiquettes, and established sociopolitical institutions and hence, if I may use a popular lingo in the United States, by becoming a “model minority” who exhibit “good” and “acceptable” behaviors (2:14–15, 20; 3:6, 17; 4:19). In fact, the very first use of the verb “submit” in 1 Peter is linked explicitly with a particular reference to the authority of the Roman emperor (2:13). Even worse, this submission to imperial rule is tied up with God’s will, serving God, and fearing God (2:15–17). It is also worth noting that in 1 Peter, the honorable submission to Roman imperial rule and institutions on the part of the recipients should be visible to those who are suspicious of or hostile to them (2:12). Whether it is to “silence” slander (2:12, 15)

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or to “gain” approval of human authorities (3:1) or of God (2:20; 3:11–12), their good conducts and respectable behaviors should become a kind of calculated self-presentation, even a kind of social spectacle.62 This “model minority” advice is repeated again in 3:8–22, where 1 Peter highlights “peace” as an ideal (3:11) and, once again, underscores its advice with Christ’s willingness to suffer as an example and a justification (3:17–22). For Schüssler Fiorenza, the rhetoric of 1 Peter generally recommends two things—“‘good’ behavior in public and . . . ‘honorable sufferings’ to be expected”—and “climaxes with . . . the image of the household.”63 She even proposes a telling title for “the core of the letter” (2:11–3:12): “Become Colonial Subjects/Subalterns.”64 The only way to decolonize this letter from the imperial center, Schüssler Fiorenza suggests, is to reconstruct the rhetorical situation behind the letter without assuming that its writer and recipients, which included women and slaves, were readily agreeable with each other.65 In her imaginative reconstruction, the assemblies that received 1 Peter might have embraced a separatist stance that sought to be isolated and independent from the imperial center. It was this stance that 1 Peter was trying to address and change.66 In contrast to Schüssler Fiorenza’s reading of 1 Peter’s use of household as a kyriarchal image and tool, Shively T. J. Smith recently reads this letter’s advice in a very different way—and she does so through what she terms “family” as an emphasis in 1 Peter.67 For Smith, what appears as “a sign of assent” is “an act of survival,”68 especially given the vulnerability and disadvantages that a condition such as being in “diaspora” implies.69 If household connotes patriarchy and domination for Schüssler Fiorenza, household as “family” implies for Smith community and support. Rather than highlighting the repeated use of “submit” as Schüssler Fiorenza does, Smith focuses on the repeated reference to “election” in 1 Peter (1:1; 2:4, 6, 9), and how that implies within the letter “a period (long or short) of existing as a subculture among a larger dominant one” and “rejection by others” (2:12, 20; 3:14–15, 16; 4:14).70 At the same time, Smith observes, 1 Peter also mentions the need to arm oneself with a defense in court (3:15) and to “resist” the devil (5:8–9) even or especially when it sees suffering as “an unavoidable feature of diaspora life,” so it would be inadequate and perhaps even too simplistic to see 1 Peter as advising its readers only to be(come) compliant to the larger dominant culture.71 Instead, Smith argues that 1 Peter presents “a distinctive, even subversive, understanding to minimize the degree of harm Christians experienced due to their atypical social routines and novel spiritual confession.”72 In fact, what Schüssler Fiorenza sees as a kyriarchal command for good conduct and subordination is for Smith a reflection or condemnation of Roman injustice should Christ-followers still suffer (2:22–23). For example, Smith sees the household codes in 1 Peter as “ratifying the hierarchies and inequalities . . . as the work of flawed human institutions,” because, Smith

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argues, 1 Peter’s household codes address the slaves not only first but also without addressing their masters, thus implying that slaves have agency to decide to do good independently and that sufferings of good-behaving slaves, should they happen, will become “a reflection of the unethical and warped character of the master’s only.”73 To negotiate survival and to minimize harm for a displaced, dislocated, and disadvantaged community is, for Smith, itself a “subversive” act, especially since Smith identifies 1 Peter’s (targeted? constructed?) recipients as primarily belonging to the underclass.74 1 Peter does not, therefore, “champion hegemonic arrangements and regulations of daily life as God’s preferred order”; it is a strategic response “to the system’s capacity for inhumane cruelty, attack, and mass extermination” for the purpose of not compromising the survival of the Christ-following community.75 Since 1 Peter is clear that Christ has suffered and died for his followers, it focuses accordingly on strategies and practices that contribute to living rather than dying as martyrs (2:21–24).76 Throughout the letter, Smith adds, 1 Peter contains a veiled critique of Roman power with its adamant insistence that the supreme power and authority for its readers is not Caesar but Christ and God (2:13–17; 3:22), even though or especially because they have a “dual identity” of living under two “Lords” and two systems of governance.77 The supreme power and authority of God, in Smith’s reading, also functions to “flatten” all the internal relations among Christ-followers, despite the apparent status difference in the household codes (2:18–3:7) or in its concluding advice to both the elders and the youth (5:1–5).78 Instead of reconstructing a historical situation among 1 Peter’s recipients as Schüssler Fiorenza does, Smith claims to rely on diaspora studies and several Second Temple writings to read diaspora as a literary trope.79 1 Peter for Smith is a letter that “empower[s] readers with a new vision of the world and their agency within it.”80 With the image of diaspora (1:17; 2:11), for example, 1 Peter reminds its readers that they not only have their true home or destination in heaven but also, as indicated by the reference to the assembly in Babylon/Rome as a “sister church . . . chosen together with you” (5:13; cf. 2:9–10 and 5:9), belong to a broader familial network that is not limited to the provinces stated in the letter’s opening (1:1). Smith writes, “Diaspora in 1 Peter reminds readers they are members of a diverse and vast kinship requiring only acknowledgment and embrace,” as “[t]he first image of diaspora 1 Peter communicates is kinship.”81 Furthermore, the letter’s pervasive use of “if” signals the agency to choose on the part of its readers (1:17; 2:3, 19–20; 3:13–4; 4:14, 16), even or especially when some choices may “thrust invisible people and classes into the spotlight of Roman governance and local suspicion.”82 In other words, their feeling of being out of place actually assures them that they are in the right place.83 As Smith puts it, 1 Peter turns diaspora from being a condition that

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needs remedied to one that should be embraced.84 Choosing to follow Christ, they estrange themselves from their neighbors. Since Smith also reads 1 Peter’s description of its recipients as “aliens” and “non-citizens” to be metaphorical, she describes the “diaspora” in the letter as making themselves “strangers in their own land”—an interesting twist from Prior’s understanding of the colonialized as being made strangers in their own land.85 Ironically, this “diaspora” transforms 1 Peter’s recipients from a group of strangers to become a new family with each other and with anyone who has chosen to follow the way of Jesus Christ (1:1, 3–5; 4:9; 5:9, 12–13).86 1 Peter, then, is for Smith all about “issuing a theological myth . . . to bind readers . . . together” so they can find that fine balance of living within and yet staying distinct from the larger colonial culture of the Roman Empire.87 With this double construction of “wandering foreigner” (1:1) and “permanent resident foreigner” (1:17; 2:11), 1 Peter, in a way that reminds Smith of the work of W. E. B. Du Bois, is clarifying the need for a subculture within a dominant culture to live with a “double consciousness.”88 Rather than talking about opposing or separating or withdrawing from the Roman world as Schüssler Fiorenza proposes to be the case for 1 Peter’s targeted recipients, Smith focuses on 1 Peter’s desire to balance “integration and segregation, presence and difference, conformity and distinction,” and even calls the letter “a strategy of ‘best practices.’”89 Instead of reading different parts of the letter as working together to produce “good colonial subjects” or “subalterns” as Schüssler Fiorenza does, Smith divides 1 Peter’s advice into two separate “dimensions”: one on internal relations among Christ-followers, the other about external relations with their suspicious or even hostile neighbors.90 Unless it involves the worship of idols, 1 Peter advices its readers, in Smith’s reading, to show allegiance to the Roman Empire (1:17–18; 4:3–4, 19). First Peter is, therefore, clear that Christian worship and “pagan” worship are “two irreconcilable alternatives.”91 In that sense, 1 Peter should not be read as unquestionably or completely compliant to the imperial culture of Rome. While Schüssler Fiorenza rejects 1 Peter as imperial and kyriarchal with her imaginative reconstruction of the letter’s rhetorical situation, Smith rejects readings of 1 Peter as colonial and imperial with her own reconstruction of the letter’s context, despite her earlier caveat that her work “does not reconstruct plausible historical diaspora settings and conditions per se but examines the early life of ‘re-presenting’ diaspora in literature.”92 First Peter was a communication among people of the underclass who were not only marginalized but also under “threats of verbal attacks, physical harm, and the looming chance of genocide,” Smith claims toward the end of her book.93 That is really why the letter’s advice must be read as motivated by desires to lessen harm and enable survival in a distressed situation, not to bolster “colonial imperatives.”94 The “double consciousness” or “dual identity” that

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1 Peter constructs for its readers, asking them to have an eye on the Christ’s family and another on the Roman Empire, cannot and should not be forced into or confined within a narrow conformist or non-conformist position.95 Again, while Smith warns against reading 1 Peter within this narrow “eitheror” position, she does not shy from describing 1 Peter as “subversive.”96 I hope this shows, once again, that despite the difference in text and genre, the choice of the interpreter is key to how a New Testament book is seen regarding colonialism. Schüssler Fiorenza says as much when she suggests that readings of 1 Peter may differ, depending on whether a reader focuses on the letter’s emphasis on election and honor, on suffering, or on subordination.97 The works by Schüssler Fiorenza and Smith show that interpreters also make different choices in not only what they choose as appropriate literary intertext (as we have seen with Pao, Bonz, and Muñoz-Larrondo), but also how they reconstruct a text’s historical context. Whether it is text, intertext, or context, choice and decision rest with the one who reads. With different choices and decisions come different interpretations and understandings. REVELATION AND ITS CONTRADICTIONS While Smith makes a sharp distinction between diaspora and exile,98 exile is assumed by the author of the only full-blown apocalypse in the New Testament: Revelation or the Apocalypse of John (Rev. 1:9). While 1 Peter refers to the apocalypse of Christ to encourage subordination to the Roman Empire out of kyriarchal desires (Schüssler Fiorenza) or for the purpose of enabling a community to survive out of disadvantaged situations (Smith), John the Seer uses the same apocalypse, as 1 Peter’s targeted recipients in Schüssler Fiorenza’s imaginative reconstruction did, to advocate for separation from the Roman Empire. “Come out of her,” John the Seer pleas and orders (Rev. 18:4). Rather than focusing solely on the ancient intertext(s) or on the ancient context(s) of the biblical text, David A. Sánchez uses an assortment of present-day theories to suggest a Greco-Roman background for the episode involving a dragon and a pregnant woman in Revelation 12, and to argue for an ongoing reception or transformation of this biblical episode in seventeenth-century Mexico and by the Latinx community in twentieth-century East Los Angeles.99 According to Sánchez, a cycle of stories or myths existed in the Greco-Roman world regarding Apollo’s birth from his mother, Leto, and his rivalry with and eventual slaying of a dragon. Since the Roman emperors including and since Octavian had claimed a genealogical relationship with the dragon-slaying Apollo to justify their imperial domination as the dawning of a new golden age, Sánchez argues that John the Seer in Revelation 12 was, like some Jewish author(s) before him, manipulating and reconfiguring what Sánchez calls

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the dragon slayer myth to subvert Rome’s imperial propaganda. Unlike his Jewish predecessors, however, John the seer in Sánchez’s reading is simultaneously subverting his Jewish source(s) by replacing Apollo with Christ as the promised Jewish Messiah.100 From there Sánchez goes on to discuss how Creoles and indigenous people of Mexico also gradually transformed the Iberian Guadalupe as a form of the Virgin Mary from being a symbol for the reconquista, including the conquest of the Americas, into one of resistance.101 First, there was Miguel Sánchez, who argued in Spanish in 1648 for a parallel between the “Queen of Heaven” in Revelation 12 and the Mexican Virgin of Guadalupe who appeared to a lowly Mexica peasant: while the Heavenly Queen gave birth to Christianity, the Mexican Virgin gave birth to the church in the New World.102 This argument was then sharpened twelve years later by Mateo de la Cruz, who further identified Guadalupe as La Criolla but identified the Iberian Guadalupe’s accomplice in reconquista, the Virgin of Remedios, as La Conquistadora. While both of these attempts in seventeenth-century Mexico worked to challenge the Spaniards’ sense of superiority over Creoles, Luis Laso de la Vega’s publication in 1649 further responded to the work of Miguel Sánchez by indigenizing it: he cited Tepeyacac as the original home of the Lady of Gaudalupe and claimed the native population of Mexica as her people. Writing in the native tongue of the Mexica, Laso de la Vega further intensified the contrast between Gaudalupe as the heavenly mother who chose to reside with the Mexica Indians and Remedios as a human-made import brought by the Spaniards to Mexica. Finally, David Sánchez turns to twentieth-century USA, particularly the Chicano/a movement, which not only used what was previously a derogatory term to name itself but also featured the Lady of Gaudalupe as its symbol.103 El Plan Espiritual de Aztlán of 1969 made it clear for Sánchez that the symbol of Virgin Guadalupe was meant to resist and contest the US ideology of Manifest Destiny, which fueled US expansionism into Mexico and the acquisition of Arizona, California, Nevada, New Mexico, western Colorado, and Utah through the signing of the Treaty of Gaudalupe Hidalgo in 1848. With Aztlán representing (1) the Aztecs’ land of origin; (2) a memory of Mexican territories that have been lost to the United States; and (3) a utopian hope for a future Chicano/a nation that will yet be built, El Plan uses phrases such as “we the people” and “our inevitable destiny” to not only mimic, mock, modify, and mutate the US Constitution but also to authorize its own version of independence declaration against two colonizing powers in Aztlán’s history: Spain and the United States—just as Revelation 18 collapses two colonizing powers of the Jewish people: Babylon and Roman. In contrast to artist John Gast’s depiction in 1872 of Lady Providence leading the settlers on their expansion, the Chicano/a movement’s employment of Virgin Guadalupe in

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banners and murals in the 1960s and 1970s is, for Sánchez, a counter-symbol of resistance and reclamation. With these three moves—in Asia Minor of the first century; Mexico during the seventeenth century; and the United States at the time of the twentiethcentury—Sánchez is making one main argument: using especially Vincent L. Wimbush’s project on ethno-religious performances of the Bible by African Americans alongside—as others we have discussed above do—Bhabha’s postcolonial theory of mimicry and Scott’s anthropological work on “hidden transcripts,”104 Sánchez suggests that this trail of developments both before and after the episode in Revelation 12 shows that what appears like submission by subalterns in (post)colonial contexts may actually be subversion, because subversion often takes place by reappropriating, misrepresenting, recontextualizing, and resignifying aspects of dominant myths or discourses that function to oppress them. Revelation is, therefore, not an “anticolonial” or “anti-imperial” but a “countercolonial” or “counterimperial” response, because, for Sánchez, it makes use of the Roman imperial framework, particularly the Greco-Roman dragon slayer myth, rather than rejecting outright anything and everything Greco-Roman.105 Going the route of “anti,” Sánchez opines in a way that echoes Smith, is as futile as armed resistance against a mighty colonial empire; going the “countering” path, on the other hand, is for Sánchez both realistic and effective.106 People on the periphery, Sánchez adds, not only read about and write back to the center but also offer fresh perspective and bring new light to academic knowledge about the Bible and biblical interpretation. As we have seen, the idea that a biblical story or book may be appropriating something from the Roman Empire has already been made by Prior and Bonz. While both make the literary connection between the Bible and Aeneas, neither makes any comment on his or her respective suggestion’s implication on the potential political relations between the Bible and the Roman Empire—perhaps because neither of them engages postcolonial theory. However, Lynne St. Clair Darden does come up with a very different—in fact, basically diametrically opposed—reading of Revelation, despite using the same theoretical repertoire to read the same book as Sánchez does.107 Pointing to the need to be vigilant about reinscribing oppressive ideologies given the increasing diversity of the African American community (especially the ability of some to move into the mainstream of society, as evidenced by Barak Obama’s presidency and a rising black middle class), Darden, like Sánchez, starts by appealing to Wimbush’s work about what African Americans do with the Bible.108 Instead of using the term biblical hermeneutics, Darden thinks that Wimbush’s term, “scripturalization,”109 will give better acknowledgment of the agency and greater expression to the complexity of African Americans, since the former features more their reading

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but the latter more their writing; as such, the shift also functions to expose and exhibit power differentials that are at play in interpretation. In a way that echoes both Sánchez’s book on Revelation and Smith’s book on 1 Peter, Darden is, therefore, talking about scripturalization for African Americans as not only an active conceptualization and reconceptualization of a community and its praxis (Sánchez) but also a collective cultural memory of “the strangeness of home” (Smith).110 Despite mentioning Sánchez’s book in a footnote and acknowledging that some see Revelation’s genre in terms of Scott’s “hidden transcript” as well as using heavily Bhabha’s theory of mimicry, Darden ends up arguing that John’s seemingly nonaccommodating resistance in Revelation is but a “blurred copy” of Rome’s imperial violence.111 Darden sees in Revelation’s heavenly throne room scenes, which start in Revelation 4 and 5, various elements of Roman imperial ethos and practice: visual and auditory shows to “shock and awe” (Rev. 4:5); presence of elders who present their crowns and sing hymns to the sovereign as a divine delegate in imperial obeisance ritual (Rev. 4:4–11; 5:7–13); and performance of obeisance ritual as a prelude to war (Revelation 11–19). The coming of the New Jerusalem (Rev. 3:12; 21:2) is, therefore, merely another version of imperial conquest through violence.112 Like Prior and like Sánchez, Darden talks about imperial discourse as a kind of mythmaking;113 like Smith, Darden references Du Bois’s double consciousness and the challenge that the Roman imperial cult presented to early Christians.114 Unlike Sánchez, Darden stresses the inadequacy of merely reconfiguring imperial discourse for the purpose of resistance;115 unlike both Sánchez and Smith, Darden emphasizes the need to read the New Testament for its mimicry of, rather than its resistance to, colonialism and empire. Precisely because of the need to dismantle imperial structure, Darden uses what she sees as Revelation’s reinscription of imperial ideologies to caution African Americans of the danger of imitating the US Empire. That is why she features Cheryl Kirk-Duggan’s warning that African American liberationists must be mindful of the double consciousness in their own identity (i.e., their desire for both blackness and whiteness) and “the two-edged nature of the biblical texts” (i.e., the presence of both liberation and oppression).116 For the same reason, she cites approvingly a statement made by Cain Hope Felder: “[P]eople must seek to liberate themselves from the tendency to deify the Bible as the definitive and exclusive Word of God as if God’s entire revelation only exists in the canon of biblical literature.”117 Just to drive my point home about different readers of the same biblical text coming to different conclusions about what that same text has to say about colonialism, let me briefly mention another postcolonial womanist reading of Revelation. Though similarly informed by Bhabha’s theoretical work, what Shanell Smith makes of Revelation and colonialism is very

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different from that of Sánchez and that of Darden.118 Coupling Bhabha’s understanding of ambivalence as being simultaneously attracted and repulsed by colonialism and empire with Du Bois’s explanation of black experience in America in terms of “the veil” and double consciousness, Smith defines her encounter with Revelation—particularly the whore of Babylon in Revelation 17–18—with what she calls “ambiveilance.” This new word captures for Smith her feeling of being both a victim and a beneficiary of the US Empire. Being an educated and privileged professor but also a black woman, Smith appreciates and yet problematizes Revelation’s treatment of this well-dressed and bejeweled Babylonian whore. On the one hand, Smith affirms this apocalypse’s critique of Babylon as an indirect indictment of Rome as an imperial city; on the other hand, Smith is appalled by Revelation’s choice to portray Babylon or Rome as a woman who will be stripped naked, eaten, and burnt (Rev. 17:16; 18:8). As a reader, Smith feels being approbated and assaulted by Revelation one and the same time. VENTRILOQUIST NO MORE Viet Nguyen has argued in his book Race and Resistance that Asian American critics have for too long scrutinized texts “as demonstrating either resistance or accommodation to American racism.”119 For Nguyen, this essentializes Asian American writings and communities and thus runs the risk of duplicating an exclusionary politics through a rigid and binary ideological structure, since model minority performance, as Nguyen has learned from Bhabha’s theory of mimicry, may still destabilize a dominant narrative such as the one about “unassimilatable Asians.”120 As David Jefferess has also suggested from his scrutiny of postcolonial literature, resistance cannot be read in a single and rigid dimension: resistance can take place in the form of opposition but it can also take the form of subversion.121 Even if one can clearly differentiate resistance and accommodation, Nguyen further suggests that Asian Americans might pursue both resistance and accommodation simultaneously, or shift from one course of action to another at different times.122 In fact, Nguyen accuses Asian American critics for having a tendency to disavow their own accommodation, particularly their own investment in neoliberal capitalism through their publications and, hence, their disciplinary and career advancements.123 I bring this up because many still tend to read the Bible in similarly simplistic ways: Does it teach us to resist or submit to colonialism? I hope I have managed to remind us that the Bible is not one book but a library of books written by various authors, in different times, and with contrary views and understandings. Just within the New Testament, there are different genres,

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and genres, especially the three I have discussed above, can present quite a challenge to readers who seek textual meaning. Gospels, as narratives or stories about Jesus, do not give straight forward instructions or opinions. Letters are difficult to read, as we are getting only one side of the conversation. Apocalypse, with its codes, symbols, and verbal pictures, is known for its opacity to readers. Add to the question of genre the linguistic, cultural, and temporal distance, readers of the Bible today must do a lot of work and exercise quite a bit of creativity to make meaning of what is printed on a page. As Mary Louise Pratt points out, readers are, therefore, not passive receivers but active producers who often make different, even opposing meanings from the same page or passage.124 The scholars I surveyed above also show that readers of the New Testament read differently, even if they share the same gender, the same race, or the same minoritized status.125 Dale B. Martin, with what he calls “the myth of textual agency” has suggested repeatedly with more theoretical and theological arguments that readers make meanings out of the Bible, so the Bible really does not speak in and of itself without human interpretations.126 While Martin’s concern is about gender and sexuality, Albert Harrill has also used the nineteenth-century debates over slavery in the United States as a case study to show that the Bible does not “solve” moral debates, as readers can refer to different data or even the same data to make opposing arguments.127 Leng Leroy Lim has compared those who teach the Bible as Wizards of Oz who need to “come out from behind the curtain.”128 I have tried to show here that the same is true of so-called biblical views about colonialism. As desirable as it may be, I have resisted the temptation to suggest something like the New Testament is really not in support of colonialism and imperialism. It is more important in my view to acknowledge that the Bible is not a blueprint; it is not something that we use to think for us. The Bible is, instead, something for us to think with, and we think with the Bible not for the purpose of commending or condemning someone, some story, some passage, or some book as a good resister or a bad collaborator as if those are the only two—and neatly separable—choices, but to reaffirm our need to think and work with others to make ethically or morally responsible choices. Come to think of it, the Bible is in a sense yet another “myth of origin,” if I may use the vocabulary shared by Prior, Smith, Sánchez, and Darden. While many may see the Bible as the basis or the origins of their faith, the writings in the Bible were actually written and collected as an expression or affirmation of an already existing faith,129 not to mention how the so-called Bible is constantly being repackaged, reproduced, and hence revised.130 Saying simply that the Bible in general or the New Testament in particular is for or against colonialism may garner attention or, as Nguyen suggests, bring about advancements, but it is not intellectually honest.

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BETWEEN THESE COVERS In many ways, this present volume is a response to a statement Prior makes in his earlier volume: “I leave it to others to deal with any other selection of a veritable panoply of examples from the range of imperialist enterprise.”131 Like Prior’s earlier volume, this present volume will address the relations between the Bible and colonialism in several different world regions to provide a comparative framework. Unlike Prior’s volume, the regions will be divided here into Africa and the Middle East, Asia and the Pacific, and Latin America and the Caribbean. What Deepika Bahri suggests about comparing (post)colonial situations between the “ancient” and the “present” is also applicable to comparisons across multiple time periods and geographical regions, as readers will find here, for we are “not asking for a reduction of disparate geopolitical experiences to one generic framework, but . . . rather seeking a sensitivity.”132 There are at least four papers on each of these three broad regions, each addressing and analyzing the relations between Bible and colonialism in reference to a different, more specific location within a particular region. While I disagree with Prior’s treatment of this topic in many ways, I do agree with him when he writes in reference to Bible and colonialism: “This task is too large for any one person.”133 NOTES 1. I dedicate this introductory essay to the memory of Lynne St. Clair Darden, who passed away unexpectedly in her home in Atlanta, GA, just when I was writing about her work on Revelation and colonialism. Lynne was a conscientious scholar and a supportive colleague who will be greatly missed by many in our guild. 2. Michael Prior, The Bible and Colonialism: A Moral Critique (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997). While Prior does reference the scholarship of Edward W. Said a few times (Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 138, 261, 282), Prior’s book does not really engage what has already become in the 1990s a burgeoning field of postcolonial studies. 3. José Oscar Beozzo, “Humiliated and Exploited Natives,” in 1492–1992: The Voice of the Victims, ed. Leonardo Boff and Virgil Elizondo (Philadelphia: Trinity International, 1990), 82; cited in Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 66. 4. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 13, 209. For other factors or facilitating forces that helped bring about colonization, see Jared Diamond, Gun, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies (New York: W. W. Norton, 1997). Musa W. Dube has also suggested economics (“gold”), religion (“God”), narcissism (“glory”), and masculinity (“gender”) as causes; see her Postcolonial Feminist Interpretations of the Bible (St. Louis: Chalice, 2000).

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5. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 71–72, 92, 106, 174–213. 6. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 185–208. 7. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 216–52, 259. 8. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 265. 9. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 294, emphasis original. 10. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 16–46, 253–86. 11. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 284–85. 12. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 99–100, 285–86. To be fair, Prior does characterize the Hebrew prophetic tradition as “more universalist” than the Torah or the Hexateuch and makes a point to distinguish between Zionism and Judaism (Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 169, 209–211). However, he also thinks that universalism is “raised to a new intensity in the universalism of Jesus and the New Testament” and writes that a “Christological and messianic interpretation of the Old Testament allows these books to show forth their full meaning in the New Testament"; for Prior, there are “fundamental differences between the world view reflected in the writings of the New Testament and that perpetuated within Rabbinic Judaism” (Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 271, 283–85). 13. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 16–46, 253–86. Just to give one example of Prior’s acknowledgment that even his Catholic Old Testament contains diverse materials: Prior refers to Bartolomé de Las Casas citing chapters from the biblical book of Job, Sirach, and the “Hebrew prophetic tradition” to criticize the treatment of American Indians by his fellow Christian colonialists in the sixteenth century (Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 57–60). Note, however, that Prior’s emphasis here is more on different passages of the Bible being read by different readers, and less on how different readers might read the same biblical passages differently. According to Prior, people debating colonialism in Latin America “used those portions of the Scriptures which supported their own stance,” even though he also makes the observation on the very same page that those who used the Bible to support colonialism “were reading the Bible with Israelite, rather than Canaanite eyes” (Bible and Colonialism, 62; cf. 70, 102–103). Reading Exodus with Canaanite eyes implies, of course, that a reader may read the same text through different lens, including reading it against the grain, to come up with an opposing interpretation. Elsewhere in his book, Prior also connects Zionism with “a literalist interpretation of the biblical witness to land and of some of its messianic texts” (Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 171), the “extermination” of indigenous populations with a “simplistic reading of [biblical] traditions” (Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 263), and “major errors” with a “naïve interpretation” (Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 263); if so, then one may well wonder what may result if we approach the same text with other, non-literalist, more nuanced, or less naïve interpretations. Prior does mention allegorical ways of reading, though he quickly adds that such ways are “very much out of vogue today” (Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 272). 14. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 292–93. 15. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 104–5. 16. Trinh T. Minh-ha, Elsewhere, within Here: Immigration, Refugeeism and the Boundary Event (New York: Routledge, 2011), 51. See also Henry Louis Gates, Jr., Loose Canon: Notes on the Culture Wars (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 183.

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17. Michel Foucault, “Afterword: The Subject and Power,” in Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics, ed. Hubert Dreyfus and Paul Rabinow (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1982), 217. 18. Trinh, Elsewhere, within Here, 51. 19. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 45. 20. David W. Pao, Acts and the Isaianic New Exodus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000). 21. Pao, Acts and the Isaianic New Exodus, 111–248. 22. Pao, Acts and the Isaianic New Exodus, 59–68. 23. Way before postcolonial concerns enter the field of biblical studies, scholars of Luke-Acts have actually been making intermittent but rather persistent comments since the eighteenth century that Luke-Acts should be read as a defense of the church to dispel Roman suspicions or hostilities. This has much to do with the work of C. A. Heumann, who, in a short article in 1721 on Theophius (Luke 1:1–4; Acts 1:1–2), suggested that Theophilus was a Roman magistrate who received from Luke an apologia. See C. A. Heumann, “Dissertatio de Theophilo cui Lucas Historiam Sacram Inscripsit,” Bibliotheca Historicao-Philologico-Theologica 4 (1720): 483–505. See also Paul W. Walaskay, “And so we came to Rome”: The Political Perspective of St. Luke (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983); and Vernon K. Robbins, “Luke-Acts: A Mixed Population Seeks a Home in the Roman Empire,” in Images of Empire, ed. Loveday Alexander (Sheffield: JSOT, 1991), 202–221. 24. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 285. 25. Pao, Acts and the Isaianic New Exodus, 51–59. 26. Marianne Palmer Bonz, The Past as Legacy: Luke-Acts and Ancient Epic (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000). 27. Bonz, The Past as Legacy, 16. 28. Bonz, The Past as Legacy, 20; see also 1–25, 29, 183–93. 29. Bonz, The Past as Legacy, 19, 23, 26. Bonz proposes that Luke had precedents to follow, as there were other attempts to adapt Virgil’s Aeneid in the first century CE; see Bonz, The Past as Legacy, 27–29, 61–86. 30. Bonz, The Past as Legacy, 31–60, 87–94. 31. Bonz, The Past as Legacy, 129–83. 32. Bonz, The Past as Legacy, 95–128. 33. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 220–21. 34. Virginia Burrus, “The Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles,” in A Postcolonial Commentary on the New Testament Writings, ed. Fernando F. Segovia and R. S. Sugirtharajah (New York: T & T Clark, 2007), 133–55. 35. Burrus, “Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles,” 134–35. 36. Burrus, “Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles,” 135–39 (138–39). 37. Burrus, “Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles,” 136–37, 139–40. See James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990). 38. Burrus, “Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles,” 134, 146–48. See Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (New York: Routledge, 1994), 121–31. 39. Burrus, “Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles,” 145–48.

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40. Burrus, “Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles,” 133, 145, 147. See Mikhail M. Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, trans. C. Emerson and M. Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981). 41. Burrus, “Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles,” 146–47; see also 134, 139. Burrus gives several more examples of her ambivalent assessment of Luke’s ambiguous message, such as the story of Paul and two women—a slave girl and the Gentile merchant, Lydia—in Philippi in Acts 16 and its implication on Luke’s view of the Roman economy (Burrus, “Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles,” 150–52; cf. 140–44), or the story of Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch in Acts 8 in terms of Luke’s view on the Christian mission as a(nother) colonial enterprise (Burrus, “Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles,” 149–50). 42. Burrus, “Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles,” 152. 43. Rubén Muñoz-Larrondo, A Postcolonial Reading of the Acts of the Apostles (New York: Peter Lang, 2012). 44. Muñoz-Larrondo, A Postcolonial Reading of the Acts of the Apostles, 1, 231; see also 226. 45. Muñoz-Larrondo, A Postcolonial Reading of the Acts of the Apostles, 3–5. See Edward W. Said, Culture and Imperialism (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993), 66–67. 46. Muñoz-Larrondo, A Postcolonial Reading of the Acts of the Apostles, 43–74. 47. Muñoz-Larrondo, A Postcolonial Reading of the Acts of the Apostles, 70–71. 48. Muñoz-Larrondo, A Postcolonial Reading of the Acts of the Apostles, 75–116. 49. Muñoz-Larrondo, A Postcolonial Reading of the Acts of the Apostles, 231. 50. Muñoz-Larrondo, A Postcolonial Reading of the Acts of the Apostles, 73. Muñoz-Larrondo spends an entire chapter on how Acts portrays Roman authorities (Muñoz-Larrondo, A Postcolonial Reading of the Acts of the Apostles, 175–229). Reading Acts sequentially, Muñoz-Larrondo observes that Roman authorities who appear in Acts to either oppose Christians or intervene in conflicts involving followers of “the Way” become higher and higher in rank, but that only functions rhetorically in Acts to show the Romans as not only “fighting against God” (Acts 5:39) but also being impotent to stop God’s plan and work (Acts 2:23). 51. Muñoz-Larrondo, A Postcolonial Reading of the Acts of the Apostles, 115. 52. My contrast between using intertexts and scrutinizing contexts to read a New Testament book is heuristic but admittedly artificial. Readers of Luke-Acts and 1 Peter I discussed do both; the different is more one of degree and relative emphasis. 53. Paul A. Holloway, Coping with Prejudice: 1 Peter in Social-Psychological Perspective (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 4, 8, 40–66. 54. Holloway, Coping with Prejudice, 71–72; see also 67–70 for Holloway’s analysis of how 1 Peter 2–3 assumes that social prejudice and hostility may turn into the involvement of provincial courts and active persecution. 55. According to Holloway, “social prejudice” entails perceived threat on the part of those who have prejudiced, and social stress on the part of those being prejudiced against; it also has three elements: “(1) a cognitive element: stereotyping, (2) an affective element: prejudiced feelings, and (3) . . . a behavioral element: discrimination and hostility” (Holloway, Coping with Prejudice, 39).

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56. The letter is clear that its recipients have not only inherited “futile”—that is, ignorant or Godless—“ways” from their ancestors (1:18) but also “spent enough time . . . living in licentiousness, passions, drunkenness, revels, carousing, and lawless idolatry” as Gentiles (4:3). They are, therefore, assumed to be pagan converts to the way of Christ. Holloway argues that 1 Peter is employing these metaphors to encourage its readers to “disidentify” from the values of their “current residency in this world” and to embrace a new social identity as members of God’s family (Holloway, Coping with Prejudice, 139–40, 142–46; cf. 19–20). While Holloway characterizes God’s family in 1 Peter as apocalyptic and hence the need for 1 Peter’s recipients to identify with a future world to come (cf. Holloway, Coping with Prejudice, 156–73), he does not pursue the implications of the connection between what he calls “this world”—that is, the current world from which recipients should disidentify—and the imperial realities of Rome. For a reading that sees the recipients of 1 Peter as literally “resident aliens” or non-citizens, see John H. Elliott, A Home for the Homeless: A Sociological Exegesis of 1 Peter, Its Situation and Strategy (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981), 21–49. 57. Holloway, Coping with Prejudice, 154. 58. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, 1 Peter: Reading against the Grain (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2015), 22–33. Note that Schüssler Fiorenza is less committal on whether 1 Peter’s use of “sojourning aliens” and “non-citizens” (1:1, 17; 2:11) should be taken literally or metaphorically (Schüssler Fiorenza, 1 Peter, 26). 59. Schüssler Fiorenza, 1 Peter, 32. 60. Burrus, “Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles,” 139. 61. Schüssler Fiorenza, 1 Peter, 32. 62. Holloway, Coping with Prejudice, 180. Interestingly, Holloway discusses this in connection also with Scott’s idea of a “public transcript,” though he makes no comment on what that connection exactly implies in terms of 1 Peter’s view regarding colonialism and empire. 63. Schüssler Fiorenza, 1 Peter, 27. 64. Schüssler Fiorenza, 1 Peter, 31. 65. Schüssler Fiorenza, 1 Peter, 48–61. 66. It is worth pointing out that in contrast to Prior’s supersessionist reading of the Bible, Schüssler Fiorenza actually argues explicitly against such a reading of 1 Peter. To do so, she proposes using terms such as “Messias/Messianists” instead of “Christ/Christians”; see Schüssler Fiorenza, 1 Peter, 34–47. 67. Shively T. J. Smith, Strangers to Family: Diaspora and 1 Peter’s Invention of God’s Household (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2016). 68. Smith, Strangers to Family, xii. 69. It becomes clear as Smith’s book progresses that she understands 1 Peter to be addressing recipients who found themselves “in environments prone to violent and aggressive reprisals for cultural difference and social deviance” (Smith, Strangers to Family, 3). 70. Smith, Strangers to Family, 26–29, 32. 71. Smith, Strangers to Family, 2, 42. 72. Smith, Strangers to Family, 9, emphasis mine.

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73. Smith, Strangers to Family, 71, 73; see also 70–74. Despite 1 Peter’s advice that a wife should follow conventional Greco-Roman household etiquette in marriage, Smith reads it as emphasizing the right for a wife to have her own religion—both in terms of private experience and public voice—that is independent and even different from that of her husband, as well as acknowledging that a wife has the capacity to change and convert her husband through her actions, not to mention the letter’s articulation that both husband and wife are accountable to each other mutually and to God ultimately. Human’s ultimate accountability to God as “Father” explains, in Smith’s reading, why 1 Peter’s household codes do not address the parent-child dyad. See Smith, Strangers to Family, 75–80. 74. Smith, Strangers to Family, 61–62, 72. 75. Smith, Strangers to Family, 62, 66, 70. 76. Smith, Strangers to Family, 165, 169. 77. Smith, Strangers to Family, 68–69, 74. 78. Smith, Strangers to Family, 70–82. 79. Smith, Strangers to Family, 12. 80. Smith, Strangers to Family, 15. 81. Smith, Strangers to Family, 19, 20. 82. Smith, Strangers to Family, 22–23, 29–30. 83. Smith, Strangers to Family, 42. 84. Smith, Strangers to Family, 23–26. 85. Smith, Strangers to Family, 34–35; see also 25, 40, 42. 86. Smith, Strangers to Family, 21–30. 87. Smith, Strangers to Family, 35; see also 31–32, 45. My careful readers will remember Prior’s critique of “colonial myths,” both those that are shared by colonialists from different times and places and those that are particular to Zionists (Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 174–213). Should we understand Smith’s choice of the term “myth” here as, in effect, a negotiation of myths in colonial situation? 88. Smith, Strangers to Family, 11 no. 26, 30, 32, 46. See W. E. B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk (Chicago: A. G. McClurg, 1903), 8. 89. Smith, Strangers to Family, 45, 46. Though she does admit that the strategy of “doing good” may have its drawback and that some of its advice may be similar to what can be found in first-century Roman culture (54, 75). 90. Smith, Strangers to Family, 26. 91. Smith, Strangers to Family, 50; see also 61, 83. In fact, Smith suggests that those who read 1 Peter as being oppressive or pro-imperial may be guilty of failing to consider “the sociohistorical context that gave rise to 1 Peter” (Smith, Strangers to Family, 164). 92. Smith, Strangers to Family, 12. 93. Smith, Strangers to Family, 165–66; see also 61–62. 94. Smith, Strangers to Family, 163. 95. Smith, Strangers to Family, 167; see also 2. 96. Smith, Strangers to Family, 9. 97. Schüssler Fiorenza, 1 Peter, 28. 98. Smith, Strangers to Family, 7.

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99. David A. Sánchez, From Patmos to the Barrio: Subverting Imperial Myths (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2008). 100. Sánchez, From Patmos to the Barrio, 13–46. 101. Sánchez, From Patmos to the Barrio, 47–82. 102. Note that both Sánchez and Prior acknowledge that the colonization of Latin America—whether by Columbus or by later Spaniards—was partly motivated by an apocalyptic fervor, which is, for Christians, most closely connected with the New Testament book of Revelation or the Apocalypse of John. See Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 53–54; and Sánchez, From Patmos to the Barrio, 50–54. Some Zionists also see the “rebirth” of an independent Jewish state as a necessary preparation for the coming of the Messiah (Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 116, 158–61). 103. Sánchez, From Patmos to the Barrio, 83–113. 104. See Vincent L. Wimbush, ed., African Americans and the Bible: Sacred Texts and Social Textures (New York: Continuum, 2000). 105. Sánchez, From Patmos to the Barrio, 115–26. 106. Sánchez, From Patmos to the Barrio, 121, 107. Lynne St. Clair Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation: An African American Postcolonial Reading of Empire (Atlanta: SBL, 2015). In addition to sharing Sánchez’s theoretical repertoire, Darden also uses Henry Louis Gates’s theory of “signifyin(g)” and theories of cultural memory to pursue her reading of Revelation (5, 24). See Henry Louis Gates, The Signifying Monkey: A Theory of Afro-American Literary Criticism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988); for cultural memory, see, for instance, Nora Pierre, Les Lieux de mémoire (3 vols.; Paris: Gallimard, 1997). 108. Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, xii, 1–7, 13–15, 24–43. 109. Wimbush, White Men’s Magic: Scripturalization as Slavery (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012). 110. Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, 19, 25, 80. 111. Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, 53 n. 10, 113, xi; see also 105. Note that Darden distinguishes her own work from earlier readings by African American scholars mainly on the basis of different theoretical repertoires being employed. Instead of relying on liberation theology, she refers to postcolonial theory (11; cf. 46, 50–53, 139–44). 112. Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, 145–55. In addition, Darden discusses briefly how Revelation’s letters to the seven churches (Revelation 2–3) also function to exclude fellow Christians who might have a different view about their involvement in the larger society through a rigid “us-versus-them” mentality and a mere inversion of Rome’s societal stratification (Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, 122–27). Darden does not focus on Revelation 12 as Sánchez does, but she does allude to the chapter in her discussion of the Bible as a cultural icon in the United States. According to Darden, Puritans had presented New England as the new Jerusalem and compared their trans-Atlantic journey to that of the woman in Revelation 12: she is clothed with the sun and flees into the wilderness to escape from Satan the dragon, because Satan had made a mess in Babylon, meaning, for the Puritans, the old England (81–82). 113. Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, 2–4, 9–10, 64, 81–88, 94, 110–11, 128, 136–39, 159–60.

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114. Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, 6, 9, 22, 27–28, 45–48, 58–75, 127–33. While Darden does not make this explicit, she seems to see some connections among Du Bois’s “double consciousness,” Gates’s “signifyin(g)” in terms of “(re)doubling,” and cultural memory as “twice-behaved behavior” (Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, 29–31). 115. Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, xi, 4–6, 10, 73, 104. 116. Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, 41–42. See Cheryl Kirk-Duggan, “Let My People Go! Threads of Exodus in African American Narratives,” in Yet with a Steady Beat: U.S. Afrocentric Biblical Interpretation, ed. Randall C. Bailey (Atlanta: SBL, 2003), 123–43. 117. Cain Hope Felder, Troubling Biblical Waters: Race, Class, and Family (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1989), 53; cited in Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, 37. 118. Shanell T. Smith, The Woman Babylon and the Marks of Empire: Reading Revelation with a Postcolonial Womanist Hermeneutics of Ambiveilance (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014). 119. Viet Thanh Nguyen, Race and Resistance: Literature and Politics in Asian America (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 7. 120. Nguyen, Race and Resistance, 11, 50–54, 132–33, 168. 121. David Jefferess, Postcolonial Resistance: Culture, Liberation and Transformation (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008). 122. Nguyen, Race and Resistance, 144–45. 123. Nguyen, Race and Resistance, 58. 124. Mary Louise Pratt, “Interpretive Strategies/Strategic Interpretations: On Anglo-American Reader Response Criticism,” boundary 2 11 (1982–83): 201–231. While Pratt, in that same article, recommends the importance of making strategic interpretations, we must keep in mind that what counts as “strategic” also varies with different readers. 125. The reality of multiple readings, whether because of readers choosing different interpretive strategies or theoretical repertoires, is explicitly acknowledged in Schüssler Fiorenza, 1 Peter, 28, and Darden, Scripturalizing Revelation, 11. 126. Dale B. Martin, Sex and the Single Savior: Gender and Sexuality in Biblical Interpretation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2006), 1–16. 127. J. Albert Harrill, “The Use of the New Testament in the American Slave Controversy: A Case History in the Hermeneutical Tension between Biblical Criticism and Christian Moral Debate,” Religion and American Culture: A Journal of Interpretation 10 (2000): 149–86. 128. Leng Leroy Lim, “‘The Bible Tells Me to Hate Myself’: The Crisis in Asian American Spiritual Leadership,” Semeia 90 (2002): 320. 129. Dale B. Martin, Biblical Truths: The Meaning of Scripture in the Twenty-First Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2017), 71–110. 130. Timothy Beal, “Beyond Reception History: Toward the Cultural History of Scriptures,” Biblical Interpretation 19 (2011): 357–72. 131. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 44. 132. Deepika Bahri, “Once More with Feeling: What Is Postcolonialism?” Ariel: A Review of International English Literature 26 (1995): 56. 133. Prior, Bible and Colonialism, 12.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Bahri, Deepika. “Once More with Feeling: What Is Postcolonialism?” Ariel: A Review of International English Literature 26 (1995): 51–82. Bakhtin, Mikhail M. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays. Translated by C. Emerson and M. Holquist. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981. Beal, Timothy. “Beyond Reception History: Toward the Cultural History of Scriptures.” Biblical Interpretation 19 (2011): 357–372. Beozzo, José Oscar. “Humiliated and Exploited Natives.” In 1492–1992: The Voice of the Victims. Edited by Leonardo Boff and Virgil Elizondo, 78–89. Philadelphia: Trinity International, 1990. Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. New York: Routledge, 1994. Bonz, Marianne Palmer. The Past as Legacy: Luke-Acts and Ancient Epic. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000. Burrus, Virginia. “The Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles,” in A Postcolonial Commentary on the New Testament Writings. Edited by Fernando F. Segovia and R. S. Sugirtharajah, 133–155. New York: T & T Clark, 2007. Darden, Lynne St. Clair. Scripturalizing Revelation: An African American Postcolonial Reading of Empire. Atlanta: SBL, 2015. Diamond, Jared. Gun, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies. New York: W. W. Norton, 1997. Du Bois, W. E. B. The Souls of Black Folk. Chicago: A. G. McClurg, 1903. Dube, Musa W. Postcolonial Feminist Interpretations of the Bible. St. Louis: Chalice, 2000. Elliott, John H. A Home for the Homeless: A Sociological Exegesis of 1 Peter, Its Situation and Strategy. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981. Felder, Cain Hope. Troubling Biblical Waters: Race, Class, and Family. Maryknoll: Orbis, 1989. Foucault, Michel. “Afterword: The Subject and Power.” In Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics. Edited by Hubert Dreyfus and Paul Rabinow, 208–226. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1982. Gates, Henry Louis Jr. Loose Canon: Notes on the Culture Wars. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992. ———. The Signifying Monkey: A Theory of Afro-American Literary Criticism. New York: Oxford University Press, 1988. Harrill, J. Albert. “The Use of the New Testament in the American Slave Controversy: A Case History in the Hermeneutical Tension between Biblical Criticism and Christian Moral Debate.” Religion and American Culture: A Journal of Interpretation 10 (2000): 149–186. Heumann, C. A. “Dissertatio de Theophilo cui Lucas Historiam Sacram Inscripsit.” Bibliotheca Historicao-Philologico-Theologica 4 (1720): 483–505. Holloway, Paul A. Coping with Prejudice: 1 Peter in Social-Psychological Perspective. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009. Jefferess, David. Postcolonial Resistance: Culture, Liberation and Transformation. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008.

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Kirk-Duggan, Cheryl “Let My People Go! Threads of Exodus in African American Narratives.” In Yet with a Steady Beat: U.S. Afrocentric Biblical Interpretation. Edited by Randall C. Bailey, 123–143. Atlanta: SBL, 2003. Lim, Leng Leroy. “‘The Bible Tells Me to Hate Myself’: The Crisis in Asian American Spiritual Leadership.” Semeia 90 (2002): 315–322. Martin, Dale B. Sex and the Single Savior: Gender and Sexuality in Biblical Interpretation. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2006. ———. Biblical Truths: The Meaning of Scripture in the Twenty-First Century. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2017. Muñoz-Larrondo, Rubén. A Postcolonial Reading of the Acts of the Apostles. New York: Peter Lang, 2012. Nguyen, Viet Thanh. Race and Resistance: Literature and Politics in Asian America. New York: Oxford University Press, 2002. Pao, David W. Acts and the Isaianic New Exodus. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000. Pierre, Nora. Les Lieux de mémoire. 3 vols. Paris: Gallimard, 1997. Pratt, Mary Louise. “Interpretive Strategies/Strategic Interpretations: On AngloAmerican Reader Response Criticism.” boundary 2 11 (1982–83): 201–231. Prior, Michael. The Bible and Colonialism: A Moral Critique. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997. Robbins, Vernon K. “Luke-Acts: A Mixed Population Seeks a Home in the Roman Empire.” In Images of Empire. Edited by Loveday Alexander, 202–221. Sheffield: JSOT, 1991). Said, Edward W. Culture and Imperialism. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993. Sánchez, David A. From Patmos to the Barrio: Subverting Imperial Myths. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2008. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. 1 Peter: Reading against the Grain. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2015. Scott, James C. Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990. Smith, Shanell T. The Woman Babylon and the Marks of Empire: Reading Revelation with a Postcolonial Womanist Hermeneutics of Ambiveilance. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014. Smith, Shively T. J. Strangers to Family: Diaspora and 1 Peter’s Invention of God’s Household. Waco: Baylor University Press, 2016. Trinh, T. Minh-ha. Elsewhere, within Here: Immigration, Refugeeism and the Boundary Event. New York: Routledge, 2011. Walaskay, Paul W. “And so we came to Rome”: The Political Perspective of St. Luke. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Wimbush, Vincent L. ed. African Americans and the Bible: Sacred Texts and Social Textures. New York: Continuum, 2000. ———. White Men’s Magic: Scripturalization as Slavery. New York: Oxford University Press, 2012.

Part I

AFRICA AND THE MIDDLE EAST

Chapter 1

Interrogating Identity A Christian Egyptian Reading of the Hagar-Ishmael Traditions1 Safwat Marzouk In this chapter I will offer a Christian Egyptian reading of the traditions concerning Hagar and Ishmael as found in the book of Genesis. I will argue that the affliction that Hagar the Egyptian maidservant experiences in Abraham’s household deconstructs the tendency to essentialize the portrayal of Egypt and of the Egyptians as the oppressors; thus, the simple binary opposite of oppressor and oppressed is destabilized. Further, I will show that the blessings that Hagar and Abraham receive on behalf of Ishmael and the conflicting traditions about the inclusion/exclusion of Ishmael from the covenant invite us to resist simple categorizations of insider and outsider. Ishmael’s hybrid identity confounds rigid categories, a trait that is reflected in the interstitial and the liminal geographical space that he and his descendants occupy between Egypt and the Land of Canaan. Toward this end, I will begin with a summary of the stories of Hagar and ­Ishmael. This will be followed by a presentation on how the stories of Hagar and Ishmael have been understood through the lens of binary opposites. This section will include a discussion of Christian Egyptian hermeneutics and the way Hagar and Ishmael are received among this faith community. In the last two sections of the chapter, I will offer a reading of Hagar and Ishmael from a Christian Egyptian perspective that seeks to de-essentialize the portrayal of Egypt as the oppressor in the Hebrew Bible and that celebrates Ishmael’s hybrid identity. THE STORIES OF HAGAR AND ISHMAEL Different traditions, Priestly2 and non-Priestly, shape the stories of Hagar and Ishmael (Gen 16, 17, 21:8–21, and 25:7–18). According to the documentary hypothesis, chapter 16 belongs to the Yahwist source,3 while chapters 17 and 3

4

Safwat Marzouk

25:7–184 belong to the Priestly source, and 21:8–21 belongs to the Elohist source. It is a matter of debate among scholars whether the running away of Hagar in Gen 16 and her expulsion along with Ishmael in Gen 21:8–21 were independent variant stories or whether the expulsion narrative in Gen 21:8–21 is familiar with, assumes, and complements the birth narrative of Ishmael in Gen 16.5 Based on the references to Šumuʾil/S1amaʿʾil/Ishmael in the neo-Assyrian royal annals of the 7th century, Ernst Axel Knauf has argued that the biblical tradition found in Genesis 16 is likely to have emerged from that era and that the story of the expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael in Gen 21:8–21 is likely to have emerged at a later period, and thus he regards it as a post-Priestly text.6 Albert de Pury contends that the traditions found in Genesis 16 and 21 concerning Hagar and Ishmael are in fact post-Priestly and that their purpose is to “diminish the impact of the Priestly writer’s ‘ecumenism,’ especially concerning the legitimacy of sharing the land of Canaan with other sons of Abraham.”7 Despite the diversity in scholarly opinions on the formation and the historical contexts of the traditions concerning Hagar and Ishmael, redaction criticism is useful in unpacking the diversity of the theological and political point of views among ancient Israelites with regard to the inclusion/ exclusion and oppression/survival of both Hagar and Ishmael. It is likely that the traditions concerning Ishmael and Hagar have emerged in some form from the pre-exilic period. Yet, the prominent role that Geshem the Arab—who is known as the “king of Kedar,” one of the tribes of Ishmael, according to Gen 25:13—played in the conflict between the Judahite returnees from the exile and the local authorities in the land of Judah created a fertile context for the stories of Hagar and Ishmael to become popular. Although the Persians oversaw Geshem the Arab’s authority, his power reached south, east, and west of Judah all the way to Egypt. Knauf argues, “In the middle of the 5th century, a shaykh of Qedar, Guśam bin Sõahr (the biblical Geshem) ruled over S Palestine, the Sinai to the borders of Egypt, Transjordan and NW Arabia, all areas under Persian control.”8 In addition to the conflict with the local authorities, including Geshem the Arab, the returnees from the exile had an identity crisis.9 In the book of Ezra chapter 9, we read a report on the unfaithfulness of the people of Israel, from the days of the ancestors (‫)מימי אבתינו‬, who have taken foreign wives, including even Egyptian wives.10 As a result, “the holy seed (‫ )זרע הקדוש‬has mixed itself with the peoples of the lands.” The purity of the identity of the “holy seed” was in danger by means of intermixed marriages that produce hybrid breed.11 In such a context, the stories of Hagar and Ishmael with their theological diversity would have resonated with the identity crisis that the community of the Persian Yehud was facing. On one level, some strands of the stories

Interrogating Identity

5

would have supported the Ezra reform, which led to the expulsion of the foreign wives and their children. On another level, the stories would likely have given a voice to the other strands within the community, which argued for the inclusion of the mixed-breed children into the community and the land based on the inclusion of Ishmael in God’s covenant with Abraham. If this hypothesis about the reception of the stories of Hagar and Ishmael in the Judean community is correct, then these stories give us a glimpse into the lives and emotions of the expelled wives and their children, whom God also sustained and provided for. Above all, the divine care for Hagar the Egyptian and her son and the inclusion of Ishmael in the covenant challenge any notions of rigid understanding of identity. By maintaining sameness and difference between Ishmael and Isaac, the texts offer a complex relation between self and other. Ishmael embodies a third way to exclusion and assimilation. INTERPRETING THE HEBREW BIBLE AND THE QUESTION OF IDENTITY The stories of Hagar and Ishmael still resonate with communities that wrestle with formulating their identity in the light of historical and religious changes. Now I will turn to the reception of the stories of Hagar and Ishmael in the Christian Egyptian context. Before doing so, however, I will discuss briefly the hermeneutical as well as the cultural context in which the Christian Egyptian community is located. Christian Egyptians face a hermeneutical dilemma when they read the Hebrew Bible. The negative portrayal of Egypt in Hebrew scriptures as the house of slavery (Ex 20:2; Deut 8:14), embodying it as monster of chaos in Ezekiel 29 and 32 or representing it as a threat to the Israelite identity as in Jeremiah 40–42, overshadows the blessing of Egypt (Isa 19:25) and Egypt’s role as a place of refuge for the ancestors (Genesis 12; 37–50) and Jeroboam (1 Kings 11). The Hebrew Bible, which developed over a long period of time as Israel’s testimony of its experience of the divine, has become a sacred text found in the hands of Egyptians, read in synagogues, churches, and mosques as their scripture. Because a significant aspect of Israel’s testimony centers on the exodus event, in which Egypt is portrayed as a place of oppression and as a threat to the Israelite identity, the status of the Hebrew Bible as scripture has undergone severe scrutiny in recent years. I believe that reading the Hebrew Bible in a Christian Egyptian context raises questions about identity. A tension has risen: on the one hand, the religious facet of identity, signified by a commitment to continue to read the Hebrew Bible as scripture, despite its negative representation of Egypt; on the other hand, the political facet of

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identity, manifested in tracing the Egyptian identity, despite the historical and cultural changes, back to the pharaonic period. Religion in modern Egyptian society is an identity component. Religious affiliation is determined at birth, inherited from the parents, and made official by explicitly listing it in birth certificates and Identification Cards. Whether or not people practice their religion, they are labeled Muslims (ca. 89% of the population), Christians (ca. 10%), or Jews or other (ca. 1%, official numbers are unknown). Religion, therefore, is an essential identity marker in contemporary Egypt. In various incidents throughout the past four decades, the religious facet of identity has become an instigator of conflict and violence between the Muslim Egyptian majority and the Christian Egyptian minority. In addition to the minority status of Christian Egyptians, which has impacted the way they interpret the Bible, the political situation in the Middle East, that is, the Arab-Israeli conflict, and more specifically the wars of 1967 and 1973, has raised many questions for Middle Eastern Christians, including Christian Egyptians, with regard to appropriating the Hebrew Bible as scripture. Christian Egyptians are thus caught in a tension between the two facets of their identity, the religious and the political. As Christian Egyptians struggle with formulating their identity in the light of the negative representation of Egypt in the Hebrew Bible, two approaches emerge, each favoring a facet of their identity. The first approach discards the text and refuses to engage with it because it finds it offensive. This approach dismisses the religious aspect, namely engaging with the Hebrew Bible as a part of their scriptures, for the sake of maintaining the political aspect of their identity. It is likely that highlighting the nationalistic facet of identity, which leads to rejecting the Hebrew Bible as scripture, is a reaction to the use of the Hebrew Bible in the Israeli nationalistic discourse. The second approach finds hope in allegorical interpretation, arguing that Egypt in the Bible is just a symbol for something else. As Christians appropriate the text of the Hebrew Bible, according to this approach, they should identify themselves with the Israelites and not the Egyptians. This allegorical approach dismisses the political facet of the identity of Christian Egyptians in order to redeem the religious facet of identity in order to hold onto the text as scripture. This allegorical approach bears further comment. Many Christian Egyptians shy away from identifying with Egypt as represented in the biblical texts. In the context of reading scriptures, the political identity of many Christian Egyptians is masked by their religious identity: they relate themselves to the Israelites. The underlying issue in this hermeneutical approach has to do with accepting the biblical portrayal of Egypt uncritically or explaining it away allegorically, without reflecting on how this representation of Egypt shapes one’s self-image and self-understanding. The way in which allegorical

Interrogating Identity

7

interpretation is employed results in alienating the political facet of identity of the Christian Egyptian readers of scripture. It is ironic, however, to note that Christian Egyptians who allegorize the offensive texts still tend to read the texts that speak favorably of Egypt (Isa 19:25) in a literal manner. Christian Egyptians create different zones in which they entertain the religious and the political facets of their identity independently. HAGAR AND ISHMAEL IN CHRISTIAN EGYPTIAN INTERPRETATION In the process of reading and interpreting the ancestral stories of Hagar and Ishmael, most Christian Egyptians avoid reading them from the perspective of these two figures and instead identify with Sarah and Isaac. This interpretive move is shaped by a worldview of binary oppositions in which Sarah/ Isaac and Hagar/Ishmael are the prototypes of Christian Egyptians versus Muslim Egyptians. Sarah/Isaac Religious The Christian Minority

Hagar/Ishmael Political The Muslim Majority

A major reason for this hermeneutical decision has to do with the approach that favors a storyline that moves from the ancestors to Jesus Christ. Yet, there is another reason that lies behind this hermeneutical identification with Sarah/Isaac, and this has to do with Christian-Muslim tensions. Although the social location of the oppressed and cast-out Hagar/Ishmael is closer to the social location and experience of the marginalized Christian minority, their rejection of Hagar the Egyptian and Ishmael functions in a subtle way as a posture of resistance to the Muslim majority, which traces its traditions back to Hagar and Ishmael.12 This dualistic reading in which Hagar/Ishmael, on the one hand, and Sarah/ Isaac, on the other hand, represent polar opposites is analogous to the allegorical interpretation of the apostle Paul found in the epistle to the ­Galatians.13 In Galatians 4, Paul continues his criticism of the Jewish Christians who believed that circumcision and observance of the Mosaic Law were a required step for gentiles before becoming Christians. Interpreting the story of Hagar/ Ishmael and Sarah/Isaac allegorically, Paul deconstructs the claims of his contemporary Jewish Christians by associating the Mosaic Law with Hagar/ Ishmael. Christians, who are free from the Mosaic Law in his perspective, however, are to be associated with Sarah and the child of the promise Isaac. Thus the apostle creates a dichotomy between:

8

Hagar/Ishmael Slave Egyptian Flesh Mount Sinai Present Jerusalem

Safwat Marzouk

Sarah/Isaac Free Hebrew Promise Spirit Jerusalem Above

Paul, therefore, declares to his audience, “So then, friends, we are children, not of the slave but of the free woman.” In its context, the author appropriates the stories of Hagar/Sarah and Ishmael/Isaac in order to include the gentiles without any previous conditions. Would it not have made more sense for Paul to argue for Ishmael’s inclusion in the covenant as a way of supporting the inclusion of the gentiles? It is likely that Paul avoided this argument because Ishmael’s inclusion happened only through his circumcision, the very same thing Paul is refuting in Galatians. At any rate, Paul’s allegorical interpretation maintains a binary opposition in which Sarah represents the greater, the better, and the ones who are included, and Hagar, on the other hand, represents the inferior, and the ones who are excluded.14 Such an interpretation reduces the complexity and the ambivalence that we find in the book of Genesis. The traditions and strands that are collected in the book of Genesis draw a complex picture of the characters of Hagar and Ishmael. The way in which this Egyptian woman and her mixed-breed son relate to God and relate to Abraham, Isaac, and Sarah vary from one tradition to the other. • The abused, oppressed, pregnant Egyptian slave who was asked by the messenger of the LORD to return to her mistress to be humiliated by Sarah, also received a word of comfort by the messenger that the LORD has paid attention to her affliction (Gen 16:6–14). • While Hagar and Ishmael were expelled out of Abraham’s household after the birth of Isaac because of Sarah’s harsh command, which was approved by God, God hears their cry, provides water for them, and accompanies them in the desert (21:9–21). • The non-Priestly tradition in Gen 21:21 has the expelled Ishmael living outside of the Promised Land, while the Priestly traditions do not mention any expulsion for Ishmael; instead, Ishmael appears later to join his brother Isaac as they bury their father Abraham (25:9). • In the Priestly version of the covenant between God and Abraham (Gen 17), the text is ambivalent with regard to the inclusion/exclusion of Ishmael in the covenant. The covenant between God and Abraham and his descendants after him entails the fruitfulness of Abraham and his descendants

Interrogating Identity

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(17:2, 4) and the inheritance of the land (17:8). It is characterized further in this chapter as a covenant of circumcision; hence, one assumes that Ishmael is included in the covenant, since he is a descendant of Abraham (17:23–27). Yet the text asserts that God’s covenant with Abraham will be established only through Isaac, the son of Sarah, and thus, the text seems to distinguish between Ishmael and Isaac in the way they are treated as covenantal partners (17:15–22). The long history of the formation of these stories leaves us with an ambivalent construction of how ancient Israelites related to Hagar and Ishmael. These diverse attitudes toward Hagar and Ishmael call the readers to resist approaching them through the lens of the simple binary opposition of insider and outsider. HAGAR AND ISHMAEL PROBLEMATIZE BINARY OPPOSITION Now that I have introduced the nature of the biblical traditions about Hagar and Ishmael and elaborated on the cultural location of the Christian Egyptian readers of the Hebrew Bible and how this cultural location has forced the readers to polarize the different facets of identity (religious and political), I will argue in what follows that the diverse traditions concerning Hagar and Ishmael create a third way in which the Christian Egyptian reader can relate to the Hebrew Bible as scripture—constructing an identity that escapes binary opposites. The task of biblical interpretation in an Egyptian Christian context has to tackle two issues. The first is to challenge those who take the text at face value without considering how the negative portrayal of Egypt in Scripture has impacted the way they think about who they are. The second task is to challenge those who reject the biblical text simply because they find it offensive to their political identity. Reading the Old Testament as a “Christian” “Egyptian” means living with an identity that holds a tension, a paradox, in being simultaneously an “Egyptian” and an “Israelite.” In the light of the tension that Christian Egyptians experience when they encounter the Hebrew Bible, I believe that the way postcolonial criticism problematizes the binary opposition between self and other provides some insights into the process of constructing a hybrid identity and a third space in which paradoxical components of identity can coexist, in this case the political and the religious facets of the Christian Egyptian identity. Looking at identity as something fluid and hybrid, recognizing that formulating an identity is an ongoing process, enables one to live with paradox.

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Homi Bhabha15 develops a variety of concepts to question “the simple polarization of the world into self and other.”16 The relation between self and other is neither straightforward nor constructed through a simple binary opposition. The binary-oppositional way of thinking defines the world through systems of pairs that are set off against one another: men versus women, white versus black, East versus West, us versus them, self versus other, and so forth. This is a simplified and popular way of thinking, but not necessarily a true reflection of reality. Bhabha’s work emphasizes the hybridity of identity. This concept refers to mixedness and impurity of identity. Bhabha also urges critics to look into what happens at the borderlines of these hybrid identities. The liminal, the interstitial (the border, the threshold, the in-between) brings forth new forms of identities that complicate any rigid construction of self and other. Using psychoanalysis, Bhabha argues that “identities are incomplete, whether they are individual or collective identities. This incompleteness is not a problem to be solved, and we could never in principle have a full or complete identity. Instead, the incompleteness of identity needs to be acknowledged.”17 Identity is neither stable nor coherent, “the situation affects the subject, just as much as the subject acts upon the situation. . . . Choices made by other people construct our identities, and our own choices in turn construct and transform our identities: our day-to-day activities continue this process of construction. . . . As subjects we both create and are created. . . . Subjectivity is always in process.”18 In postcolonial discourse the relation between the self and the other represents the relation between the colonizer and the colonized. In the process of formulating the identity of Christian Egyptians, the self and the other represents the relation between the political and the religious facets of identity. Constructing an identity by means of binary opposition, one has to choose one or the other, or construct one over against the other. However, formulating a hybrid identity allows one to embrace both aspects of one’s identity, the religious and the political. By embracing both, being an Egyptian and being an Israelite, one negotiates difference and sameness not with an Other that is outside of oneself, but rather with an Other that is within. Vocationally, when one learns how to live with one’s own inner-otherness and when one sees one’s self as an other, one is a better place for dialogue with those others who are outside of one’s self. Reversal of Oppressed and Oppressor: De-Essentialization The predominant image of Egypt in the Hebrew Bible and in the memory of its readers is that Egypt is the house of slavery, where the ancient Israelites were oppressed. There is a reversal, however, that takes place in the story of Hagar, in which Sarah, the ancestress of the Israelites, afflicts an Egyptian

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woman. Though this reversal does not undo the oppression that the Israelites experienced in Egypt, it destabilizes the tendency to speak of Egypt only as the place of oppression. Although the womanist scholar Renita Weems acknowledges the ethnic layer of difference between Sarah and Hagar, she is far more interested in the economic difference between the mistress and the slave girl: “While her mistress was old and had no hope in conceiving a child, Hagar was young and fertile. But Hagar was poor. In fact she was worse than poor: she was also a slave. And because she was a slave, Hagar was powerless. The difference between the two women, therefore, went beyond their ethnic identities, beyond their productive capabilities. Their disparities were centered in their contrasting economic positions.”19 There is no doubt that the economic difference between Sarah and Hagar is prominent in the stories; this is evident in the many times the text identifies Hagar as Sarah’s maidservant (16:1, 3, 8; 25:12). Yet, at the same time, the texts almost always mention the fact that Hagar was an Egyptian maidservant (16:1, 3; 21:9; 25:12).20 In the latter story, when Hagar and Ishmael have settled down in the wilderness, the text informs us that Hagar got Ishmael a wife from Egypt (21:21). Because Sarah, the Hebrew mistress, was barren, she decided to give her maidservant to her husband, Abraham, as a wife, so that she, Sarah, would have children (16:1–3). When Hagar conceived, her mistress trifled in her eyes.21 When Sarah complains to Abraham, naming what Hagar did to her as violence, Abraham tells Sarah to do to her what is good in her eyes. Sarah’s “eyes” could not see beyond the cultural expectations and the lower selfesteem; therefore, she oppressed Hagar the Egyptian (16:4–6). The same verb (‫ענה‬, Pi’el) that is used to describe Sarah’s affliction of Hagar the Egyptian (Gen 16:6) is also used to describe the oppression inflicted upon the Israelites by the Egyptians (Deut 26:6; Pi’el). Ironically, in the immediate context, in Genesis 15:13, the LORD informs Abraham that his descendants will be oppressed (‫ענה‬, Pi’el) in a foreign land for four hundred years. Unable to bear this oppression, Hagar decided to flee (‫ )ברח‬in Gen 16:6; this verb is used to describe the flight of the Israelites from oppression in Egypt (Ex 14:5). In a similar manner, when Sarah commands Abraham to cast out the Egyptian slave woman and her son Ishmael (Gen 21:10), the text uses the verb ‫גרש‬ (Pi’el), which is used also to describe the casting out of the Israelite slaves by Pharaoh, the king of Egypt, in the book of Exodus (10:11; 11:1; 12:39). The verb ‫“( שלח‬to send”) is used in Gen 21:14 to describe Abraham’s sending of Hagar the Egyptian into the wilderness; the same verb is used in Exodus 5:1–2 in order to speak of the freeing of the Israelites from the Egyptian oppression. This action of sending out recalls the incident when Pharaoh’s servants sent Abraham, with Sarah and all that he had, out of Egypt in a complex narrative that anticipates the descent of the Israelites into Egypt, the

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plagues over Egypt, and the departure of the Israelites from Egypt carrying many goods (Gen 12:12–20). When Hagar left Abraham’s household with a small amount of supplies, she started wandering in the wilderness. The verb ‫( תעה‬to wander), which describes Hagar’s loss of direction, was also used to describe the way the people of Israel went astray in the wilderness after their deliverance from Egypt (Psalm 95:10; cf. 107:4). Note that wandering in the wilderness in these two references, Psalm 95:10 and 107:4, is mentioned in a context in which God provided water for the people (95:8–9; 107:5). This is similar to what Hagar experiences when God opens her eyes and she sees a well of water through which she and her son Ishmael survive the desert. It has been noted that, despite the similarities between Hagar’s experience and the experience of the Israelites, the stories, after all, go in completely different directions. In the first episode, the angel of the LORD asks Hagar to return to her mistress and to be afflicted under her hand (cf. 16:9; cf. 16:6). Phyllis Trible writes, “Without doubt, these two imperatives, return and submit to suffering, bring a divine word of terror to an abused, yet courageous, woman. They also strike at the heart of the Exodus faith.”22 In the second episode, God concurs with Sarah’s plan to cast out the Egyptian slave and her son, Ishmael, was not named in the whole episode (21:9–13). Again Trible notes, “Identical words and similar themes tell opposing stories. Departing her land of bondage, Hagar knows not exodus but exile.”23 In a similar vein, Jon Levenson notes “Hagar’s adumbration of the fate of Israel is . . . by way of inversion. For, whereas God listens and sees the plight of those who fall heir to the covenant with Abraham in Egypt and liberates them, he does not liberate Hagar or assign her descendants a land of their own.”24 These remarks by Phyllis Trible and Jon Levenson remind us of the complexity of what it means to be liberated. Trible’s observations underline the horror of being oppressed and cast out. Levenson’s comment points out to the distinctiveness of the experience of the Israelites. Yet, neither is horror the final word in the story, nor does full typological relation between Hagar and the Israelites deny the uniqueness of Hagar’s story. Hagar is given a voice only outside of Abraham’s household (16:8, 13; 21:16–17): she is the subject of active verbs only outside of the boundaries of Abraham’s and Sarah’s tent (21:18, 21). Comparing Hagar’s experience with the experience of the Israelites is not meant to show who had the worst experience of oppression and who had the superlative “liberation.” Trible’s and Levenson’s comments invite us to recognize the messiness of the situation, to admit that it is not ideal, perfect, or utopian.25 As we compare Hagar’s story with the experiences of the Israelites, we ought to acknowledge both similarities and differences between these two accounts of oppression and liberation without creating a hierarchy. The casting out of Hagar and Ishmael can be seen as “liberation”

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only if we recognize that their life in the desert, thought full of challenge, allowed them to be the people whom God promised them to be. The God who is seen in this story is an unsettling God. The same deity who tells Hagar, “Go back and be afflicted under the hand of your mistress,” the same deity who agreed with Sarah’s plan to cast Hagar and Ishmael out,26 is the same deity who appears to Hagar twice in the wilderness, saying, “I have heard your cry and Ishmael’s cry for life,” and provides for them in the wilderness. The name Ishmael itself works as a living sign in the desert that God listens to the outcries of the oppressed (16:11; 17:20; 21:17). Was God here acting as an ethicist who, in the midst of a messy situation, was choosing between two evils? Was Hagar's return to Sarah’s tent, despite the oppression, a better option for a pregnant woman than being in the wilderness? Was God here acting as a realist and not as an idealist? God, who seemed in agreement with oppression and rejection, opens Hagar’s eyes to see a well of living water for her and for the child to drink and survive the hardship of the wilderness. Above all, God accompanies them in the wilderness so that they would become the people whom God promised them to be.27 Comparing Hagar’s afflictions and “liberation” with the experience of oppression and liberation of the Israelites from Egypt offers some insights into how to engage with the Hebrew Bible as Christian Egyptians. Reading the Hebrew Scriptures as a Christian Egyptian is like living Hagar’s story: one encounters affliction, rejection, yet one also encounters God, who opens one’s eyes to see the well of water that sustains our journey. Christian Egyptians have ignored the story of Hagar because, for them, Hagar is associated with Muslims. Thus, as a way of resisting their marginalization, the Christian Egyptian minority rejects association with Hagar and associates themselves with Sarah. Hagar is not only closer to Christian Egyptians ethnically, she also embodies their experience, since she is a marginalized person who was mistreated by the privileged ones. Furthermore, the oppression that Hagar the Egyptian experiences at the hand of Sarah is a clear reversal of what is to happen later, when the children of Sarah are oppressed by the Egyptians in the book of Exodus. In this way the categories of the oppressed and the oppressors with regard to the Egyptians and the Israelites are confounded. The story, when viewed in this way, does not just challenge Christian Egyptians who want to dismiss the Old Testament because it portrays Egypt as the place of oppression, it also invites the children of Sarah and the children of Hagar to confront the reality that breaking the cycle of violence demands courage to expose one’s responsibility in oppressing the other, and a graciousness to offer forgiveness. Ishmael’s Hybrid and Interstitial Identity: Otherness Within! Ishmael does not get to say a single word in the narratives concerning him and his mother in the book of Genesis. Ishmael laughed and cried out,

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nevertheless. When Sarah saw him laughing or playing after Isaac was born and was weaned, she demanded that Ishmael and Hagar be cast out (21:8–10). Having finished all of the supplies that they were given by Abraham, and while awaiting death in the parched desert, God breaks through after hearing the voice of the boy (21:17). Despite the scarcity of the words that Ishmael has uttered and despite the fact that his voice is muted in the story, there are plenty of promises and gifts that his mother and his father received on his behalf. After reading the non-Priestly and the Priestly traditions (Gen 16, 21:9–21 and 17), the reader is left with many unanswered questions: Is Ishmael an insider or an outsider? Does Ishmael belong to the Abrahamic covenant and Promises? How do the promises that Hagar and Abraham receive on his behalf differ from the ones Abraham receives on Isaac’s behalf? Does Ishmael have a place in the Promised Land? Or should he return to Egypt? In the remaining part of the chapter, I will argue that Ishmael’s hybrid identity, his interstitial location, and the liminal space that he occupies challenge rigid perceptions of the binary oppositions of insider versus outsider and self versus other. I will show that Ishmael embodies the in-between. ISHMAEL AND THE COVENANT BETWEEN GOD AND ABRAHAM ACCORDING TO THE PRIESTLY TRADITION IN GENESIS 17 Genesis 17 narrates the Priestly version of the covenant between God and Abraham.28 The first formulation of the covenant is stated in verse 2: “And I will make my covenant between me and you, and will make you exceedingly numerous.” Verses 4–6 restate the covenant between God and Abraham, expanding the language of Abraham’s extreme numerical growth into “You shall be the ancestor of a multitude of nations, and I will make you exceedingly fruitful; and I will make nations of you, and kings shall come from you.” Thus far, the formulation of the covenant focuses on the gift of progeny, which is identical to the language of the divine blessing of Ishmael, which Abraham receives on his behalf (Gen 17:20). Twice the text uses the plural ‫גוים‬, “nations,” in order to refer to the nations that will emerge out of Abraham (17:4, 5). Verses 7–8 add new layers to the covenant between God and Abraham: the covenant is not just between God and Abraham; rather, it is an eternal covenant between God and Abraham’s descendants as well (17:7). In this covenant God will be the God of Abraham and the descendants, and the covenant entails a gift of the land of Canaan (17:8). It is important to note that the plural language of the descendants continues throughout these two verses; this is evident in the use of the masculine plural suffix pronoun in ‫לדרתם‬, “to their generations,” and ‫להם‬, “to them.” All that has been uttered

Interrogating Identity

15

thus far with regard to the establishment of the covenant underlines a divine initiative and commitment to Abraham and his descendants. Yet, this covenant includes a human responsibility, which does not necessarily mean that the covenant is conditional. Thus, verses 9–14 reveal what God expects of Abraham and his descendants. Circumcising all the males is not just the sign of the covenant (17:11); it is rather the covenant itself (17:9, 13).29 It is interesting to note the interchangeable pronouns from singular to plural in verses 9–13 to focus on the immediate responsibility of Abraham in keeping the covenant and the futuristic responsibility of his descendants in keeping the covenant. It is ironic, however, that the plural in verses 10–13 is in the form of a second person, assuming the presence of an audience and not just Abraham. This covenant includes “every male . . . including the slave born in your house and the one bought with your money from any foreigner who is not of your offspring” (17:12–13). Thus, Abraham gets circumcised at the age of ninety-nine (17:24). He also circumcises Ishmael, who was thirteen years old at the time, along with “all the men of his house, slaves born in the house and those bought with money from a foreigner, were circumcised with him.” Three times, lest the reader misses the point the first or the second time, the text mentions the fact that Ishmael, the son of Abraham, was circumcised (17:23, 25, 26).30 The message of verses 15–19 in its current context is perplexing, to say the least. In these verses God informs Abraham that Sarai’s name will be changed into Sarah, for she will be blessed and will bear a child for Abraham and out of her there will be great nations with kings. Falling on his face, Abraham doubts that he and Sarah can have children at this age. Abraham said to God, “O that Ishmael might live in your sight!” God responded saying, No, but your wife Sarah shall bear you a son, and you shall name him Isaac. I will establish my covenant with him as an everlasting covenant for his offspring after him. As for Ishmael, I have heard you; I will bless him and make him fruitful and exceedingly numerous; he shall be the father of twelve princes, and I will make him a great nation. But my covenant I will establish with Isaac, whom Sarah shall bear to you at this season next year.

On these perplexing verses Jon Levenson comments, In Genesis 17, P reformulates the Abramic covenant in Genesis 15 so as to exclude Ishmael explicitly, though without otherwise disinheriting him from the promise. His inclusion in the latter is only owing to God’s heeding Abraham’s intercessory supplication: “O that Ishmael might live by your favor!” (17:19). Without Abraham’s intervention, the providential design would presumably have had no role for Hagar and Abraham’s son. P resolves the ambiguity surrounding Ishmael’s conception through surrogate motherhood by including him in the promise (at Abraham’s behest) by excluding him from the covenant.31

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It is true that Genesis 16 and 21 do not speak of including Ishmael in the covenant between God and Abraham. Yet, without a doubt, the fact remains that Ishmael was circumcised and hence was included in the covenant32 between God and Abraham according to the Priestly tradition. The tension remains between the inclusion of Ishmael in the covenant with all of its blessings and promises, on the one hand, and the text that speaks of his exclusion from the covenant, on the other hand, as presented in the phrase “No, but your wife Sarah shall bear you a son, and you shall name him Isaac. I will establish my covenant with him as an everlasting covenant for his offspring after him.” The most common interpretation of this section has concluded that, while Ishmael receives the blessing of fruitfulness, the fulfillment of the Abrahamic covenant will happen only through Isaac.33 David Frankel argues that Genesis 17:15–21 “belong to a secondary expansion that incorporates, in new form, parallel to non-Priestly materials.”34 It seems logical to treat this section as an interpolation that interrupts the divine proclamation to Abraham about the covenant of circumcision (vv. 9–14) and Abraham’s execution of the command when he and Ishmael got circumcised (vv. 23–27). For Frankel, the purpose of this interpolation is to make the point that: “Ishmael and perhaps the other descendants of Abraham as well would indeed receive blessings, but they would not belong to the covenant.”35 This perspective ignores the fact that Ishmael’s circumcision meant that he has become part of the covenant.36 The issue at stake, in my opinion, has to do with negotiating sameness and difference between Ishmael and Isaac as participants in the covenant between God and Abraham. The question is not whether Ishmael is included or not. Rather, it is in what capacity is Ishmael included in the covenant. Konrad Schmid argues: It is much more likely that the function of vv. 19–21 is not the exclusion of Ishmael but rather the inclusion of Isaac in the Abrahamic covenant. Ishmael’s inclusion in the covenant is clearly stated in Gen 17:7–8. Additionally, this section highlights the fact that the covenant with Abraham and his descendants, to which Ishmael belongs without a doubt, is an “eternal covenant.” . . . Nevertheless, the conclusion remains that Ishmael is not the same type of partner in the covenant of God as Isaac is. They are equal with regard to fertility and land holdings . . . within the greater region of the “whole land of Canaan.” But they are not equal with regard to the possibility of cultic proximity (“living before God,” Gen 17:18b). This proximity—as the narrative of the Priestly Document goes on to show—only belongs to Israel by means of the foundation of the sanctuary and is explicitly denied to Ishmael (24–25).37

This suggestion hinges on three points. First, the observation that the plural of Abraham’s descendants includes Ishmael as a partner in the covenant; not to mention the strong affinities between the blessings that Abraham

Interrogating Identity

17

received on behalf of Ishmael and the formulation of the covenant between God and Abraham earlier in Genesis 17.38 Second, reinterpreting Abraham’s intercession on behalf of Ishmael to refer not to being included in the covenant but rather for Ishmael to have a priestly role. To this intercession God responds by differentiating between Isaac and his descendants and Ishmael and his descendants as having two different types of partnerships with God in the covenant. Isaac and his descendants are privileged by having an access to the sanctuary as a priestly nation.39 Third, the expression “I will establish my covenant” for the Priestly Document does not necessarily refer to a new covenant but to a realization of a covenant that has been already mentioned.40 Konrad Schmid argues that the inclusion of Ishmael in the Abrahamic covenant for the Priestly tradition “attempts to balance the theological prerogative of Israel with the political reality of Persian-period Judah: Judah lives in a modest province within ‘ecumenical’ proximity of its neighbors.”41 Interrogating Identity: Negotiating Sameness and Difference Negotiating sameness and difference between self and other as well as maintaining tension between sameness and difference allows us to avoid assimilation (hegemony), protects us from treating the other as a transcendent being, and keeps us under check not to speak of the other as the terrible monster; in all cases a relationship with the other would be impossible. Kristeva writes: “The foreigner comes in when consciousness of my difference arises, and he disappears when we all acknowledge ourselves as foreigners, unamenable to bonds and communities.”42 Kristeva’s perspective is helpful in exposing our tendencies to point out only difference. It is the case, however, that the notion of foreignness will continue to exist even when one realizes one’s own otherness. Richard Kearny suggests, “One of the best ways to de-alienate the other is to recognize (a) oneself as another and (b) the other as (in part) another self. For if ethics rightly requires me to respect the singularity of the other person, it equally requires me to recognize the other as another self bearing universal rights and responsibilities, that is, as someone capable of recognizing me in turn as a self capable of recognition and esteem.”43 The blessing that Hagar and Abraham receive on behalf of Ishmael is similar to that which Abraham receives on behalf of Isaac (progeny). Yet, at the same time, Ishmael receives an odd or rather a peculiar blessing that is quite different from that of Isaac. The way the texts delineate the relation between Isaac and Ishmael—self and other—not only focuses on difference alone or sameness alone; rather, it offers a complex relation between the self and the other in which sameness and difference are maintained and kept in tension.

18

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Similarity of the Blessings When Hagar fled because of the oppression by Sarah, the messenger of the LORD gave her a promise: “I will so greatly multiply your offspring that they cannot be counted for multitude” (Gen 16:10). This verse is oddly located because it precedes the announcement of the birth of Ishmael in the following verse. The phrase “I will greatly multiply” (‫ )הרבה רבה‬is also used in Genesis 22:17 as God promises to multiply the descendants of Abraham through Isaac (cf. Josh 24:3). Hagar is treated as equal to Abraham; she is the only woman in the Hebrew Bible that receives such a promise. The priestly version of the Abrahamic covenant informs us that Abraham pleaded on behalf of Ishmael and, as a result, God tells him: “As for Ishmael, I have heard you; I will bless him and make him fruitful and exceedingly numerous; he shall be the father of twelve princes, and I will make him a great nation” (Gen 17:20). The three clauses that make up this promise—”I will bless him” (‫“ ;)ברכתי אתו‬I will make him fruitful” (‫ ;)הפריתי אתו‬and “I will make him exceedingly numerous” (‫—)הרביתי אתו‬are promised to Abraham himself in the same chapter (verses 16, 6, and 2 in order). Finally, after God has opened Hagar’s eyes to see the well of water, God urges her saying: “Come, lift up the boy and hold him fast with your hand, for I will make a great nation of him” (Gen 21:18). In the initial call of Abraham, God promises him to make a great nation out of him (12:2); Abraham receives a promise on behalf of Ishmael who will become a great nation (‫( )גוי גדול‬17:20). Thus, Gen. 25:12 lists the genealogy of Ishmael: “These are the descendants of Ishmael, Abraham’s son, whom Hagar the Egyptian, Sarah’s slave-girl, bore to Abraham.”44 These examples show that there are profound similarities between the blessings that God extend to Abraham/Isaac and the blessings that God extend to Ishmael through Abraham and Hagar. Oddity of the Blessing Interrogating identity by means of rediscovering the ambivalence of how the self and the other relate focuses not just on sameness and shared aspects of subjectivity, it also must acknowledge difference. The blessings that Hagar receives on behalf of Ishmael include a peculiar and odd blessing that emerges out of the wild life of the wilderness. Ishmael is said to be a “wild ass of a man”; it is further said that “his hand will be against all and everyone’s hand against him” and that “he will live at odds with his kin.” The ambiguity of Genesis 16:12 emerges when we assume sedentary culture as the normal way of living; Ishmael as a dweller of the desert is blessed with a lifestyle that suits his context.

Interrogating Identity

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It is interesting to note the reaction of some of the interpreters of this blessing that Hagar receives on behalf of Ishmael. E. A. Speiser writes, Our author must not dwell too long on personalities. Presently he shifts to a different plane and larger issues. It is time to account for the place of the Ishmaelites in the scheme of things, the role of the Bedouin who are always in evidence on the border between the desert and the town, a group as defiant and incontrollable as the young woman from whom the narrative derives them.45

Westermann approvingly quotes Gunkel, who describes Ishmael and his mother in the following words: “This intractable Ishmael is an unruly son of his stubborn mother, who did not want to submit to the yoke.”46 Similarly, von Rad writes, He will be a real Bedouin, a “wild ass of a man,” . . . , i.e., free and wild (cf. Job 39:5–8), eagerly spending his life in a war against all—a worthy son of his rebellious and proud mother! In this description of Ishmael there is undoubtedly undisguised sympathy and admiration for the roving Bedouin who bends his neck to no yoke. The man here pictured is highly qualified in the opinion of near Easterners, but there is not a word about the great promise of Abraham.47

The adjectives that these scholars used to describe the Bedouins and the way these scholars projected these qualities onto their ancestress call for discussion. Hagar and the Bedouins are described in such terms as “intractable,” “submit to no yoke,” “defiant,” and “incontrollable.” This discourse appears to reflect orientalist rhetoric, which represents the Bedouins as those incontrollable groups that occupy the periphery of civilization. They demand the exercise of power over them, so that they would be ordered and kept under control. Further, this line of interpretation not only represents Hagar’s desire for freedom in negative terms, it also essentializes what it means to be a Bedouin based on creating a fixed identity for what it means to be civilized. Ishmael is described as a wild ass of a man, a symbolic way of referring to a lifestyle in which roaming is the prominent trait. His future destiny involves freedom and a necessity of moving for shepherding or trading. Gordon Wenham notes, “The freedom his mother sought will be his one day.”48 The wild ass (‫ )פרא‬that dwells in the wilderness “is used in the OT as a figure of an individualistic lifestyle untrammeled by social convention (Jer 2:24; Hos 8:9).” They inhabit the waste (Isa 32:14), deserts (Jer 2:24), bare heights/trails (Jer 14:6); they wander alone (Hos 8:9); they work hard and toil to find food for their little ones (Job 24:5); God provides for them (Psalm 104:11; Job 39:5). This lifestyle might involve tension and conflict with Ishmael’s neighbors. Therefore, “his hand against everyone, and everyone’s hand against him.”

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Blenkinsopp describes the words of the messenger to Hagar in the following way: “The oracle, therefore, celebrates in advance the freedom loving Bedouin lifestyle of Ishmael and his tribe and their often contentious relations with the settled population in their vicinity.”49 This blessing is odd; it almost sounds like a curse. The strangeness of the blessing possibly emerges from our expectations that a blessing should yield peaceful settling.50 Knauf notes, The tribal confederacy of Šumuʾil/S1amaʿʾil/Ishmael is clearly attested for the first time in texts from this century [the 7th century BCE]. The confederacy is led by the tribe of Qedar, specifically by this tribe’s ruling family. . . . The individual tribal leaders fought each other constantly, allied themselves to the Assyrians, and fought the Assyrians when they were allies of Assyria’s enemies. Assyrian attempts to establish a vassal kingdom in Arabia failed. This, and growing pressure exerted by the proto-bedouin on the decaying Assyrian empire . . . may have led to a final campaign against the Arabs, probably fought ca. 644 b.c.—a campaign that was cruel even according to Assyrian standards.51

Based on these remarks, we can conclude that the blessing of Ishmael was a reflection of the internal and external relationships that the descendants of Ishmael had among themselves and with their neighbors. Ishmael and his descendants settled in the desert. According to Genesis 21:21, Ishmael lived in the wilderness of Paran, which refers to the wilderness south of Israel, north of Sinai, and west of Edom.52 This wilderness is likely to be a place contiguous with Egypt. According to the priestly tradition as found in Genesis 25:18, Ishmael’s descendants settled somewhere in the south of Canaan and to the east of Egypt. “They settled from Havilah to Shur, which is opposite Egypt in the direction of Assyria; he settled down alongside of all his people.”53 Havilah is possibly on the Persian Gulf and it was a frontier point, while Shur is an “Egyptian border post.”54 The messenger of the LORD encountered Hagar at a spring of water on the way to Shur.55 Westermann notes that “Ishmael is the tribal ancestor of the Ishmaelites who stem from Abraham but who at the same time are related to the Egyptians, because Hagar, herself an Egyptian, gives her son a wife from the land of Egypt. Such is the beginning of a foreign tribe which is at the same time related to Israel.”56 Ishmael, the product of an Israelite and an Egyptian, escapes easy identification. This hybrid son, Ishmael, born to a proto-Israelite father and an Egyptian mother, was a liminal character. He did not dwell in Egypt or in Canaan. He is an outsider and an insider for both the Israelites and the Egyptians. He muddies rigid categories. Those who argue for a rigid categorization of Ishmael’s identity as an insider ignore the differences that are set between Isaac and Ishmael, while those who argue for a rigid categorization of Ishmael’s identity as an outsider

Interrogating Identity

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ignore the fact that Ishmael was circumcised and that God accompanied him in the desert. Thus, I propose that we are better off if we understand Ishmael’s identity as an interstitial character that is simultaneously an insider and an outsider. This understanding acknowledges and negotiates sameness and difference between self and other. Ishmael represents the wild that escapes rigid categories; he represents those who are in-between.57 CONCLUSION The portrayal of Ishmael as an interstitial character provides a model not only for some of the hybrid returnees from the exile in the Persian province of Yehud, he also embodies Christian Egyptian readers of the Hebrew Bible and invites them to embrace their identity as both Christians and Egyptians. Embracing this third way of being refuses to settle with an easy categorization of identity that is informed by binary opposition and acknowledges the paradoxical components of identity. Ishmael’s interstitial being and his geographical location allowed him to relate to both Egypt and the Israelites; yet, he was neither a full Egyptian nor a full Israelite. He was a new being. Christian Egyptians can claim both the political and the religious facets of identity. Maintaining the tension between sameness and difference in the relation between the self and the other and recognizing otherness within oneself, first of all, deconstructs national or religious ideologies that advocate assimilation or exclusion as the only ways to deal with otherness and, second, constructs an understanding of identity that does not see difference as a threat but rather as a gift. Such an understanding of identity, religious or political, embraces what is peculiar about the self and the other and uses what is common between the self and the other to build bridges of compassion and hospitality. NOTES 1. I would like to thank Peter Altmann for reading a draft of this chapter and for offering many helpful comments. All mistakes that remain in this chapter are mine, however. 2. For discussions on the scope and the development of the Priestly traditions, see the essays included in the following volume: Sarah Shectman and Joel Baden (eds.), The Strata of the Priestly Writings: Contemporary Debate and Future Directions, TVZ 95 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2009). 3. Verses 3 and 15–16 of Gen 16 are usually attributed to the Priestly document. See Gerhard von Rad, Genesis, OTL, rev. ed. (Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1972), 191.

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4. Some scholars consider 25:18 to be a secondary addition to the Priestly layers. See, for example, Albert de Pury, “Abraham, the Priestly Writer’s ‘Ecumenical’ Ancestor,” in Rethinking the Foundations: Historiography in the Ancient World and in the Bible, Essays in Honour of John Van Seters, ed. Steven L. McKenzie et al., BZAW 294 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2000), 180, n. 45. 5. See the discussion in John Van Seters, Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975), 198–200. Van Seters argues that Gen 21:8–21 is “a literary composition drawing its material from chap. 16, but written for its own distinctive purpose and concern” (200). For a different view, see David Frankel, The Land of Canaan and the Destiny of Israel: Theologies of Territory in the Hebrew Bible, Siphrut 4 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 338–341. Frankel argues, it “appears that the two stories must indeed be seen as independent variants, neither one of which was based on the other, as the classical critics asserted. Only this assumption can explain the fundamental differences between the stories” (340–341). 6. Ernst Axel Knauf, Ismael: Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Palästinas und Nordarabiens im 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. (Wiesbaden: O. Harrassowitz, 1985) and “Ishmaelites,” in The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary, ed. D. N. Freedman (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 3:519. 7. Albert de Pury, “Abraham,” 179. 8. Cf. E. A. Knauf, “Ishmaelites,” 519. Further, “Aramaic dedicatory inscriptions left by Geshem’s son at Tell el-Maskhūṭa (ancient Patoumos) in the E delta of Egypt ca. 400 b.c. prove that Geshem was a Qedarite.” 9. Roger Syrén suggests that “the Sitz im Leben of an ‘Ishmael theology’ would have been the struggles of the Jewish community soon after the exile.” See The Forsaken First-Born: A Study of a Recurrent Motif in the Patriarchal Narratives, JSOTSupp 133 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), 62. Joseph Blenkinsopp posits that the issue of the inclusion and exclusion of Ishmael “could hardly fail to be of interest to a reader or a hearer in Judah in the sixth of fifth century B.C.E. Kedar, ‘son’ of Ishmael was the leading member of the North Arabian tribal confederacy that, by the fifth century B.C.E., had displaced the Edomites from much of their territory and settled a broad swath of the land from the Transjordanian plateau to the Nile delta. They were subdued by the Babylonians (Jer 49:28) and, a few years later, assisted Cambyses in the invasion of Egypt (Herodotus Hist. 3:4, 88; Knauf 1989:96–108). The sheikh Geshem (Gashmu), head of the confederacy, belonged to the ‘axis of evil,’ together with Sanballat and Tobiah the Ammonite, who opposed Nehemiah (Neh 2:19; 6:1–2, 16), but in the Genesis account the attitude toward Ishmael and his Arabian descendants is unreservedly positive.” See “Judeans, Jews Children of Abraham,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 461–482, 475. David Frankel treats Genesis 21:11–13, which narrates Abraham’s sympathy for Ishmael and God’s approval of the expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael, as secondary. He proposes that these verses “may reflect the agenda of the days of Ezra and Nehemiah, who demanded that foreign (including Egyptian) wives together with their children be sent away from their Israelite husbands (Ezra 9–10; Neh 9:1–2; 13:1–3, 23–27).” See The Land of Canaan, 343.

Interrogating Identity

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10. Yonina Dor explains the symbolic and ritualistic value of the expulsion of the foreign wives in the following words: “It seems that the crucial function of the rite was to promote a sense of solidarity, of a ‘real Israel,’ in the absence of a consensus about the question ‘Who is Israel?’ After all, a ritual is a political strategy of enforcing positions and interests. Thus, we should see the ceremony as a public appeal for the returnees to close ranks, exclusively identifying themselves as the true, real Israel. If an expulsion actually took place, it was probably only a show. This explains why they repeated similar ceremonies again and again. Having realized that it was impossible to expel the foreign women, they accepted the ritualistic declaration that separation was appropriate and by this they formally established the status of the separated ones.” Dor goes on to suggest three stages in the ritual: separation; liminality; rejoining the community. The latter stage is “not described in Ezra-Nehemiah.” See “The Rite of Separation of the Foreign Wives in Ezra-Nehemiah,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 184–185. 11. Katherine Southwood employs anthropological models of marriage in order to unpack the issue of ethnic boundaries in the book of Ezra. She notes “Ethnicity increases in social significance through perceived boundaries. Because intermarriage occurs at the volatile zone of intersecting ethnos / non-ethnos boundaries, classification structures are destabilized by the emergence of the ‘betwixt and between’ category, of ‘ethnic anomalies.’ As such, intermarriage is a good indicator of heterogeneity. However, the author emphasizes the need for a homogeneously unified community through escalating intermarriage beyond the issue of ethnicity to that of transgressing religious and purity boundaries.” See “The Holy Seed: The Significance of Endogamous Boundaries and Their Transgression in Ezra 9–10,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 203. 12. Wagdy Elisha, “Can Christian Egyptian Women Identify with Hagar?” Claremont Journal of Religion 1 (2012): 69–84. Elisha cites multiple Coptic Orthodox and Islamic texts in order to highlight the tension among Christian Egyptians and Muslim Egyptians with regard to affiliating either with Sarah/Isaac or Hagar/Ishmael. 13. The apostle Paul is not alone in interpreting the stories of the ancestors allegorically in the 1st century CE. See Sarah Pierce, The Land of the Body: Studies in Philo’s Representation of Egypt (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007). Thus, “In Philo’s allegorical interpretation, the Egyptian Hagar is a symbol of the Encyclia, that is, the cycle of general education comprising ‘grammar, geometry, astronomy, rhetoric, music and all the other branches of intellectual study,’ which serve as introductions (προοιμιαι) to virtue” (170). Further, “In general, Philo views the Encyclia as having essentially preparatory role in the journey to wisdom” (171). In effect, Hagar represents the inferior knowledge, the Encyclia, who serves the symbol of wisdom, Sarah. Yet, as Abraham left Hagar behind, the true philosopher must leave Encyclia knowledge behind. Thus, “Because the Encyclia are rooted in the body, symbolized by the Egyptian identity of Hagar, they cannot lead the mind to knowledge of the true God” (175).

24

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14. John Goldingay laments the fact that Christian readers of the stories of Hagar and Ishmael, who are influenced by Paul, miss an opportunity to reflect on the inclusion of outsiders. Instead, he suggests that “Gentile readers may also want to identify with Ishmael.” See John Goldingay, “The Place of Ishmael,” in The World of Genesis: Persons, Places, Perspectives, ed. Philip R. Davies and J. A. Clines, JSOTSupp. 257 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 149. 15. Homi Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994). 16. David Huddart, Bhabha, Routledge Critical Thinkers (London: Routledge, 2006), 6. 17. Huddart, Bhabha, 6–7. 18. Huddart, Bhabha, 21. 19. Renita Weems, Just a Sister Away: A Womanist Vision of Women’s Relationships in the Bible. (San Diego: LuraMedia, 1988), 3. Delores Williams asserts Hagar’s Egyptian facet of identity when she suggests that the deity’s name El Roi might have emerged from Hagar’s familiarization as an Egyptian with the god Re. Despite the difficulty of the Hebrew epithet El Roi, the consonantal difference between the Egyptian word R‘, which has an ‘ayin, and the Hebrew ro’i, which has an aleph, does not support Williams creative suggestion. Delores Williams, Sisters in the Wilderness: The Challenge of Womanist God-Talk (New York: Oribs, 1993), 105. Stephanie Buckhanon Crowder asserts Hagar’s identity as an Egyptian as she discusses the plight of homelessness. In doing so, Crowder suggests that Hagar returned to Egypt. As I will show later in this chapter, Hagar did not return to Egypt, but she and Ishmael occupied a liminal space between Canaan and Egypt. Stephanie Buckhanon Crowder, When Mama Speaks: The Bible and Motherhood from a Womanist Perspective (LouisvilleWestminster John Knox Press, 2016), 46, 51. 20. Note that there are multiple times in which the text just refers to Hagar without any reference to her economic or ethnic qualifications (16:4, 15, 16; 21:14, 17). 21. The NRSV translates the verb ‫“( קלל‬to be light, swift, to curse”) as “looked with contempt.” It has been noted that this is a strong translation of the verb in this context. The text is likely to be referring to a loss of self-esteem or a loss of a status. J. Weingreen, “The Case of the Blasphemer (Leviticus XXIV 10ff),” VT 22 (1972): 118–123. 22. Phyllis Trible, Texts of Terror: Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984), 16. Tami J. Schneider highlights the ambivalence that surrounds the character of Hagar as she concludes: “Hagar is a complex figure. She is a mixture of opposites: slave and free, subservient and arrogant, favored by the Deity and oppressed, foreign to and part of Israel.” See Tami J. Schneider, Mothers of Promise: Women in the Book of Genesis (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2008), 119. 23. Trible, Texts of Terror, 23. See also Phyllis Trible, “Ominous Beginnings for a Promise of Blessing,” in Hagar, Sarah, and Their Children: Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Perspectives, ed. Phyllis M. Trible and Letty M. Russell (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2006), 33–69. 24. Jon Levenson, The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993), 97.

Interrogating Identity

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25. John Noble who engages in details with Levenson’s remarks notes “The suggestion advanced here is that God’s mercy is expressed to both Hagar and Ishmael through the promise to Hagar, on the other hand, and in the outcome of Ishmael’s story, on the other hand.” John Noble, A Place for Hagar’s Son: Ishmael as a Case Study in the Priestly Tradition (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2016) 46. 26. David Frankel argues that verses 11–13 of chapter 21 are secondary. These verses report Abraham’s concern for his son, Ishmael, who is not mentioned by name at all throughout the pericope. In response, however, God comforts Abraham about the future of Ishmael, who will become a nation, yet God asserts that it is only through Isaac that a line of descendants will be called, are secondary. For Frankel, these verses try to ameliorate the portrayal of Abraham, who shows some concern for his child, unlike the first episode, in which Abraham was indifferent with regard to Hagar’s afflictions. Moreover, the continuity of the narrative between verse 10 and 14 is “flawless,” argues Frankel. See Frankel, The Land of Canaan, 341. 27. See Nina Rulon-Miller, “Hagar: A Woman with an Attitude,” in The World of Genesis: Persons, Places, Perspectives, ed. Philip R. Davies and J. A. Clines, JSOTSupp. 257 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 60–89. Rulton-Miller highlights the ambivalence of YHWH’s treatment of Hagar. 28. For a discussion on the formation and the redactions of Genesis 17, see Peter Weimer, “Gen 17 und die priesterschriftliche Abrahamserzählung,” ZAW 100 (1988): 22–60. Konrad Schmid provides a helpful survey of literature in his essay “Judean Identity and Ecumenicity: The Political Theology of the Priestly Document,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 3–26, 23–24. 29. The covenant between God and Abraham is very similar to the covenant between God and Noah (Gen 9). Both use the phrase “I will establish my covenant” (Gen 9:9, 11; 17:7). While both covenants have signs: the rainbow, which is the sign for the Noahic covenant, is the divine responsibility; the circumcision of the male, which is the sign for the Abrahamic covenant, is the human responsibility. Furthermore, according to Genesis 17:10, 13, circumcision is not just the sign; it is also the expression of the covenant itself. 30. Thomas Naumann asserts “Since Ishmael is son and ‘seed of Abraham,’ he is explicitly included in the Abrahamic covenant. That is why he is circumcised and why he receives the same promises about many descendants that the priestly source associates with Noah, with Abraham, and with Jacob—the patriarch of the line of Israel.” See Thomas Naumann, “The Common Basis of the Covenant and the Distinction between Isaac and Ishmael in Gen 17: The Case of Ishmael and the non-Israelite Descendants of Abraham in the Priestly Source,” in The Foreigner and the Law: Perspectives from the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East, ed. Reinhard Achenbach, Reiner Albertz, and Jakob Wörle (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2011), 106. 31. Levenson, Beloved Son, 98. 32. I maintain the point view that the word ‫ ברית‬means “covenant,” which entails promises, but it still refers to a formal relationship between God and Abraham. Baruch Schwartz has argued that the word ‫ ברית‬in the Priestly tradition means

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“promise.” See “The Priestly Account of the Theophany and Lawgiving at Sinai,” in Texts, Temples, and Traditions: A Tribute to Menahem Haran, ed. M. Fox, et al. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996), 103–134, 131. See Christiphe Nihan, “The Priestly Covenant, Its Reinterpretations, and the Composition of ‘P,’” in The Strata of the Priestly Writings: Contemporary Debate and Future Directions, ed. Sarah Shectman and Joel Baden, TVZ 95 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2009), 87–134. 33. For a survey of scholarship that endorses the view of the exclusion of Ishmael, see Schmid, Judean Identity and Ecumenicity, 9–16. 34. Frankel, The Land of Canaan, 350. 35. Frankel, The Land of Canaan, 351. 36. Jakob Wöhrle argues that Gen 17:9–14 and 17:23–27 are part of “a late-priestly redaction of the Pentateuch.” These passages that speak of the law of circumcision “target the integration of alien people into the covenant.” See Jakob Wöhrle, “The Integrative Function of the Law of Circumcision,” in The Foreigner and the Law: Perspectives from the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East, ed. Reinhard Achenbach, Reiner Albertz, and Jakob Wörle (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2011), 80. 37. Schmid, “Judean Identity and Ecumenicity,” 25. 38. Schmid, “Judean Identity and Ecumenicity,” 23–24. Thus, “Usually this section is interpreted . . . as meaning that Abrahamic covenant is only realized through the lineage of Isaac: the ‘covenant’ terminology only appears in connection with Isaac in vv. 19, 21. Ishmael, on the other hand, only receives a blessing of fruitfulness. Indeed, the double use of the term covenant, which is only applied to Isaac in vv. 19, 21, is conspicuous. However, this traditionally dominant interpretation encounters numerous problems, the gravest being that it cannot explain why P proceeds in Gen 17:7–8 to including explicitly all the descendants of Abraham in the covenant, only then to narrow the covenant back down to the lineage of Isaac.” Moreover, “Furthermore, the considerable agreement among the formulations of the different promises of fertility for Abraham in Gen 17:2, 6 on the one hand and for Ishmael in Gen 17:20 on the other is noteworthy. . . . The promises of fertility given to Abraham as a ‘covenant’ and to Ishmael as a ‘blessing.’ When considering their concrete arrangements, are drawn up quite similarly and seem nearly equivalent.” 39. The expression ‫יחיה לפניך‬, “if only Ishmael may live before you,” in 17:18 for Schmid “implies more than physical survival; it instead has clear cultic connotations.” In support of this claim, he cites Ex 27:21, 28:35, 29:42, 40:22–25, where the phrase ‫לפני יהוה‬, “before the LORD,” “implies cultic presence before YHWH in the sanctuary.” See Schmid, “Judean Identity and Ecumenicity,” 20–21. De Pury makes the same argument: “Whether the Priestly writer’s Abraham is aware of it or not, what he asks is that Ishmael become YHWH’s priest; and it is that request that is denied to Ishmael and offered instead to the yet to be born Isaac.” See De Pury, “Abraham,” 172. See David Frankel, The Land, 345 note 13 for a different opinion. 40. Schmid refers to the Priestly text in Ex 6:4, where the phrase ‫הקים ברית‬, “to establish a covenant,” does not refer to a new covenant but to the covenant promised to the ancestors. Thus, Gen 17:19 does not refer to a new covenant but to the establishment of the covenant already mentioned at the beginning of the chapter (17:2, 7–8). See Schmid, “Judean Identity and Ecumenicity,” 22.

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41. Schmid, “Judean Identity and Ecumenicity,” 26. See also Albert de Pury, “Abraham,” 174: “in the time of the Priestly writer at the beginning of the Persian period the federation of Shumu’il no longer existed. By that time, the south of Palestine had been heavily settled by Edomite and Arab elements. Within the Persian satrapy of Transeupharatene, southern Palestine (including Hebron) had become the province of Idumea. It is there, that is practically next door, rather than far-away Arabia or somewhere in the desert that the Priestly writer, in all likelihood, envisioned these sons of Ishmael and Esau.” 42. Kristeva, Strangers to Ourselves (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991): “To put it another way, knowing how strange I am to myself helps me (at least) tolerate the strangeness of other, a strangeness that can be so easily viewed as threatening to myself identity.” See Huddart, Bhabha, 88. 43. Richard Kearny, Strangers, Gods, and Monsters (London: Routledge, 2003), 80. 44. Westermann notes, “The promise concerning Ishmael means that the effect of God’s blessing extends beyond Israel to other nations as well. The God of Israel has to do not only with Israel, but also with other nations; God’s blessing is not confined to the borders of Israel.” See Claus Westermann, Genesis 12–36: A Commentary ­(Minneapolis: Augsburg Pub. House, 1985). 45. E. A. Speiser, Genesis (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1964), 121. 46. Hermann Gunkel, Genesis, trans. Mark E. Biddle (Macon, GA: Mercer ­University Press, 1997). 47. Gerhard Von Rad, Genesis, 194. 48. Gordon J. Wenham, Genesis. 16–50 (Dallas: Word Books, 1994). Nahum N. Sarna also notes “Hagar, the abused slave woman subjected to the harsh discipline of her mistress, will produce a people free and undisciplined.” See Genesis ­(Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1989), 121. 49. Joseph Blenkinsopp, Abraham: The Story of a Life (Grand Rapids, MI: ­Eerdmans, 2015), 83. 50. Note also the violence and tension that emerge in the blessings pronounced by Jacob to the twelve tribes in Genesis 49. 51. Knauf, “Ishmaelites,” 518. 52. J. M. Hamilton, “Paran (Place),” in The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary, ed. D. N. Freedman (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 5:162. 53. It is interesting to note that the last clause, “and he shall live at odds with all his kin,” is used later in the book of Genesis 25:18 in order to describe where Ishmael and his descendants settled. There the NRSV translates it differently: “He settled down alongside of all his people.” Note that the text shifts from “they” (the descendants of Ishmael) to “he” (Ishmael). The Hebrew expression ‫על פני‬, which is used in Gen 16:12, 25:18 and 1 Samuel 15:7, does not refer to enmity between Ishmael and his kin; rather, it refers to a geographical location. 54. See Westermann; “In Gen 25:18 ḥăwı̂lâ, which by the Israelites might have been connected with Heb ḥôl, “sand,” designates presumably the SE desert border of the region where the Ishmaelites settled. . . . The borders of the Ishmaelites in Gen 25:18 with the local destination ḥăwı̂lâ have also been taken over in 1 Sam 15:7 and

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transferred to the Amalekites.” See W. W. Müller, “Havilah (Place),” in The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary, ed. D. N. Freedman (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 3:82. 55. Note also that Gen 16 names the well “the well where I saw the living God.” Later, it is reported that Isaac dwelt there (Gen 25:11; cf. 24:62). See Ex 15:22–25: the Israelites pass by the wilderness of Shur, where they lack sweet water. There is no consensus on what Shur refers to. It could refer, according to D. R. Seely, to “a line of individual Egyptian fortresses strategically placed on the E border, approximately along the line of the present-day Suez Canal, forming a ‘wall’ to repel invaders as the ‘Wall-of-the-Ruler’ in the story of Sinuhe.” See D. R. Seely, “Shur, Wilderness of (Place),” in The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary, ed. D. N. Freedman (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 5:1230. 56. Westermann, Genesis 12–36, 343. 57. John Noble notes the ambivalent place of Ishmael in the biblical traditions when he writes, “The relationship between Israel and the Ishmaelites—or those groups thought to be connected with them—in history, . . . appears rather to have been somewhat ambivalent—at various times more cooperative and on other occasions more antagonistic. It may be the case that this ambivalence is an ideal correspondence for the ambiguous status of Ishmael in the narratives as non-elect yet favored.” See Noble, A Place for Hagar’s Son, 150.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bhabha, Homi. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994. Blenkinsopp, Joseph. “Judeans, Jews Children of Abraham.” In Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, edited by Oded Lipschits, Gary Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming, 461–482. Winona Lake, IN.: Eisenbrauns, 2011. ———. Abraham: The Story of a Life. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015. Buckhanon Crowder, Stephanie. When Mama Speaks: The Bible and Motherhood from a Womanist Perspective. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2016. de Pury, Albert. “Abraham, the Priestly Writer’s ‘Ecumenical’ Ancestor.” In Rethinking the Foundations: Historiography in the Ancient World and in the Bible, Essays in Honour of John Van Seters, edited by Steven L. McKenzie et al., 163–181. BZAW 294. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2000. Dor, Yonina. “The Rite of Separation of the Foreign Wives in Ezra-Nehemiah.” In Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming, 172–188. Winona Lake, IN.: Eisenbrauns, 2011. Elisha, Wagdy. “Can Christian Egyptian Women Identify with Hagar?” Claremont Journal of Religion 1 (2012): 69–84. Frankel, David. The Land of Canaan and the Destiny of Israel: Theologies of Territory in the Hebrew Bible. Siphrut 4. Winona Lake, IN.: Eisenbrauns, 2011. Goldingay, John. “The Place of Ishmael.” In The World of Genesis: Persons, Places, Perspectives, edited by Philip R. Davies and J. A. Clines, 146–149. JSOTSupp. 257. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998.

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Gunkel, Hermann. Genesis. Translated by Mark E. Biddle. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1997. Hamilton, J. M. “Paran (Place).” In The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary, edited by D. N. Freedman, 5:162. 5 vols. New York: Doubleday, 1992. Huddart, David. Bhabha. Routledge Critical Thinkers. London: Routledge, 2006. Kearny, Richard. Strangers, Gods, and Monsters. London: Routledge, 2003. Knauf, Ernst Axel. “Ishmaelites.” In The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary, edited by D. N. Freedman, 3:513–520. 5 vols. New York: Doubleday, 1992. ———. Ismael: Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Palästinas und Nordarabiens im 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. Wiesbaden: O. Harrassowitz, 1985. Kristeva, Julia. Strangers to Ourselves. New York: Columbia University Press, 1991. Levenson, Jon. The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993. Müller, W. W. “Havilah (Place).” In The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary, edited by D. N. Freedman, 3:82. 5 vols. New York: Doubleday, 1992. Naumann, Thomas. “The Common Basis of the Covenant and the Distinction between Isaac and Ishmael in Gen 17: The Case of Ishmael and the non-Israelite Descendants of Abraham in the Priestly Source.” In The Foreigner and the Law: Perspectives from the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East, edited by Reinhard Achenbach, Reiner Albertz, and Jakob Wörle, 89–109. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2011. Nihan, Christiphe. “The Priestly Covenant, Its Reinterpretations, and the Composition of ‘P.’” In The Strata of the Priestly Writings: Contemporary Debate and Future Directions, edited by Sarah Shectman and Joel Baden, 87–134. ATANT 95. Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2009. Noble, John. A Place for Hagar’s Son: Ishmael as a Case Study in the Priestly Tradition. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2016. Pierce, Sarah. The Land of the Body: Studies in Philo’s Representation of Egypt. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007. Rulon-Miller, Nina. “Hagar: A Woman with an Attitude.” In The World of Genesis: Persons, Places, Perspectives, edited by Philip R. Davies and J. A. Clines, 60–89. JSOTSupp. 257. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998. Sarna, Nahum N. Genesis. Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1989. Schmid, Konrad. “Judean Identity and Ecumenicity: The Political Theology of the Priestly Document.” In Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, edited by Oded Lipschits, Gary Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming, 3–26. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011. Schneider, Tami J. Mothers of Promise: Women in the Book of Genesis. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2008). Schwartz, Baruch. “The Priestly Account of the Theophany and Lawgiving at Sinai.” In Texts, Temples, and Traditions: A Tribute to Menahem Haran, edited by M. Fox, et al, 103–134. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996. Seely, D. R., “Shur, Wilderness of (Place).” In The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary, edited by D. N. Freedman, 5. New York: Doubleday, 1992.

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Shectman, Sarah, and Joel Baden, eds. The Strata of the Priestly Writings: Contemporary Debate and Future Directions. ATANT 95. Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2009. Southwood, Katherine. “The Holy Seed: The Significance of Endogamous Boundaries and Their Transgression in Ezra 9–10.” In Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, edited by Oded Lipschits, Gary Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming, 189–224. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011. Speiser, E. A. Genesis. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1964. Syrén, Roger. The Forsaken First-Born: A Study of a Recurrent Motif in the Patriarchal Narratives. JSOTSupp 133. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993. Trible, Phyllis. Texts of Terror: Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984. ———. “Ominous Beginnings for a Promise of Blessing.” In Hagar, Sarah, and Their Children: Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Perspectives, edited by Phyllis M. Trible and Letty M. Russell, 33–69. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2006. Van Seters, John. Abraham in History and Tradition. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975. Von Rad, Gerhard. Genesis. Old Testament Library. Rev. ed. Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1972. Weems, Renita. Just a Sister Away: A Womanist Vision of Women’s Relationships in the Bible. San Diego: LuraMedia, 1988. Weimer, Peter. “Gen 17 und die priesterschriftliche Abrahamserzählung.” ZAW 100 (1988): 22–60. Weingreen, J. “The Case of the Blasphemer (Leviticus XXIV 10ff).” Vetus Testamentum 22 (1972): 118–123. Wenham, Gordon J. Genesis. 16–50. Dallas: Word Books, 1994. Williams, Delores. Sisters in the Wilderness: The Challenge of Womanist God-Talk. New York: Orbis, 1993. Wöhrle, Jakob. “The Integrative Function of the Law of Circumcision.” In The Foreigner and the Law: Perspectives from the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East, edited by Reinhard Achenbach, Reiner Albertz, and Jakob Wörle, 71–87. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2011.

Chapter 2

The Bible as Tool of Colonization The Zimbabwean Context Dora Rudo Mbuwayesango

Colonialism and Christianity came to Southern Africa simultaneously, and, even though relations between missionaries and economic-political colonists were complicated, it is clear that the two aided each other in the process that led to the subjugation of the indigenous peoples of Southern Africa. Such collusion Musa Dube captures well: “The scramble for Africa was the scramble for Africa through the Bible.”1 As Roy L. Smith aptly states in his depiction of the different constituencies that were involved in the colonial venture, The merchant, the missionary, and the military man—all went out on the same ship together. They might not have any official relationship, but in spite of their mutual aloofness they were actual confederates, making a triple assault on the cultures and civilizations of the “heathen.” Whether in matters of theology, economics, or politics, it was the white man against the man of color. However much they might look with suspicion on one another’s program and technique, they stood together—merchant and missionary and military men—and maintained white supremacy.2

The advantages of the partnership between missionaries and colonists were clear to those who were involved in the European venture into Africa. Even colonists who were unfriendly to the missions admitted that safety during an armed raid by Africans could be obtained only by taking refuge at a mission station.3 Bishop Samuel Wilberforce, in a speech delivered in Leeds in 1860, articulated well the connection between colonialism and Christianity in Africa, “There is a great connection between them [commerce and gospel]. In the first place, there is little hope of promoting commerce in Africa, unless Christianity is planted in it; in the next place, there is very little ground for hoping that Christianity will be able to make its proper way unless we can 31

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establish a lawful commerce in the country.”4 The colonization of Africa was enforced from different and related angles, and the missionary angle was significant. MISSIONARY PROJECT IN ZIMBABWE The missionary ventures before colonialism did not meet with much success in Zimbabwe, although these early missionary activities sparked general European interest in Africa. The Portuguese Jesuit Gançalo da Silveira, who was the first missionary (December 20, 1560–March 6, 1561) to Zimbabwe, was killed before making an impact. In the seventeenth century, the Dominicans ventured into the eastern part of Zimbabwe, but they had left by the end of the century. The failed attempts of the Congregationalists in the 1870s were followed by those of the Dutch Reformed Church, the Berlin Missionary Society, and the Anglicans in the 1880s. Even David Livingstone, the celebrated missionary to Central and Southern Africa, did not succeed in establishing lasting mission stations during his 1830–1862 missionary and exploration venture. He was, however, very instrumental in opening the way for later British missionaries and settlers to Central and Southern Africa. The work of the missionaries in introducing Zimbabwean Africans to the Bible and the biblical God only began to take root after Cecil John Rhodes, the head of the British South Africa Company and prime minister of the Cape Colony, had established control in the area as a British colony. Rhodes personally encouraged missionary work by allocating generous tracts of land to different missionary societies, where mission stations were set up in or near areas inhabited by the Africans. Thus, the British colonial authority approved and promoted missionary endeavors among the indigenous peoples. Rhodes saw at least two significant values of the missionary religious influence: providing an ideological aim for colonization in African society and spreading western values and beliefs to the Africans. Consequently, he was happy to grant large tracts of lands for mission stations among the indigenous peoples. More often than not, these were lands confiscated from the indigenous peoples at the request of the missionaries for the sake of the gospel. Prior to missionary activities in Africa, the Bible had been at the root of the formation of missionary societies in Europe that would come to evangelize in Africa. Many years before the economic and political colonization of Africa, the Bible had influenced the formation of missionary societies in Europe. The biblical mandate known as the Great Commission (Matthew 28:16–20) provided the impetus for this aggressive move to spread the gospel to Africa and the whole world. The role of the Bible is evident in the campaigns that led to the formation of these societies. For example, William Carey eloquently

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appealed for the church to focus on the mission of converting the heathens in 1786 when he asked “whether the commandment given to the Apostles to teach all nations in all the world must be recognized as binding on us also, since the great promise still follows it.”5 The first missionary society in Europe was formed soon after Carey’s arguments and exhortation, contained in a treatise of 1792 titled “An inquiry into the obligation of Christians to use means for the conversion of the heathen, in which the religious state of different nations of the world, the success of former undertaking, and the practicability of further understanding are considered” and a sermon titled “Expect great things for God, and attempt great things for God,” based on Isaiah 54:2–3.6 In the same way, the London Missionary Society—responsible for the activities of such missionaries as David Livingstone, Philip van der Kemp, and John Moffat, who operated in Central and Southern Africa—was formed as a result of sermons based on biblical passages and, in particular, the Great Commission. The missionaries believed that they were bringing God to the African heathens or pagans. They believed that the Christian God as depicted in the Bible was the true and only God. From the onset, the missionaries offered the Bible as the source of the knowledge of God. John Campbell describes an introduction of the Bible in the early 1800s, many years before the arrival of the first colonists, a scene most probably repeated at every first encounter of the missionaries with the peoples of Southern Africa. This one involved Mmahutu, senior wife of Mothibi, chief of the BaTlhaping. He writes, “The Bible, being on the table gave occasion to explain the nature and use of a book, particularly of that book— how it informed us of God, who made all things; and of the beginning of all things, which seemed to astonish her, and many a look was directed towards the Bible.”7 The early missionaries believed that Africans lacked knowledge of God and that their task was to bring God to the Africans. Although the missionaries initially viewed the Africans as having no knowledge of God, they eventually came to realize that there was no need to explain the concept of God and monotheism in Southern Africa. The different groups of people the missionaries encountered in Southern Africa had a concept of the Supreme Being. For example, in the case of the Shona peoples, the missionaries discovered that the Shona were a very spiritual and monotheistic people, who believed in a Supreme Being by the name of Mwari, whose cult flourished in the Matopo Hills near Bulawayo. This cult seems to have been one of the strongest elements that united the different groups comprising the Shona. As George Fortune has noted, “priests, dancers, consecrated women and messengers are drawn from such diverse groups as the Karanga, Kalanga, Mbire, the Hera, Rozvi, and the Venda.”8 Further, according to Marthinus L. Daneel, there existed a system of ­messengers and tribute in operation among the Matonjeni and the districts

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of Chilimanzi, Gutu, Victoria, Melsetter, Bikita, Ndanga, Chibi, Chipinga, Belingwe, Gwanda, Plumtree, Nyamadlovu, and centers in Vendaland both north and south of the Limpopo.9 This observation means that the belief in Mwari as the Supreme Being was not only widespread in Zimbabwe but that it also extended south of the Limpopo into South Africa. This belief in a Supreme Being was widespread in Southern Africa, and each group of people had a specific name to refer to this Supreme Being—for example, Modimo among the Tswana; Unkulunkulu among the Ndebele and Zulu; and uThixo or uQamata among the Xhosa. One of the challenging tasks that missionaries faced in their early attempts to convert the peoples of Southern Africa was making the biblical deity relevant and acceptable to them. Although missionaries had initial problems with equating the African Supreme Being and the Christian God, they embarked on a calculated endeavor to adapt the local names of God in the translations of the biblical texts into local languages.10 The missionaries recognized that, if Christianity was to take root among the indigenous peoples and succeed in replacing permanently the Shona religion, it was essential to translate the scriptures into indigenous languages, so that the people would be able to read them for themselves. It was for this reason that John White started to translate a portion of the Bible in 1897, and it was for this reason that missionaries started to teach literacy to the Africans. The names of the Supreme Being in Southern Africa were used in Bible translations to refer to the biblical God. So, for example, in the Shona Bibles the name of God was rendered as Mwari. The translation of the Bible into Shona dramatically changed how the Shona understood and related to their God. The Bible became the authority on Mwari. The ways the Shona had expressed their beliefs and concepts about Mwari were now suppressed. The authentic source for knowing the nature and will of Mwari became the Bible. The adoption of the Shona name Mwari for the missionary biblical God was in reality a religious usurpation of the Shona. The missionaries, using the Bible, played a major role in the colonization of the Shona people. As a written record, the Bible became the authentic voice on Mwari and the ways of Mwari. The myths and folktales that gave expression to Shona identity and ways of being were completely suppressed and rendered as inauthentic. Before the encounter with the missionaries, the Shona traditions had been passed orally from generation to generation. With no written records to concretize those traditions, the missionaries replaced the unwritten records of the Shona with the Bible. As a result, the Bible now talked about Mwari, but whose Mwari was it? The depictions of God in Shona oral traditions were designated as primitive and uncivilized, and so the biblical depiction of God was elevated as the civilized and authentic way of talking about the Shona

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deity, Mwari. The biblical myths and folktales were now viewed as expressing the ultimate reality for the Shona people. Israel’s foundation story became the foundation story of the Shona or the Ndebele. The Shona had used their myths and folktales to socialize their young, but that task was taken over by the missionaries as they took over the education of the young. The manner in which the Bible and the Shona stories of foundation, the Shona myths and folklore, were taught in schools differed radically: the written material of the missionaries was accorded a different status than the oral material of the Shona. In the early days, the young would receive the myths and folktales from their elders (in particular, the grandmothers) in the evening, but in the morning they would be taught in school that these folktales and myths were of no value and were indeed inferior to the Bible. These myths and folktales had functioned, among other things, to give individual and communal worth to the Shona peoples. Then, as the Shona got more and more “civilized” with each new generation and with more development in the curriculum of African education, the transmission of these myths and folktales ceased at home. They were now taught in schools as inferior to the Bible, and even other English written myths and folktales. Shona epistemology was dismissed as backwards and superstitious. Missionary teachings based on the Bible and other Western forms of knowledge served to convince the Africans to accept that they and their ways of being and thinking were inferior to those introduced by Western missionaries and colonizers. Missionaries and colonizers did not find much in African life and culture that they considered good and compatible with the Christian life. The missionaries desired and worked toward an overhaul of African life. They lamented the fact that the old people were not at all receptive to the gospel, as Rev. J. W. Stanlake expressed in 1909: The daily tribunal of the missionary brings home the fact to him, at least, that the old order will not pass away without a struggle. The wonder to me is, not that these people fail to realize and to enter into full privileges of, the Christian life, but that they show the least desire for these things. There is not even the incentive of the loaves and fishes. The people have everything to lose. Polygamy must go. Witchcraft must go. The orgies of beer-drinking must go. These things have deep roots.11

The missionaries realized that this goal would only be met by focusing on the children, so they introduced a system of schooling where Bible literacy was the main focus. The main textbook in these schools was the Bible, which was termed religious knowledge. Missionaries argued for the promotion of literacy among the indigenous peoples and sought the support of the colonists in this regard, on the basis

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that such a measure would teach morality and values to the Africans. Since missionaries and colonists agreed that the Africans needed to be stripped of their beliefs in order for them to be disciplined and governable, the missionaries argued that the vacuum created needed to be filled with Christian beliefs and values. As Dickson Mungazi concludes, in the hands of the missionaries in Africa, “the bible carried an explicit message of obedience that became an instrument of control. In the context of colonial conditions, that control became synonymous with oppression.”12 In addition to the religious beliefs and practices that they wanted to replace with the Christian religion, the missionaries regarded the customs and traditions of the Shona and Ndebele as incompatible with a life based on biblical laws. One area in which the missionaries used their biblical ammunition was marriage. The missionaries considered at least two customs in marriage— namely, lobola/roora and polygamy—as barbaric and a hindrance to the acceptance of the gospel. The missionaries either caricatured or did not understand the concept of Shona and Ndebele marriage, as demonstrated in the following statement from R. Sykes, written in 1902: “The wives, by native custom, are bought for so many head of cattle, the source of wealth and importance amongst the wild native tribes of South Africa, as indeed amongst all primitive races. The man, therefore, amongst them, who can purchase a number of wives, proves his wealth, his social position and his power to indulge in luxuries, and so secures for himself importance in his less fortunate neighbours.”13 Both Catholic and Protestant missionaries were in agreement with this assessment of Ndebele and Shona marriage customs.14 Thus, according to F. Richartz, a Jesuit missionary, “with regard to the older Mashonas there is, generally speaking but little chance of converting them. Confirmed polygamists as they are and wedded to the superstitions of their ancestors, it is scarcely to be expected that, except in very rare cases, they will consent to live according to the Christian Law.”15 To the missionaries these traditions needed to be destroyed for Christianity to take root among the Shona and the Ndebele. Polygamy was viewed as a vicious and barbaric custom that needed to be stopped. The remedy to this problem was seen in the reforming of the African concept of family, a task in which they hoped the colonial state would be of assistance to them. According to the Jesuit missionaries, It [African marriage] must be based on the Christian principle. Polygamy for the future should be forbidden by law. There should be no more plurality of wives allowed by the State. Then the iniquitous custom of lobola might be done away with, for it is nothing short of buying women by cattle, money or goods. . . . Polygamy being forbidden, the native family will be more susceptible to taking

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up and following Christian influences. Modern civilisation will gradually take the place of pagan customs. Men will see the necessity of labour. Women will be raised from their present degraded position.16

The missionaries failed to convince the British South Africa Company to help them stop this vicious custom by force of law and thus were left with the tools of preaching and educating young boys at mission schools. In their attack on the practices of lobola and polygamy, the missionaries believed that they were liberating African women from degradation at the hands of lazy and uncivilized men. They believed that the men held on to polygamy because they did not want to work and left all work to women and children. The gospel was considered the only means powerful enough to instill in African men the ideals of obedience, hard work, and respect for authority. These were traits that the colonists needed in African men for the sake of an adequate supply of docile and governable laborers. The Bible was thus a tool that missionaries used to attack African religions, traditions, and customs in Zimbabwe. Measured against the Bible, African life was deemed incompatible with Christianity. Both missionaries and colonists recognized the ability of biblical teachings to transform the African way to their advantage. With the gospel, African souls would be saved for the missionaries and for the colonists: missionary teachings made the African men more governable and a source of disciplined labor. THE ROLE OF THE BIBLE IN THE PATRIARCHAL AND IMPERIAL OPPRESSION OF AFRICAN WOMEN The translation of the Bible into the vernacular languages impacted women in significant ways. While Mwari of the Shona had been a genderless powerful Spirit, the biblical God was identified and presented as a male god. The missionaries also viewed this God as favoring the service of men, and thus from the onset they focused on training men to be evangelists. This appropriation of Mwari into a Christian God was accompanied by an aggressive attack on the ways in which the Shona had worshipped Mwari. The significant and meaningful roles that women had played in religion and other spheres of African life were attacked, without the creation of similar roles in Christianity. For example, the major ceremony of Mwari worship was the rainmaking ceremony, which took place at Matopo Hills in Matabeleland toward the beginning of the summer rain season. Women played pivotal roles in the preparations and activities that took place during the ceremony. It was the women who brewed the beer for the ceremony. The women who were deemed qualified to do this were post-menopausal and were assisted by

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pre-pubescent girls. In fact, women brewed all the beer that was consumed during many different ceremonies. The missionaries, however, were generally against beer-drinking. The missionaries held the character and capabilities of African women and girls in low regard. Some missionaries blamed women for their failure to convert African men to Christianity. They agreed with the claim of the colonial state authority, “It is useless to hope for permanent progress in the native population unless the women rise as well as the men. So long as the women cling to their old customs, habits and ideas they will hold back their husbands and especially their sons.”17 Some missionaries were convinced that their failure to obtain African conversions to Christianity was due to the negative influence of African women, as shown by this lament of a Wesleyan Methodist missionary, “The women are keeping Africa back. You see it every way you turn.”18 The missionaries supposed that the immoral and ignorant habits of the women were responsible for the unhygienic conditions, sexual depravity, and lack of a work ethic among the African men, and hence believed that the standards of the women had to be raised in order to reach the men and the children, over whom women had powerful influence. The general European assessment of the role of African women in the development of the African man was that the latter learned good habits while in mission schools but, on returning home, reverted to the old level of savagery, dragged there by “the inertia of his woman . . . the dead weight of the female influence will counterbalance all the efforts to raise the males.”19 Consequently, if Africans were to be civilized and their souls saved, African females had to be influenced from an early age. The missionaries considered women as secondary and men as primary. If it had not been for the assumed negative influence that the uneducated women had on the mission-educated men, the missionaries would never have seen the need to educate them. Even so, the education that women received was inferior to that of the men, who were educated for the purpose of serving the labor needs of the colonists. The objective of education for girls, according to the Wesleyan Methodist missionary John White, was to mold girls into proper mothers and teachers for young children and suitable wives for the mission-educated men.20 According to missionary Victorian ideals, good mothers stayed at home raising their children according to Christian values, while fathers went out to work in order to feed the family. The missionaries introduced rigid gender roles that chipped away at the roles that women had played in society. In the Shona and Ndebele religions, women had shared the same roles as men. For example, both women and men had served as spirit mediums (masvikiro), healers (n’anga), and visionaries. Missionaries viewed all such roles as demonic, evidence of superstitious and barbaric views that were incompatible with biblical teachings. Denouncing

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and banning these roles, the missionaries worked against the advance of women, since they were, in fact, limiting the roles of women in society. Men were given positions of leadership in the new religion, while women’s voices were silenced. The assumption is that the Western depiction or interpretation of women’s status and roles in precolonial Africa is accurate. To the contrary, such an interpretation was colored by the agenda to present themselves as the saviors of the African woman. It was the women who were placed at a disadvantage, insofar as African men could function as leaders in the new religion brought to replace the Shona and Ndebele religions. In fact, missionary education focused primarily on the training of the males to be religious leaders in the form of evangelists. Missionaries conceptualized African women as having a static subordinate status in society. They viewed women as permanent victims of male dominance and exploitation. This general European view of African women ignored the fact that women, like men, acquired status as they grew older. For example, both male and female grandparents occupied a position of power and influence in the family. This elevation of grandparents was realized in the concept of ancestral spirits (vadzimu). Apart from attaining the status of ancestral spirits after death, women had significant roles in the ceremonies for the veneration of ancestral spirits. The missionary attack on the belief and practices concerning the ancestral spirits thus functioned as an attack on some of the ways in which women attained equal status with men and so played significant social and religious roles. The role that the Bible took in the education of the young greatly reduced women’s spheres of influence. Before missionary education, folktales and myths (ngano), told by grandmothers to children in the evening, served as one of the most important didactic tools in Shona society. The translation of the Bible into the vernacular not only led to the appropriation of Mwari but also took away one of the important roles of women. The creation myths that the grandmothers had passed on to their grandchildren were now replaced with the creation myths of the Bible, since the authentic narratives about Mwari were those taught by the missionaries at the mission schools. Initially, moreover, women were not trained to teach the Bible. The missionaries also introduced a negative view of the female body and female sexuality, a development that intensified patriarchal control of women and female sexuality. The biblical depiction of women and female sexuality was not positive, and thus girls were taught to cover up their bodies in mission schools. The Bible introduced the negative view of the female body that is now to be found in most of sub-Sahara Africa—the idea that the female body was sinful and shameful and hence to be covered up from head to toe had not been present prior to the arrival of Westernization. Nakedness was

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not negative in precolonial times, but colonists and missionaries both had problems with female bodies and female sexuality. In the relation between the Bible and African cultures, the Bible was considered as more authoritative. CONCLUSION The colonization of Africa was a result of cooperation among different imperial agents and from a variety of angles. One such angle was that of the missions, and here the Bible and its translation into indigenous African languages served as a major tool. The equation of the biblical god with local gods of the different peoples of Africa changed completely the concept of God and how Africans thought of themselves. The Bible has functioned to embolden patriarchy and has multiplied the oppression and suppression of women and women’s concerns in Africa. In many ways, African women struggle to resist oppression in and through the Bible and oppression in and through African patriarchal culture. NOTES 1. Musa Dube, “Introduction,” in Musa W. Dube, Andrew M. Mbuvi, and Dora R. Mbuwayesango, eds., Postcolonial Perspectives in African Biblical Interpretations (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012), 1–25, 4. 2. Roy L. Smith, The Revolutions in Missions: The Fondern Lectures for 1941 (New York-Nashville: Abingdon-Cokesbury, 1951), 32–33. 3. Select Committee on Aborigines, Report, in Parliamentary Papers Great Britain, 1856 vii 538, 3. 4. Andrew Porter, “Commerce and Christianity: The Rise and Fall of the Nineteenth Century Slogan,” The Historical Journal 28, no. 3 (September 1985), 597. 5. Gustav Warneck, Outline of a History of Protestant Missions from the Reformation to the Present Time with Appendix concerning Roman Catholic Missions, 3rd ed. (New York: Fleming H. Revell Company, 1904), 75. 6. George Smith, The Life of William Carey D. D., Shoemaker and Missionary, Professor of Sanskrit, Bengali and Marathi in the College of Fort Williams Calcutta (London: J. Murray, 1885). 7. John Campbell, Travels in South Africa: Undertaken at the Request of the Missionary Society (London: Black, Parry & Co., 1815; repr., Cape Town: Struik, 1974), 199. (Emphasis mine). 8. George Fortune, “Who was Mwari?” Rhodesian History: Journal of the Central African Historical Association 4 (1973), 5. 9. Marthinus L. Daneel, The God of the Matopos Hills (London-The Hague: Mouton, 1970), 56–57. 10. See Dora Mbuwayesango, “How Local Divine Powers Were Suppressed: A Case of Mwari of the Shona,” and Gomang Seratwa Ntloedibe-Kuswani, “Translating

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the Divine: The case of Modimo in the Setswana Bible,” in Musa W. Dube, Andrew M. Mbuvi, and Dora R. Mbuwayesango, eds., Other Ways of Reading: African Women and the Bible (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2001), 63–77 and 78–97, respectively. 11. J. W. Stanlake, “A Visit to Epworth Mission Station,” The Foreign Field 55 (March 1909), 208. 12. Dickson A. Mungazi, Colonial Education for Africans: George Stark’s Policy in Zimbabwe (New York: Praeger, 1991), 2. 13. R. Sykes, “Hindrances to Native Conversions in South Africa,” Zambesi Mission Record (1902–5), II (16), 54 (emphasis mine). 14. J. W. Stanlake, “The Mission Stations of Matabeleland,” Work and Workers in the Mission Field (January, 1898): 26–27; P. Prestage, “The Kraal Family System Among the Amandebele” Zambesi Mission Record (1898–1901) I (13), 443; R. P. Hatendi, “Shona Marriages and the Christian Churches,” in J. D. Dachs, ed., Christianity South of the Zambezi, Vol. 1 (Gwelo: Mambo Press, 1973), 138. 15. F. Richartz, “Chishawashawa Today,” Zambesi Mission Records (1898–1901) I (14), 475. 16. “Notes from the Different Stations,” Zambesi Mission Records (1902–1905) II (17), 93. 17. Acting Native Commissioner, Wankie, to Superintendent of Natives, Bulawayo, May 7, 1914, N3/17/2, #N174/14. 18. Assistant Native commissioner, Umtali, to Superintendent of Natives, Umtali, May 12, 1914, N3/17/2, #J960. 19. C. H. Tredgold, “Minutes by Tredgold, Attorney General of Southern Rhodesia,” August 27, 1974, N3/17/2. 20. Correspondence of Rev. John White to Miss Bradford, April 13, 1915, Women’s Work Collection, Africa. Missionary and Chair’s Correspondence, 1914–40, Wesleyan Methodist Society (WMMS) Archives, University of London, School of Oriental and African Studies.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Campbell, John. Travels in South Africa: Undertaken at the Request of the Missionary Society. London: Black, Parry & Co., 1815. Repr., Cape Town: Struik, 1974. Daneel, Martinus L., The God of the Matopo Hills. London and The Hague: Mouton, 1970. Dube, Musa. “Introduction.” 1–25 in Postcolonial Perspectives in African Biblical Interpretations, edited by Musa W. Dube, Andrew M. Mbuvi, and Dora R. Mbuwayesango, 1–25. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012. Fortune, George. “Who was Mwari?” Rhodesian History: Journal of the Central African Historical Association 4 (1973): 1–20. Hatendi, R. P. “Shona Marriage and the Christian Churches.” In Christianity South of the Zambezi, Vol 1, edited by J. D. Dachs, 135–149. Gwelo: Mambo Press, 1973. Mbuwayesango, Dora R. “How Local Divine Powers Were Suppressed: A case of Mwari of the Shona.” In Other Ways of Reading: African Women and the Bible, edited by Musa W. Dube, ed. 63–77. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2001.

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Mungazi, Dickson. Colonial Education for the Africans: George Stark’s Policy in Zimbabwe. New York: Praeger, 1991. Ntloedibe-Kuswani, Gomang Seratwa. “Translating the Divine: The Case of Modimo in the Setswana Bible.” In Other Ways of Reading: African Women and the Bible, edited by Musa W. Dube, Andrew M. Mbuvi, and Dora R. Mbuwayesango, 78–97. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2001. Porter, Andrew. “Commerce and Christianity: The Rise and Fall of the Nineteenth Century Slogan.” The Historical Journal 28, no. 3 (September 1985): 597–621. Prestage, P., “The Kraal Family System among the Amandebele.” Zambesi Mission (1898–1901). Volume I (13): 442–446. Richartz, F. “Chishawasha Today.” Zambesi Mission Record (1898–1901) I (14): 475. Select Committee on Aborigines. Report. Parliamentary Papers Great Britain, 1856. Volume VII. ———. “A Visit to Epworth Mission Station.” The Foreign Field 55 (March 1909): 208. Smith, George. The Life of William Carey D. D., Shoemaker and Missionary, Professor of Sanskrit, Bengali and Marathi in the College of Fort Williams Calcutta. London: J. Murray, 1885. Smith, Roy L. The Revolutions in Missions: The Fondern Lectures for 1941. New York-Nashville: Abingdon-Cokesbury, 1951. Stanlake, J. W. “The Mission Stations of Matabeleland.” In Work and Workers in the Mission Field. January 1898, 26–27. Sykes, R. “Hindrances to Native Conversions in South Africa.” Zambesi Mission (1902–5). Volume II (16), 53–57. Warneck, Gustav. Outline of a History of Protestant Missions from the Reformation to the Present Time with Appendix concerning the Roman Catholic Missions. 3rd edition. New York: Fleming H. Revell Company, 1904. Zvobgo, C. J. “Aspects of Interaction between Christianity and African Culture in Colonial Zimbabwe, 1893–1934.” Zambezia XIII (1986): 43–57.

Chapter 3

Postwar Hermeneutics Bible and Colony-Related Necropolitics Kenneth Ngwa

This chapter proceeds on three basic assumptions. First, there is a profound connection between colonial/postcolonial administration and colonial/postcolonial biblical interpretations. This connection revolves around attention to forms of power that facilitate access to and control of personal, communal, and cosmic life—what the Achewa of Malawi call moyo1 and the Bafut of the Northwest Province of Cameroon call nchuwi-ntǝ (literally, “stay/livestrong”).2 Second, when organized and structured under a political and religious institution or ideology, this attention often leads to the practice of what Achille Mbembe calls necropolitics—the power to determine who lives and who dies: “the ultimate expression of sovereignty resides, to a large degree, in the power and capacity to dictate who may live and who must die.”3 Third, modern forms, discourses, and practices of necropolitics in Africa were significantly shaped in the wake of the World War II. In the following pages, I will not attempt to describe the complex economic and political implications of African participations in the World War II, or the cultural fervor that fueled anti-colonial wars in its wake, or even the wide range of biblical interpretations that accompanied the anti-colonial process. Rather, I intend to do something much more limited: to examine how a postwar scenario allows one to interpret colonial and postcolonial governance, with a focus on two key “tools” of colonial and postcolonial governance— the gun and the Bible. As ultimate symbols of power, the Bible and the gun enable their users to claim and deploy specific forms of authority to critique, determine, or regulate the very basic character and structure of human existence, life itself, lived out within histories, cultures, and policies that have identifiable economic, political, and spiritual practices and legacies.

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LANDSCAPES OF POSTWAR 1945: BIBLE AND ITS DISCOURSE COMMUNITIES In The African Quest for Freedom and for Identity, Richard Bjornson writes that “Africa has experienced profound changes since the Second World War.”4 Although largely focused on Cameroon, Bjornson’s analyses explore political, economic, ethnic, and cultural transformations that resonated across the continent, such as the following, among others: the collapse of official colonialism; the achievement of national independence; a period of coup d’états and civil wars; and the rise of a writing culture. With these changes came the constructions of a “universe of discourse,” that is, “rules, procedures, assumptions, and conventional meanings that permit verbal communication among individuals from the same community of language users. Several discourse communities may exist within the same country, and a single individual may belong to more than one of them.”5 Postwar 1945 was a crucial turning point in critiquing colonial ideology, on the one hand, and in structuring African independence movements, their discourse communities, and forms of governance, on the other. First, the response to colonial ideology was global. For example, in October 1945, over 200 delegates representing trade unions, farmers, political organizations, and intellectuals from continental Africa as well as the African Diaspora gathered in Manchester, the United Kingdom (UK), at the fifth Pan-African Congress, and demanded the end of colonial rule and the right to independence and self-development.6 The presence of W. E. B. DuBois was particularly significant, given his role in organizing the first congress, after the World War I, in 1919. Second, within the continent, anti-colonial leaders—including Léopold Senghor, Kwame Nkrumah, Julius Nyerere, and Sékou Touré—argued for an African philosophy of governance around the notion of socialism. Nyerere later developed the theory of Ujamaa Vijijini, rural socialism, which prioritized empowering the poor and developing rural communities. Because colonialism operated at the juncture between politics, religion, and economics, Nyerere theorized about the economic basis of the power differential between the rich and the poor, which formed part of Nyerere’s argument for a proper understanding of the Church’s role in society: “Poverty is not the real problem in the modern world. . . . The real problem—the thing that creates misery, wars and hatred among men—is the division of mankind into rich and poor. . . . The reality and depth of the problem arises because the man who is rich has power over the lives of those who are poor, and the rich nation has power over the policies of those which are not rich.”7 Similarly, Samir Amin, a prominent underdevelopment theorist of the postindependence era, who grew up in colonized Egypt and was keenly aware of the economic impact of war, reflected on the economic and geopolitical

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significance of independence. Amin argued that independence “brought about a qualitative change to the political organization of the world capitalist system,” because independence meant that “the history of sovereign states was extended to the entire globe,” thereby changing the colonial perception of Africa as a “nonsovereign” space and thus as “free game for competitive expansion from centers.”8 The cumulative effect of the global geopolitical and economic realignment after the World War II and continent-wide struggles for independence was the emergence of independent African nation-states, postcolonial “discourse communities” with distinct colonial legacies, liberation struggles, and governing philosophies. The fact that Africans head these nation-states is the result of decolonization processes that varyingly included violent struggles, regional politics, advocacy for cultural nationalism and autonomy, and biblical interpretations.9 The overlap between militarized government, economic policy, and biblical interpretation shaped this postwar moment, and helped to accentuate the power and legacy of the gun and the Bible in colonial, anticolonial, and postcolonial discourse communities. Indeed, on December 19, 2007, the finance and business journal, The Economist, published an essay titled “The Bible v the Koran: The battle of the books.”10 It was a market-based analysis premised on the idea that “the business of marketing the Bible and the Koran says a lot about the state of modern Christianity and Islam.” The article explored how Christians and Muslims (described as “people of the book”), who have an obligation to spread the Word, use the tools of modernity—such as technology, globalization, and growing wealth—to aid the distribution of their Holy Books. Of importance to such inquiry were such factors as the following, among others: changing demographics (through conversion and birth) within these religions; the locations of the largest Bible publishing houses; the objectives and strategies (iPods, MP3 players, eBible, and so forth) that marketing organizations use to make religious texts available to as many people as possible; the ironic, almost humorous Gallup opinion poll showing discrepancy between the prevalence of the Bible in US households and citizens’ accurate knowledge of its contents; Christianity’s “superior marketing skills” that make its publishing houses “big businesses”; the roles that political culture and literacy play in the spread of these religions. Having examined these factors, dubbed a “state-of-the-battle report,” the article concluded with a “health warning.” First, it predicted that the urge to spread the word “will spark some of the fiercest conflicts of the 21st century.” The article identified and described one of the global spaces most heavily fought over, sub-Saharan Africa, as “a tinder box of failed states and ethnic animosities.” The second health warning was that “the Bible and the Koran will continue to exercise a dramatic influence over human events, for

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both good and ill.” The article ended with words that echo a biblical story in Exodus: “The twigs of the burning bush are still aflame with the fire of God.” The use of biblical language to describe nation-state political violence speaks to the need to historicize the intersection between biblical interpretation and political governance. As an interested reader,11 I was struck, though not surprised, by The Economist’s market-based analyses of the intersections of Bible and nation-state violence. Indeed, the fog of smoke from the colonial flames that accompanied the Bible to Africa still rises, though the fires are now fueled by highly flammable local twigs and imported logs, and the Bible has functioned to interpret the life-experiences that characterize those cultural, political, and economic realities.12 Because these economic, religious, and political realities persist not as a random set of disjointed identity markers and experiences but as a clustering product of ideologies and specific governing policies in the church and the larger society, their impact on human and cosmic life, quite naturally and expectedly, informs the very theories of biblical hermeneutics.13 Yet, in the trilogy of Bible, economics, and violence described in The Economist, subSaharan Africa’s prominence is not in the production of the Bible or in its distribution, but in discussion on “consumers” and related violence.14 This landscaping that depicts many African nation-states as unfriendly to the market forces of global capitalism and yet housing a growing segment of global “consumers” of Western products needs historicizing and critical assessment. For Samir Amin, African independence movements became a “bourgeois national project” that negotiated internal regional economic realities and development ideologies as well as external pressures from Cold War powers, and ultimately failed to fully transform and improve the lives of the poor.15 The resulting paradox between the conceptual ideal of Marxist socialist liberation and the lived reality of non-liberation of economic inequality is also the reason why the Bible’s role in the colonial and postcolonial space requires continuous theorizing and critique.16 The period of Amin’s bourgeoisie national project (1955–1990) overlaps with that of intense debates about African socialism/capitalism and military rule following frequent coup d’états (1960–1985),17 and therefore frames continuing questions about colonial and postcolonial necropolitics. BIBLE AFTER GUN SHOTS: COLONIAL MYTHOLOGY AND NARRATIVE KINSHIP OF STRANGERS In The Story of an African Chief,18 Akiki Nyabongo narrates an encounter between a British explorer, Henry Morton Stanley, and a local Bugandan monarch, Kabaka Walungembe bya Mutesa I. The story explores, inter

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alia, the motif of deadly violence at the intersections of Bible, economics, and politics.19 When the story begins, Stanley is out looking for his friend David Livingstone.20 After waiting for nine days and after elaborate rituals of local political pomp and circumstance, Stanley finally got his chance to meet the king. He planned to give the king gifts, but learned that the king was a wealthy man and might be offended by what would seem like meager gifts. Concerned, Stanley asked his interpreter for advice. However, lacking knowledge of local customs, the interpreter declined and urged Stanley to use his own “judgment.” So, Stanley decided to give the king something he thought the king would be sure to accept: a gun. The reason for the gift of a gun, Stanley would explain, was that it can kill quicker than a spear.21 Stanley’s journeys through tropical Africa crystallized and represented increasing European celebration of exploration as a heroic act of triumph over and conquest of the “unknown” world—in this case, Africa—which Stanley repeatedly referred to as a “dark” place.22 State-sponsored exploration and its resulting literature helped to create colonial imagination—“particular ways of reading unknown landscapes”23—and the strategies for subjugating those landscapes. The centrality of the gun as a weapon of encounter focalizes the necropolitics of colonialism, and the wounds of a postwar scenario are easily imaginable. As a system and praxis in power relations, colonialism needed the encounter with the “other” to be framed in terms of competitive advantage, fueled by notions of technological superiority and quintessentially demonstrable in the power to kill or let live. Thus framed, the colonial encounter—a proxy for competing European nations to showcase their political and moral power through foreign domination—developed its rationale and compass around the speed with which one could capture, dominate, reorganize, or eliminate foreign life forms. Colonialism was a vivid display of extraterritorial necropolitics. Using institutions around which community life was organized in the colony, explorers recruited and structured local involvement around concepts of military, economic, and religious need. For Mutesa, the Bible was as powerful as the gun.24 The political and methodological effect of the encounter was powerful and seductive. “Killing made easier” seemed to be the dominant guiding principle governing this encounter and its quest for the ultimate form of power. Curious but also intrigued by the opportunity afforded him through an advanced technology of death, the king said to one of his pages, “This is a weapon which has been given to me by the Muzungu, the white man. He says that it can kill quicker than a spear. Go out and try it on somebody and see if it works.”25 The seed of colonial necropolitics was sown and its genetic carriers were existing (or colonizer-appointed) heads of local institutions, which ensured that colonialism itself would survive the official demise of its ancestors. A predictable

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corollary of colonialism, namely, the transformation of “other-ed” spaces and peoples into objects of Europe’s racially tinged scientific, anthropological, and political experimentation emerged, and sub-Saharan Africa would become, at the height of imperial colonialism, Europe’s living complex laboratory.26 Mutesa’s story represents the beginning of what Mbembe calls “the generalized instrumentalization of human existence and the material destruction of human bodies and populations.”27 Indeed, Mutesa’s story illustrates longstanding and still ongoing debates about pre-colonial, colonial, and postcolonial governance, and the effects of externally induced “experimental power” of colonialism that interacted with existing traditions and shaped the transition from one governing epoch to another.28 In the wake of the violent necropolitics of “killing made easier” proposed by Stanley and experimented upon by Mutesa, the conversation searched for moral justification and alignment, and found both in nationalistic ideology. As it turns out, Stanley and the king represented their respective nations. So, after the page shot and killed a local slave and reported back that the gun indeed killed faster than a spear, Stanley said to a chief: “In my country we don’t kill people. Even our kings have no right to do so.” Sensing the critique of his political actions, the king replied, “Do you mean to tell me that when you have a war, you don’t kill the enemy? What do you do when you fight? How can you protect yourself?” Stanley answered, “We kill people in war, but not in the way you’ve just had this slave killed. We don’t kill men offhand like that.”29 Technological superiority aligned with supposed moral superiority of the colonizer. It is in the context of this exchange about violent national necropolitics that the Bible, encountered as a foreign text, enters the discourse. Assuming that life-and-death decisions associated with the colonial encounter could be clarified by appealing to a religious text, Stanley decided to read “something from my country” that would be interesting to the king and his chiefs. This “something from my country” was the Bible, which Stanley said prohibits killing.30 The irony is thick, and would be comical were it not so tragic. The colonial toolkit contained the advanced deadly weapon and its moral framework, and Stanley was keen on describing how the tools worked: the one’s power is in its ability to kill quickly; the other’s, in its condemnation of the colonized person’s use of the first tool. The organizing purpose behind this dual construal of the colonized as technologically deficient and methodologically irrational and unlawful is control over life in the colonized space. The resulting effect is a narrative depriving the colonized place of its moral authority for internal critique. Once the locus of life-power is violently manifested in the political landscape of the colonial space and then methodologically dislodged from the colony’s moral landscape, a new discourse emerges. Communal imagination

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is aligned with macronarratives that produce new narrative genealogies and life forms under the custody of incoming personalities. Stanley reads from the prologue of John’s gospel, a story about beginnings, about an encounter between visiting superior enlightened personalities (deities) and locals living in darkness. In response, the king asked, “What is that, your mythology?” to which Stanley explained that it is a guide for his religion.31 The motif of light and darkness in the biblical text and its resonance with the larger colonial ideology that imagined sub-Saharan Africa as the primordial “dark continent”—depicted in colonial writings and photography—is hard to miss.32 The colonized space is not just outside the norms of colonial political imagination; it is also outside of colonizing mythology of divinely guided cosmic beginnings. When local use of the colonizer’s tool (gun) is interpreted as methodological “offhanded” action, a random cog outside the wheel of mythical history of beginnings, the stage is set for the distinction between the violence of the colonizer and the violence of the colonized: colonial violence is superior and self restraining, grounded in notions of newness and development; local violence is inferior and grounded in offhanded actions of irrational spontaneity and decay. The story of colonial beginnings is a story that creates norms and exceptions. In that story, macronarratives, grounded in unfamiliar mythologies, are the norm because of their totalizing power and claims; micronarratives, though grounded in local struggles for power, are the exception because they are defined as random. In the end, colonization and its uses of the Bible did not seek the absolute destruction of the colony, but rather to permanently define the colonized place, body, and agent as the primordial exception to whatever is considered the “norm.” It did not just map out center and periphery power relations but also notions of “truth” and “falsehood,” and the language by which such notions are created, put into circulation, and morally adjudicated. As national, religious, ethnic, mythical, and regional consciousnesses increasingly filled this colonizer-colonized spaced, Stanley read another biblical story of journey and geopolitical realignment. This time, the journey is not undertaken by a superior being to encounter inferiors; instead, oppressed beings separate themselves from their overlord and align with a new overlord. Stanley read the Exodus story of the crossing of the sea of reeds. The motif of exodus as travel provoked a response from one of the attendant chiefs. Speaking to the king—obviously to the hearing of Stanley—the chief said, “Hm, that’s just like our story, because when the Gods came from the north they reached the River Kira and the waters stopped flowing, so that they could get across. Isn’t it strange that his story and ours should be the same?”33 The hermeneutical possibilities in this oral exchange are provocative. Is this a critique by a subgroup of its monarch? Is this the basis for cross-cultural

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hermeneutics? In this comparative hermeneutics, Stanley is no longer the primary interpreter of the biblical text. The cultural “intertextuality” of the local chief’s interpretation of a biblical story about travel and its effects on the rhythms of river flow as well as his language of north-to-south travel play into local cartographic scenery and its natural economic resources. Yet, in light of Livingstone’s travels through the Zambezi, river flow is not just a tool of communication (exploration) but also an avenue for easy access to local economic resources. Besides, in light of Stanley’s initial reading from the prologue of John, one cannot but wonder whether the chief already represents a colonized subject negotiating multiple political and cultural structures, one overseen by the king and the other by the colonial powers. In the chief’s interpretive layering of stories that reflect strangeness and sameness, the narrative “discourse communities” are expanded and intertextuality engages not just cultural memory in its literary form but also religious/political travel as well as existing and emerging institutions.34 Biblical interpretation, though introduced by a single explorer, would cease to be solely an individualized effort; instead, it will also become a practice in institutional, macro identity formation, which adds to the layers of analyses. STORYTELLING, MULTIPLE CONSCIOUSNESS, AND BIBLICAL INTERPRETATION Colonialism’s project of self-definition through foreign domination was one of alienation: it constructed alien-nations and transformed them into nations of aliens. What then does the image of an African holding a Bible, reading a Bible, or listening to the Bible being read conjure and represent? Does it conjure the image of a colonized person? A local consumer of a strange, foreign product? A cross-cultural hermeneut? A colonial critic?35 The layered process of narrative interpretation described above suggests a method of critical constructivism that attends to a variety of levels: (1) macro-level analyses of institutional genealogies, identity, and structure anchored in cosmic and national mythologies of the colonial enterprise; and (2) micro-level analyses of community wellbeing that challenge disempowering hierarchies and structures. On the one hand, the gun-gift story, framed by ignorance of local custom and a belief in the cultural and technological superiority of the explorer/colonizer, provoked rapid local death and cross-cultural religious moralizing. On the other hand, the biblical story about religious travel, filtered through local cultural memory and geography, allowed aurality and subsequent orality of listeners (the chief) to become the critical media through which the Bible is interpreted, communicated, and received.36 The cumulative effect of this

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narrative layering is a sense of narrative kinship of strangers. As the chief mentions to the king, obviously to the hearing of Stanley, “Isn’t it strange that his story and ours should be the same?” Actually, oftentimes, in the intersections of biblical interpretation and colonial power, national stories are not the same; only narrative motifs possibly are.37 The interpretive space carved out here is one in which the colonizer and the colonized share the same narrative motif of lived experience even though they have different experiential, epistemological, and hermeneutical assumptions and objectives. Let me illustrate this sense of narrative kinship of strangers with an anecdote. It turned out to be a remarkable evening. I had gone to my son’s school for curriculum night. There was a sizeable crowd of parents chatting in the gym, as children played around and enjoyed popsicles. As I walked around, greeting other parents and guardians, I saw an international student who had also accompanied his son to the event and stayed to chat with him. Suddenly, a gentleman walked up to us and introduced himself, before stating quite bluntly that he had spotted us from across the hall and had come to greet us because, as he said, “I can recognize an African from a distance.” It was clear to me that he was not speaking about all persons of African descent, but rather of contemporary continental Africans. Though I did not ask how he could make that determination from a distance, the issue of group identity and its associative meanings presented itself—associations that can transcend multiple spaces and yet inhabit a single body.38 This experience of social encounter and articulation of communal identity—shaped by historical forces of nationality, culture, travel, and economics—crystallizes my reflections on multiplicity. What was it that stood out about our bodies to be recognizable as “African”? What are the organizing principles and locales where “African” life takes its forms, faces concrete challenges, and forges new opportunities for survival and transformation? Are they cultural or linguistic or national? What roles do religion, history, ethnicity, and economics play in defining African life and hermeneutics?39 And how would our “African” conversation proceed up close, given the rich diversity embodied in our individual stories as conversation partners? The ensuing conversation constituted another level of analysis where the challenges and opportunities of speaking to and about the complex socio-political realities of an African body take place; it reflected the Zulu insight that dialogue or debate is “the kernel of wisdom.”40 After we introduced ourselves, the gentleman realized, based on our names, that the student with whom I had been speaking was from the same ethnic group as he. And so, standing in that inter-national space, they started speaking in Ibo. The complexity of the African body manifested itself, anew—seeming homogenous when viewed from some distance, but intriguingly complex and diverse up close. Knowing that there is a large Ibo population in Cameroon,

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I tried to create some form of social “interconnection” by stating that I was their neighbor.41 Our new conversation partner and friend, however, thought I was referring to the Yoruba, and stated with excitement: “Oh, my wife is Yoruba.” Then I said, “No, I mean your national neighbor to the east, Cameroon.” Then we all laughed—I am not sure, yet, whether we were laughing at our own assumptions about postcolonial identities or at the follies of colonialism itself, put on display. The interaction highlighted the challenges and tasks of framing interpretive “lenses” and “mono/poly-phones”—playing off of the “seeing” and the “talking” that initiated and characterized that moment—that take diversity as its starting point. What if one contemplates the multiplicity of the postcolonial subject in their national, gendered, cultural, and linguistic embodiments as the starting point of interpretation?42 Using the example of Cameroon, I will identify a number of co-existent consciousnesses that characterize the interpretive space inhabited by the postcolonial subject. First, the decades-long independence movements that developed across the continent after the World War II created “national” consciousness, which enjoyed its highest popularity by being anti-colonial in its discourse and (sometimes forceful) actions. However, many of these discourses have since rightly come under critical scrutiny regarding their relevance to postcolonial governance.43 Second, there is regional consciousness articulated in the notion of “Anglophone consciousness.” This consciousness has its roots in post–World War I colonial politics, when the (former German) colony, Kamerun, was partitioned into (British) Southern Cameroons and (French) République du Cameroun. A complex process of nation-formation would later bring these two regions with different colonial legacies together, following political wrangling, anti-colonial upheavals in French Cameroons, and a unification plebiscite in Southern Cameroons.44 This consciousness is one of geopolitical minority. Third, there is ethnic consciousness, which, in the layered politics of post-independence Cameroon, is referred to as “primary patriotism,” where ethnicity and economics overlap in their negotiations with the hierarchical structures that govern regional and national politics.45 Finally, there is religious consciousness, either in the form of Christianity or Islam or so-called traditional religions—“monotheistic” and “polytheistic” religions whose co-existence is itself testimony to the complex history and politics of religious travel, syncretism, and antagonism.46 Because these multiple consciousnesses function less as a menu of hermeneutical options and more as a synthetic worldview, Cameroon has been described as a “paradise of paradoxes,” and Francis Nyamnjoh, one of the country’s leading sociologists and anthropologist, could speak of a country held together by its ethnic ambition and diversity.47 One is faced with the ­reality of citizenship defined by simultaneous multiplicity, one that (to extend Du Bois’ notion of “double consciousness”48) creates multiple consciousnesses

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and allegiances: national, ethnic, regional, and religious—all at once, and in addition to the continental identity, “African,” which harkens at the effects of macro (global) historical events of colonialism on individual identity. Given these consciousnesses, the remainder of my reflections will attempt to use stories in and about the Bible, as well as their colonial and postcolonial interpretations, to explore how words, written and/or spoken, function to reflect socio-political constructions of identities, group associations, and meanings; how postcolonial interpretations of the Bible function to challenge existing assumptions about social identity (and its related ethical responsibilities) by either narrowing or expanding the scope of reference or of imaginative possibilities; and how the humor of wit and new insight may function as the holding space for new interconnections and critical responses to the embarrassing ethical awkwardness of colonial difference and power viewed up close, or to the tragedy of its violence intimately experienced. BIBLE AFTER WAR: NATIONALISM, TRANSNATIONALISM, AND MULTIPLE NARRATIVES More than a century after the modern advent of the Bible in sub-Saharan Africa, as part of Europe’s colonial package, assessments of the Bible’s impact on Africans and Africans’ impact on the Bible range from unsettling to ambiguous to tragic to empowering and liberative. The reasons for these assessments are varied and reflect the fact that uses of the Bible in that geopolitical region have always straddled pre-colonial cultural, political, and religious diversity and institutions, as well as denominational and political ideologies of those who brought the text to the continent during the violence that accompanied and facilitated the “effective occupation” of colonies after the Berlin-Congo conference in 1884–85.49 The multiple use of the Bible—to construct an African identity around phenotype; to deny these same Africans a developed sense of moral integrity; to largely confine their political, military, and economic significance to a geographical landmass mostly located between the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn; and, finally, to forcefully enlist their labor in constructing technologies and institutions that point to places of “final authority” outside of that colonized space—was part of the ideology that shaped early encounters between Europeans and Africans. Perhaps no other writings were as foundational to the application of mythology and biblical interpretation to Africa as those of the British army officer, anthropologist, and explorer John Hanning Speke, who used the biblical story of Ham to produce the so-called Hamitic myth about the inferiority of sub-Saharan Africans.50 Speke’s remarks are worth citing at length:

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I profess accurately to describe naked Africa—naked in those places where it has not received the slightest impulse, whether for good or for ill, from European civilization. If the picture is a dark one, we should, when contemplating these sons of Noah, try and carry our mind back to that time when our poor elder brother Ham was cursed by his father, and condemned to be the slave of both Shem and Japheth; for as they were then, they appear to be now—a strikingly existing proof of the Holy Scriptures. But one thing must be remembered: While the people of Europe and Asia were blessed by communion with God through the medium of His prophets, and obtained divine laws to regulate their ways and keep them in mind of Him who made them, the Africans were excluded from this dispensation, and consequently have no idea of an overruling Providence or a future state; they therefore trust to luck and to charms, and think only of self-preservation in this world. . . . To say that a negro is incapable of instruction is a mere absurdity, for those few boys who have been educated in our schools have proved themselves even quicker than our own at learning; while, among themselves, the deepness of their cunning and their power of repartee are quite surprising, and are especially shown in their proficiency for telling lies most appropriately in preference to truth, and with an off-handed manner that makes them most amusing.51

The moral and intellectual caricature of sub-Saharan Africa as a wild place of “off-handed” behavior here is echoed in Henry Stanley’s moralizing necropolitics to Mutesa: “We don’t kill men offhanded like that.” Whether in search of cheap labor and the establishment of favorable trading posts, or in the process of carving out distant geographical spaces into colonies, the European journey across the Sahara was more than a journey through space. It was mostly a racializing journey that defined and ranked the very character of the sub-Saharan body and space at the bottom rung of Europe’s development chart.52 Once again, Speke’s words are key here: How the negro has lived so many years without advancing seems marvelous, when all countries surrounding Africa are so forward in comparison. . . . Could a government be formed for them like ours in India, they could be saved; but without it, I fear there is very little chance; for at present the African neither can help himself nor will be helped by others, because his country is in such a constant state of turmoil he has too much anxiety on hand looking out for his food to think of anything else.53

One of the enduring legacies of colonialism would indeed be its (direct and indirect) role in the creation of “a government formed for them like ours,” the nation-state. “Africa, surrounded by numerous suitors, did not have the choice to choose a suitor or to refuse one,” writes Musa Dube. Indeed, Dube argues that the story about the encounter between the colonizer and the colonized “was not a love story,” given that “the modern history of Western

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colonization of Africa was a violent process of taking Africa by force. It was indeed a gang rape, so to speak.”54 As is the case with a power act, rape or other, the violence of colonialism had a staying and an inherently contradictory governing effect: Africans in colonized territories were enlisted to fight and die in a war to liberate European countries from the domination of Nazi ideology and its racially motivated holocaust55—necropolitics at the heart of Europe itself! In the wake of African participation in the liberation of Europe from the violent necropolitics of Nazism, African national liberation movements gathered momentum as the Cold War set in. In this global setting, John F. Kennedy’s Africa policy, including his eventual creation of the Peace Corps in 1961, was part of his larger pre-election support for African nationalist movements spearheaded by Kwame Nkrumah, which Kennedy perceived to be motivated by genuine anti-colonial sensibilities rather than communistinspired.56 The assassination of Patrice Lumumba, the Marxist pan-Africanist revolutionary and elected leader of Congo, in 1961 sent shock waves across the Cold War political landscape in Africa, and had a chilling effect on Nkrumah, who saw in Lumumba a protégé and co-laborer for the political vision of a United States of Africa.57 Ideally, the central concern of these nationalistic and pan-African intellectual traditions and governing philosophies was to attend to the sense of racialized disdain for the Negro in colonial ideology as well as the political, economic, and military pressures of the Cold War era. This combination of racial disdain, arms-race Cold War, and colonialism crystallized around two broad theological trajectories and foci: on the one hand, the “Black Theology of Liberation” in the southern region of Africa, attuned to the colonial regime of apartheid; on the other hand, the cultural nationalism that galvanized nationalist movements and influenced scholarship across the central African regions.58 During these struggles, Nkrumah paraphrased a biblical text to describe the primary task of political independence and its prioritized place in the struggle for liberation: “Seek ye first the political kingdom and all else will be added to you.”59 For many African countries, Nkrumah’s invitation was heeded and independence was achieved at a rapid pace. But did all things get added? It would take over three decades before the apartheid regime would fall. In Cameroon, the country’s first president, Ahmadou Babatoura Ahidjo, proposed and enacted a governing philosophy of “regional balance,” which, accompanied by a highly militarized and centralized structure, effectively constructed layered identities: civic identity associated with government and regional/ethnic identities associated with pre-independence colonial legacies. Because France had decided that it was in its long-term political interest to distance itself from anti-colonial nationalist movements and to rather ensure

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that her local clients had access to power, Ahidjo’s government was de facto perceived as “foreign” by the masses and, needing to legitimize itself, became obsessed with remaking the country in its image. Portrayed as a unifier, the president was given many political names: “Father of the Nation,” “Great Comrade,” “Apostle of Peace,” “Providential Guide,” and so forth.60 In 1982, Ahidjo, a practicing Muslim, was coaxed into resigning his presidency. In his place, Paul Biya, a Christian, was installed, again with support from the French government. This led to Ahidjo’s attempted coup d’état in 1984, which failed and resulted in civilian deaths, deep anxieties over issues of religious, ethnic, and political identities, and a repressive single-party government. Largely known by its French acronym, RDPC (Rassemblement Démocratique du Peuple Camerounais), critical metaphorizing of this acronym played on its phonetics to brand the party, redépécer, meaning “cut it out and dole it”—reflecting the economic nepotism that funded political patronage and the colonial notion of the capture and re-distribution of spoils.61 As decades passed, anti-colonial optimism associated with independence began not just to wane but to change into postcolonial pessimism. The political math of “all things being added” often changed into a poker-style political power play that gambled with the economic and political resources of nations, to the benefit of the ruling elite: “Heads I win, tails you lose.” Several “heads” of state assumed greater power, implementing a necropolitics of oppression, a type of autocratic wielding of the “Solomonic sword” and a splitting of the proverbial baby. This concentration of power at the elite level predictably ignored the needs of the masses and the socio-cultural and legal transformations that needed to accompany political independence. Over the years, very much like the compassionate mother of the biblical story, several women and men have toiled under the cultural burdens of patriarchy and politico-economic burdens of patronage in the postcolony, seeking to shift the discourse from a transactional necropolitics of baby-splitting to a focus on life: “Give her the living boy; certainly do not kill him” (1 Kg 4:26).62 This brief analysis of postcolonial political economies reflects the writing of the Guyana pan-Africanist Walter Rodney, whose work in Tanzania resulted in the publication of How Europe Underdeveloped Africa in 1973.63 Rodney explored, among other things, how capitalist goals of colonial rule destroyed the process of African development. Given Africa’s natural and human resources, Rodney rightly saw underdevelopment as a paradox that needed to be explained in terms of historical processes of exploitation and dependency. Rodney noted how a colonial capitalist recognized this paradox but decided to explain it in biblical terms, citing Matthew 25:29, “To those who have more, more will be given and they will have in abundance; but from those who have nothing, even the little they have will be taken away.”64 In reacting against such exploitative biblical proof texting, the contribution of

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underdevelopment theorists such as Rodney is that they historicized the constructions of colonial markets and thereby set the groundwork for analyzing market-based identities of the post–World War II era.65 African scholars and religious leaders had found in the exodus story a motif of political and economic liberation. However, with the passage of time and the (re)establishment of oppressive political structures and exploitative economic policies, biblical interpretations ironically largely began to fold inward, attending to institutional survival rather than providing sustained, constructive critique of governing policies. Jean-Marc Éla sounded the alarm: “For millions of Africans, the signs of a world in quest for freedom and justice are too evident not to attract the attention of churches that boast the Judaeo-Christian revelation or claim that the message of the exodus occupies a central place.”66 Éla’s work, published two years after a violent, failed coup d’état in Cameroon, conveyed the fact that the story of liberation had stalled and indeed come to a violent halt. Similarly in Theology in Africa, published nearly a decade after Rodney described how Europe underdeveloped Africa, Kwesi Dickson could write: The most interesting thing about colonialism is, paradoxically, that African peoples themselves, to a significant extent, have kept up its momentum by their unimaginative attachment to the life and thought of the erstwhile colonial masters. Europe may have underdeveloped Africa, but the momentum of underdevelopment is in our time being kept up, to a large extent, by Africans themselves.67

Nationalistic use of the exodus story had led to the constructions of political institutions but not to effective governance. Independence ceased to be an ongoing story of liberation, and became a political trophy, ritualized in highly militarized annual ceremonies. In the face of post–coup d’état Cameroonian necropolitics, Éla argued that the African church needed to renew its purpose, confront “today’s Pharaohs,” and prioritize the “new aspirations of all the disinherited by bringing problems of women and men crushed by injustice into religious education, religious formation, and prayer.”68 Biblical and political power again converged around issues of life. The next major interpretive shift came after the Cold War. After its official end in 1991 and heightened discourse about political liberalism, Achille Mbembe started theorizing on the epistemological, political, and cultural constructions and manifestations of governance in the postcolony.69 Mbembe wrote at a time when there was deadly crackdown on political dissidents in Cameroon, crystallized in violent clashes between “law enforcement” and citizens during and after the launching of an opposition party (Social Democratic Front, SDF) in 1990 and popular demands for multiparty democracy

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and anti-government sit-in protests known as “ghost towns.” Mbembe focused on the relationship between colonial and postcolonial governance, paying attention to the power or right to govern, which he called Sovereignty or Commandement. He argued that colonial sovereignty rested on three sorts of violence. The first was “founding violence,” which underpinned not only the right to conquest but also the prerogatives flowing from that right. Founding violence created “the space over which it is exercised; one might say it presupposed its own existence” and “regarded itself as the sole power to judge its laws.” The second form of violence was “legitimizing violence,” which functioned to give the founding order “meaning,” to justify the “universalizing mission” of the colonial enterprise, and convert “founding violence into authorizing authority.” The third fell short of what is properly called war and sought to ensure the “maintenance, spread, and permanence” of legitimizing authority.70 This political context framed Mbembe’s analysis of the biblical text. Drawing on Freudian psychology, Mbembe focused on the notion of divine phallus, particularly the notion of divine libido, which he associated not just with sexual pleasure and desire but also with pain and suffering. In this formulation, Mbembe conceived a religious act as simultaneously in some way an erotic-sexual act, played out as a desire that seeks to possess the other and be possessed. This desire ultimately manifests itself in a peculiar space, that of the fantasm.71 One of the primary forms of this fantasm is monotheism, which functions in a multitude of ways and assumes various presuppositions: (1) primacy, by which the one God signifies only himself and subsumes everything into himself; (2) totalization, which depicts its exclusivity in contrast to the multiplicity of polytheism and the dispersion of gods; (3) monopoly, which resists other forms of worship and gives the one God part of his jealous, possessive, wrathful, violent and unconditional character; (4) omnipotence, the ability to translate into reality everything representable and, in conjunction with divine providence, lead humankind to free-giving salvation; and (5) the notion of the ultimate, the beginning and end of all, the production and regulation of truth. Monotheism, therefore, “implies organization of some arrangement that is presented as legitimate and that resolves the conflicts between a plurality of divinities such that one is endowed with a monopoly on truth. How this arrangement is produced is clearly a political travail.”72 This political travail includes “narcissistic self-definition” wherein a select people distinguish themselves from others. Mbembe then locates the narcissistic impulse in the divine being himself, making the “biblical god a tribal god,” who, in contrast to pagan gods, had a “distinctive” trait of “relative solitude.” In fact, this god “had no relatives, was neither the son

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nor the cousin of any other god, had neither wife nor children. His claim to power was thus total, unchallenged by any member of a possible lineage.”73 Although Mbembe’s depictions of the divine in the Hebrew Bible are incomplete and do not address the ways in which the notion of divine “solitude” has its narrative fault lines (Israel as Yahweh’s “sons”; Yahweh as an adopting parent; Israel as “wife,” sometimes abused), his insights into the monotheistic impulse as a functionally socio-political power move that restructures cultural, political, and social identities are important to understanding Cameroon as a postcolony and the Bible’s role in that context. The Bible functions less as a book of creeds and more as a “power” book: it speaks to issues of power—political, religious, spiritual, cultural, and so forth—precisely because colonialism introduced it as such and postcolonial policies have largely facilitated that use of the Bible. Because of its violent power, the moment of war paradoxically creates a sense of vulnerability—an awareness of the fragility of life—and hence a postwar need for asserting a sense of protective power. Although the motif of liberation remained a useful one, reflections on its claim to power through revolution, on the ability of liberation power to transition into governing power, and on the continuing appeal to the Exodus story became increasingly critical in post–Cold War Africa, which had experienced the creative and destructive sides of liberation necropolitics. Noting that “exodus to freedom” had turned out to be “exodus to bewilderment,” that honey and milk had become agony, killings, and hatred, and that many Africans, in postwar contexts, had been “left in the wilderness to die as refugees and displaced people,” a number of theologians including Kä Mana, Jesse Mugambi, André Karamaga, and Charles Villa-Vicencio started advocating a shift from Exodus-liberation models to Reconstruction models largely based on such texts as Ezra-Nehemiah, Third Isaiah (Isa 65:17–25), and Jesus’ sermon on the mount (Matthew 5–7).74 Cognizant of the challenges facing the political poster child (the nationstate) of colonialism and its nationalistic incarnation following independence movement readings of the exodus, these scholars introduced an epistemological and strategic break in African biblical scholarship by arguing for reconstruction. Kä Mana, for example, argued that a reconstruction theology would resist ethnic and tribal hegemonies, resist an enchantment with the invisible world at the expense of public engagement, and bring about a reevangelization of African societies and institutions, creating “anti-Pharaoh” and “anti-Baal” values that break free from the determinism of crises and create hope.75 As part of a larger ongoing communal practice in life-and-death struggles in the postcolonial state, African biblical interpretation needed to reinvent itself again.

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CONCLUSION: BIBLE AND THE NECROPOLITICS OF MOSES-TURNED-PHARAOH Anchoring his analyses in contemporary Zimbabwe, Masiiwa R. Gunda has recently argued that the proposed shift from Exodus-liberation to Nehemiahreconstruction is not only problematic in its assumptions about African “independence” but also fails to fully recognize that oppression has outlived its systems, namely, institutionalized racism, formal colonialism, and Cold War tutelage. Eschewing “pan-African rhetoric” of reconstruction theology as “the mainstay of dishonest African politicians” who use racism, colonialism, and Cold War to excuse and cover-up failed leaderships, Gunda proposes that the book of Amos provides the “models upon which an effective ‘liberative reconstructive theology’ in Africa can be built on.”76 The task facing the African church and community as Gunda diagnoses it is crucial: “The danger that the church faces is how to tell the many ‘Moses’ they created that they are now ‘Pharaohs.’”77 Talk about a poignant turn of phrase, a flipping of the political and religious script(ure)! The epistemological force of Gunda’s diagnosis—the persistent threat of liberation-become-oppression—on life in the postcolony is not limited to Zimbabwe. In When Victims Become Killers, Mamdani uses the Rwanda genocide and the non-violent transition to post-apartheid South Africa to articulate a similar challenge: If Rwanda was the genocide that happened, then South Africa was the genocide that didn’t. The contrast was marked by two defining events in the first half of 1994: just as a tidal wave of genocidal violence engulfed Rwanda, South Africa held elections marking the transition to a postapartheid era. More than any other, these twin developments marked the end of innocence for the African intelligentsia. For if some seer had told us in the late 1980s that there would be a genocide in one of these two places, I wonder how many among us would have managed to identify correctly its location. Yet, this failure would also be testimony to the creative—and not just the destructive—side of politics.78

For many African intellectuals and citizens, the potent symbolism of Rwanda and South Africa was that these events captured and represented the profound paradox of life in a postcolonial space. As the quintessential site for power struggle, where the relation between colonial and postcolonial power must be assessed rather than simply assumed, the postcolony is a place where the banal, the grotesque, and the sublime take place, not just as avenues used by ordinary people to navigate, negotiate, and even protest official power, but also as officialdom’s way of creating and structuring a worldview—or, in the words of Kä Mana, an imaginaire, for the masses.79 This imaginaire

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ultimately plays itself out not just in the form of hybrid identities but in its ability to produce and negotiate a multiplicity of consciousnesses. In this postcolonial imaginaire, Mbembe argues that in order to account for the mind-set that characterizes postcolonial power relations and the effectiveness with which such power relations can be negotiated, one ought to go beyond the binary categories used in standard interpretations of domination, such as resistance versus passivity, autonomy versus subjection, state versus civil society, hegemony versus counter-hegemony, and so forth. Instead, Mbembe proposes, “the postcolonial relationship is not primarily a relationship of resistance or of collaboration but can best be characterized as illicit cohabitation, a relationship made fraught by the very fact of the commandement and its ‘subjects’ having to share the same living space.”80 In fact, because this living space is made up of multiple “public spaces”—national, ethnic, religious, economic, gendered, and so on—each with its “internal” logic, yet constantly intermingling with others, the postcolonial subject has also learned and mastered the skills of negotiating these multiple identities, of bargaining in this market place, performing thereby a certain form of mitosis.81 Does this mitosis result in a fragmented cultural, ethnic, political, and religious body or does it create a layered body? Does it call for liberation or for reconstruction or for both? And how would the process of assessing each method unfold? Gunda’s use of Amos is intriguing because Amos is one of the earliest Hebrew prophets to make use of the exodus motif. Amos is particularly useful because his reference to exodus resists appropriations of the motif as singularly Hebrew, and allows for other ethnic “exodus” stories. The motif of liberation persists but the stories of liberation must be multiple and must always adapt to new realities. In terms of postwar necropolitics, the epistemological and hermeneutical moment and possibility captured in the biblical story of Rahab, the Canaanite woman whose indigenous land is about to be burned down, proves instructive. It is a story that “bookends” the exodus imagination, and requires communal reflection on the transition from liberation to governance, the methods that facilitate such a transition, and assessments of the roles of the gun and the Bible in shaping that postwar moment. With a sense of realism (of impending external domination) and pragmatism (of negotiating her internal political, economic and cultural structures), Rahab is the storyteller who must momentarily and later permanently share the intimate space of her walled-home with incoming religious, political, and military ideologies and institutions. She recounts the story of the exodus community, not as one of liberation but as one of impending doom. In the context of a realism that recognizes the enduring legacy of externally imposed racial/ ethnic and religious identities, Rahab bargains for survival, urging the spies

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into a covenant of steadfastness and loyalty, of promise, to spare her family in the execution of the holy war. The convergence of military and religious fervor in the story of Rahab focalizes the power of the gun and the Bible in seeking, organizing, and reorganizing “other-ed” life forms in a captured space. Because Rahab never gets to tell a story of liberation (but only a story of survival), and because her survival story is not restricted to the private spaces of indigenous identity and subculture but is told to the hearing of the incoming exodus-as-conquest group, she is negotiating a postwar hermeneutic. In that postwar space, memories of the exodus story as told by the Israelites and by Rahab co-exist not as a menu of hermeneutical options but as a synthetic worldview that engages the multiple levels of life forms, organized and regulated in the very constructions of political, ethnic, and religious identities and governance. On the one hand, biblical interpretation in those spaces must have a strange character that memorializes not just the encounter with the “other” but also serves as a critique of the violent nature of that encounter and its tools of choice—the gun. On the other hand, if that colonized space is to survive as a newly layered and fragmented body after gun shots, there must be a quality of cross-cultural sameness to nourish its internal complexities. One ends with new kinships of narrative strangers. Truly, truly, “isn’t it strange that his story and ours should be the same?” NOTES 1. H. J. Sindima, Africa’s Agenda: The Legacy of Liberalism and Colonialism in the Crisis of African Values (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1995), 198–214. 2. The Bafut fondom first encountered colonial power when the German explorer Eugen Zintgraff arrived in 1889. Zintgraff’s arrival aroused the suspicions of the local king (called “fon”) Abu’umbi I, who opposed German penetration. The resulting military conflict caused many local casualties. In 1907 the palace was burned down and the fon was forced into exile. Bafut was close to German and (later) British administrations, and so has had sustained exposure to and contact with colonial administration. See, J. P. Warnier, “Noun-Classes, Lexical Stocks, Multilingualism, and the History of the Cameroon Grassfield,” Language in Society 8, no. 3 (1979): 409–423; R. Ritzenthaler and P. Ritzenthaler, Cameroon’s Village: An Ethnography of the Bafut (Milwaukee: Milwaukee Public Museum, 1962). 3. A. Mbembe, “Necropolitics,” Public Culture 15, no.1 (2003): 11. 4. R. Bjornson, The African Quest for Freedom and for Identity: Cameroonian Writing and the National Experience (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991), x. 5. Bjornson, The African Quest, x. Italics original. 6. I. Geiss, “Pan-Africanism,” Journal of Contemporary History, Special Issue on “Colonialism and Decolonisation,” 4, no. 1 (1969): 187–200; H. Adi, “The African

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Diaspora, Pan-Africanism and Anticolonial Ideologies,” in The Dark Webs: Perspectives on Colonialism in Africa, ed. T. Falola (Durham: Carolina Academic Press, 2005), 88–93. 7. J. Nyerere, “The Church’s role in Society,” in A Reader in African Christian Theology, ed. J. Parratt (London: SPCK, 1987), 117–130, 117. Italics original. See also: J. Nyerere, “Africa Today and Tomorrow,” Review of African Political Economy 25, no. 75 (1998): 149–152; C. Allen, “The Machinery of External Control,” Review of African Political Economy 25, no. 75 (1998): 5–7; L. Schneider, “Freedom and Unfreedom in Rural Development: Julius Nyerere, Ujamaa Vijijini, and Villagization,” Canadian Journal of African Studies 38, no. 2 (2004): 344–392. 8. S. Amin, Re-Reading the Postwar Period: An Intellectual Itinerary (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1994), 28–29. 9. See the weaving of military, economic, cultural, religious, and political challenges and opportunities facing African women and men by M. A. Oduyoye, Beads and Strands: Reflections of an African woman on Christianity in Africa (New York: Orbis Books, 2004). In Cameroon, these struggles and opportunities were initially formulated around a political party, Union des Populations du Cameroun, (UPC), led by Ruben Um Nyobé. When the French colonial administration resisted the UPC’s demands for self-governance and the end of unfair trading favors afforded French investors, the political struggle degenerated into armed resistance. See, Bjornson, African Quest, 46–70. 10. See http://www.economist.com/node/10311317. Last accessed on June 18, 2013. 11. As a trained biblical scholar of African descent, I take seriously the sociological, economic, and political implications of biblical interpretation, broadly, and postcolonial biblical interpretation particularly. The material reality of sub-Saharan Africa requires analyses that grapple not just with the historic realities that shaped contemporary identities and policies but also with current realities of those who read (or listen to) the Bible as a religious text, a text with significant cultural and religious value. 12. See, for example, R. M. Akoko, “Ask and you shall be given”: Pentecostalism and the Economic Crisis in Cameroon (Leiden: African Studies Center, 2007); G. West, “The Bible and Economics: Historical and Hermeneutical Reflections from South Africa,” African Journal of Biblical Studies 20, no. 1 (2004): 93–122; G. Thomas, “Retrieving Hidden Traces of the Intercultural Past: An Introduction to Archival Resources in Cameroon, with Special Reference to the Central Archives of the Presbyterian Church in Cameroon,” History in Africa 25 (1998): 427–440; P. Konings, “Religious Revival in the Roman Catholic Church and the AutochthonyAllochthony Conflict in Cameroon,” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 73, no. 1 (2003): 31–56. 13. K. Holter, Yahweh in Africa: Essays on Africa and the Old Testament (New York: Peter Lang, 2000), 27–40, discusses the role that money plays in African biblical scholarship, arguing that African scholars need access to the market place of ideas, exchanges, and production. Holter makes a distinction between European hermeneutics around “money and method” as opposed to African hermeneutics that privileges “myth and meaning,” emerging from engagement with challenging economic and

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political realities on the ground. Cross-Cultural hermeneutics that give voice to local cultures and the oppressed have emerged and continue to inform biblical interpretations in Africa. See I. Kadmuzandu, “Biblical Interpretation and Criticism in Neocolonial Africa: Challenges, Conceptualizations, and Needs in the Twenty-First Century,” in The Future of the Biblical Past: Envisioning Biblical Studies on a Global Scale, ed. R. Boer and F. F. Segovia (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012), 3–12; S. Nadar, “Beyond the ‘Ordinary Reader’ and the ‘Invisible Intellectual’: Pushing the Boundaries of Contextual Bible Study Discourses,” in The Future of the Biblical Past: Envisioning Biblical Studies on a Global Scale, ed. R. Boer and F.F. Segovia (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2013), 13–27. 14. The article does briefly mention that, in terms of religious membership, “more Presbyterians go to church in Ghana than in Scotland.” This forms part of global changes since the 1900s, when 80% of Christians lived in Europe and the United States; today, 60% live in the developing world. 15. Amin, Re-Reading the Postwar, 105–148. 16. Gerald West has rightly argued that Africans used and continue to use the Bible in multitude of ways, some of which are not about doctrine but about the “strange power” of the Bible which would be “different from the Bible’s collocations within the missionary-colonial package.” See, Gerald O. West, “Early Encounters with the Bible among the Batlhaping: Historical and Hermeneutical Signs,” Biblical Interpretation 12, no. 3 (2004): 251–281. 17. Paul Nugent, Africa since Independence: A Comparative History (New York: Palgrave, 2004), 204–259. 18. Akiki Nyabongo, The Story of an African Chief, Illustrations by Eleanor Maroney with Introduction by William Lyon Phelps (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1935). 19. For further analyses on Mutesa and his embrace of the Bible as part of a political strategy of flirting with alien powerful religions, see Raphael chijioke Njoku, “Catholicism, Protestantism, and Imperial Claims in Kabaka’s Buganda, 1860–1907,” in Missions, States, and European Expansion in Africa, ed. Chima J. Korieh and Raphael Chijioke Njoku (New York: Routledge, 2007), 53–71. 20. David Livingstone is perhaps the most famous explorer/missionary of the entire nineteenth century. His Zambezi expedition, financed by the British government, represented one of the ways in which missionary work and imperial policies overlapped. Livingston’s 1858 expedition included a significant change in the use of photography in representing Africa to the larger European audience and sponsors. See T. Jack Thompson, Light on Darkness? Missionary Photography of Africa in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2012), 56–97. 21. Nyabongo, The Story, 3–9. 22. Henry Morton Stanley, How I Found Livingstone: Travels, Adventures and Discoveries in Central Africa; Including Four Months’ Residence with Dr. Livingstone (London: Sampson Low, 1872); Through the Dark Continent: Or The Sources of the Nile around the Great Lakes of Equatorial Africa and down the Livingstone River to the Atlantic Ocean, 2 vols. (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers 1878);

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In Darkest Africa: Or the Quest, Rescue and Retreat of Emin, Governor of Equatoria (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1890). 23. Felix Driver, “Henry Morton Stanley and His Critics: Geography, Exploration and Empire,” Past & Present 133 (1991): 134–166, here 136. 24. Njoku, “Catholicism,” 59. 25. Nyabongo, The Story, 9. The king’s articulation captures not just the ideology of technological superiority as a means of rapid destruction of the enemy, but also the racial element of moral superiority that accompanies the advent of such technology on the local scene. 26. Helen Tilley, Africa as a Living Laboratory: Empire, Development, and the Problem of Scientific Knowledge, 1870–1950 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011). 27. Mbembe, “Necropolitics” 14 (Italics original). 28. Pierre Englebert, “Pre-Colonial Institutions, Post-Colonial States, and Economic Development in Tropical Africa,” Political Research Quarterly 53 no. 1 (2000): 7–36. 29. Nyabongo, The Story, 10. 30. Nyabongo, The Story, 11. Of course, the Bible does not always prohibit killing. 31. Nyabongo, The Story, 12. 32. See, Thompson, Light on Darkness? Missionary Photography, 1–55. 33. Nyabongo, The Story, 11–13. Because Stanley had claimed the Bible as a book from his “country,” the chief here reasonably assumes that the biblical Hebrews of the exodus story are British. Echoes of Livingston’s expedition through the Zambezi are not farfetched. 34. Upon the king’s request, Stanley agreed to send for a missionary from his home country, someone who would read the Bible to the locals and teach them his religion and many other things. Nyabongo, The Story, 14. 35. Vincent L. Wimbush, “Scriptures for Strangers: The Making of an Africanized Bible,” in Postcolonial Interventions: Essays in Honor of R. S. Sugirtharajah, ed. Tat-siong Benny Liew (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009), 162–177, interprets the life and writings of Olaudah Equaino as illustrative of the complex constructions and navigations of identities by persons of African descent upon their subjection to slavery and encounter with the Bible. 36. See Isidore Okpewho, African Oral Literature: Backgrounds, Character, and Continuity (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1992), 3–19, on orality as a lived experience and folklore as a combination of what people say and do. 37. Wimbush, “Scriptures for Strangers,” 162, 165–166, mentions that strangeness characterized Equaino’s self-awareness and relation to the Bible, even as Equaino proceeded to interpret “white scriptures” to argue that God is on the side of oppressed Blacks. 38. In the field of the sociology and philosophy of religion, J. Lorand Matory has argued that religions of spirit possession in Africa and the African Diaspora operate on the basis of a cosmology and an ontology that contemplate multiplicity, the ability to transcend time and space, and the ability to take up residence in a single body. See Matory, “The Many Who Dance in Me: Afro-Atlantic Ontology and the Problem with

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‘Transnationalism’” in ed. Thomas J. Csordas, Transnational Transcendence: Essays on Religion and Globalization (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2009), 231–262. See also: Laurel C. Schneider, Beyond Monotheism: A Theology of Multiplicity (London: Routledge, 2009); Wole Soyinka, Myth, Literature and the African World (London: Cambridge University Press, 1976). 39. Stephen M. Fjellman and Miriam Goheen, “A Prince by Any other Name? Identity and Politics in Highland Cameroon,” American Ethnologist 11, no. 3 (August 1984): 473–486. For a discussion of similar questions in biblical studies, see Jeremy Punt, “Dealing (with) the Past and Future of Biblical Studies: A New South African Perspective,” in The Future of the Biblical Past: Envisioning Biblical Studies on a Global Scale, ed. Roland Boer and Fernando F. Segovia, (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012), 29–45. 40. Mazisi Kunene, Anthem of the Decades: A Zulu Epic (London: Heinemann, 1981), 281. 41. In fact, before independence in 1961, citizens of the then “Southern Cameroons” were a part of the British colony, managed from Nigeria, for economic reasons. In 1961, part of Southern Cameroons joined the French-speaking “La République” to create the Federal Republic of Cameroon. A plebiscite in 1972 solidified that union between “Southern Cameroons” and “La République,” resulting in the “United Republic of Cameroon.” 42. Francis B. Nyamnjoh, “Blinded by Sight: Divining the Future of Anthropology in Africa,” Africa Spectrum 47, no. 2–3 (2012): 63–92; Gerald O. West, “Do Two Walk Together? Walking with the Other Through Contextual Bible Study,” Anglican Theological Review 93, no. 3 (2011): 431–449. 43. See Milton Krieger, “Building the Republic through Letters: ‘Abbia: Cameroon Cultural Review,’ 1963–82 and its Legacy,” Research in African Literatures 27, no. 2 (Summer, 1996): 155–177. Some of these nation-states have fractured (such as Sudan). 44. See: Victor Julius Ngoh, Origins of the Anglophone Problem: Southern Cameroons, 1922–1961: A Constitutional History (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001); Nugent, Africa since Independence, 71–77; Piet Konings, “The Anglophone CameroonNigeria Boundary: Opportunities and Conflicts,” African Affairs 104, no. 415 (2005): 275–301; Piet Konings and Francis Nyamnjoh, “The Anglophone Problem in Cameroon,” The Journal of Modern African Studies 35, no. 2 (June 1997): 207–229. The plebiscite of 1972 brought together “Southern Cameroons” and “La République” to create the United Republic of Cameroon. A decade later in 1982, President Paul Biya unilaterally renamed the country “The Republic of Cameroon,” reverting to and nationalizing the ideology of pre-unification French-speaking Cameroon and causing political anxiety for English-speaking Cameroon. 45. Francis Nyamnjoh and Michael Rowlands, “Elite Associations and the Politics of Belonging in Cameroon,” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 63, no.8; The Politics of Primary Patriotism (1998), 320–338; Yvette Monga, “Au Village: Space, Culture, and Politics in Cameroon,” Cahiers d’Études Africaines 40, no. 160 (2000): 723–749. 46. Quentin Gausset, “Islam or Christianity? The Choices of the Wawa and the Kwanja of Cameroon,” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 69, no. 2 (1999): 257–278.

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47. Francis B Nyamnjoh, “Commentary: Cameroon: A Country United by Ethnic Ambition and Diversity,” African Affairs 98, no. 390 (1999): 101–118. 48. W. E. B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk (Originally published in 1903; reprint 2003). 49. For multidimensional analyses of the longstanding historical, methodological, and political challenges associated with Bible and Africa, see: Edwin M. Yamauchi, Africa and the Bible (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic Press, 2004); Hugh R. Page Jr. et al, eds., The Africana Bible: Reading Israel’s Scriptures from Africa and the African Diaspora (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2009); Gerald O. West, “After the Missionaries: Historical and Hermeneutical Dimensions of African Appropriations of the Bible in sub-Saharan Africa,” Studia Historiae Ecclesiasticae 38, no. 1 (May, 2012): 111–130; idem, “Early Encounters with the Bible among the Batlhaping: Historical and Hermeneutical Signs,” Biblical Interpretation 12, no. 3 (2004): 251–281; Gerald O. West and Musa Dube, eds., The Bible in Africa: Transactions, Trajectories, and Trends (Boston: Brill, 2000); Musa Dube, Postcolonial Feminist Interpretation of the Bible (St Louis, MO: Chalice Press, 2000); Johnson Kĩriakũ Kĩnyua, Introducing Ordinary African Readers’ Hermeneutics: A Case Study of the Agĩkũyũ Encounter with the Bible (Religions and Discourse 54; Oxford: Peter Lang, 2011). On “effective occupation,” see Jane Burbank and Frederick Cooper, Empires in World History: Power and the Politics of Difference (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010), 312–320. 50. John Hanning Speke, Journal of the Discovery of the Source of the Nile (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1864). 51. Speke, Journal, xvii. 52. Ralph A. Austen, Trans-Saharan Africa in World History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 8–10. 53. Speke, Journal, xxiv. 54. Musa W. Dube, “Introduction,” in Postcolonial Perspectives in African Biblical Interpretations, ed. Musa W. Dube, Andrew M. Mbuvi, and Dora Mbuwayesango (Global Perspectives on Biblical Scholarship; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012), 3. 55. Peter J. Schraeder, African Politics and Society: A Mosaic in Transformation (Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2000), 127–129; Burbank and Cooper, Empires in World History, 407; John W. Dower, War without Mercy: Race and Power in the Pacific War (New York: Random Press, 1986). 56. Philip E. Muehlenbeck, Betting on the Africans: John F. Kennedy’s Courting of African Nationalist Leaders (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Harvey J. Sindima, Africa’s Agenda: The Legacy of Liberalism and Colonialism in the Crisis of African Values (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1995), 88–123. 57. Muehlenbeck, Betting on the Africans, 22–23, 75–77, 125–126. On the traumatizing effects of Lumumba’s death, see Jean Omasombo Tshonda, “Lumumba, Drame sans fin et Deuil inachevé de la Colonisation,” Cahiers d’Études Africaines 44, no. 173 (2004), 221–261. On the political and economic effects of assassinations, see Zaryab Iqbal and Christopher Zorn, “The Political Consequences of Assassination,” The Journal of Conflict Resolution 52, no. 3 (2008): 385–400; idem, “Sic Semper

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Tyranis? Power, Repression, and Assassination since the Second World War,” The Journal of Politics 68, no. 3 (2006): 489–501. 58. This distinction is reflected in the debates about “African Theology” and “African Black Theology” between John Mbiti and Desmond Tutu. See Desmond M. Tutu, “Black Theology and African Theology—Soulmates or Antagonists?” in Parratt, A Reader, 46–57. 59. Ama Biney, “The Legacy of Kwame Nkrumah in Retrospect,” The Journal of Pan African Studies 2, no. 3 (2008): 129–159. 60. Mbembe, “Provisional Notes,” 17–18. 61. Mbembe, “Provisional Notes,” 6. See also: Bruce J. Berman, “Ethnicity, Patronage and the African State: The Politics of Uncivil Nationalism,” African Affairs 97, no. 388 (1998): 305–334; Nubohiro Mizuno and Ryosuke Okazawa, “Colonial Experience and Postcolonial Underdevelopment in Africa,” Public Choice 141, no. 3–4 (2009): 405–419. 62. See: Isabel Apawo Phiri and Sarojini Nadar, eds., African Women, Religion and Health: Essays in Honor of Mercy Amba Ewudziwa Oduyoye (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2006); Alice Y. Yafeh-Deigh, “The Liberative Power of Silent Agency: A Postcolonial Afro-Feminist-Womanist Reading of Luke 10:38–42,” in Postcolonial Perspectives in African Biblical Interpretations, ed. Musa W. Dube, Andrew M. Mbuvi, and Dora Mbuwayesango, (Global Perspectives on Biblical Scholarship; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012), 417–440. 63. Walter Rodney, How Europe Underdeveloped Africa (Dar-Es-Salam: Tanzanian Publishing House, 1973). 64. Rodney, How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, 21. 65. M. Mamdani, When Victims Become Killers: Colonialism, Nativism, and the Genocide in Rwanda (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 19. 66. J. Éla, The African Cry (New York: Orbis Books, 1986), 36. 67. K. A. Dickson, Theology in Africa (Darton: Longman and Todd, 1984), 75. 68. Éla, African Cry, 38. 69. A. Mbembe, “Provisional Notes on the Postcolony,” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 62, no. 1 (1992): 3–37; On the Postcolony, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001); “On the Postcolony: A Brief Response to Critics,” Qui Parle 15, no 2 (2005):1–49. 70. Mbembe, On the Postcolony, 25. 71. Mbembe, On the Postcolony, 212–23. 72. Mbembe, On the Postcolony, 215 (italics, original) 73. Mbembe, On the Postcolony, 219. This motif of monotheism and its relation to sexuality and sexual abstinence is explored in M. Beti, The Poor Christ of Bomba (London: Heinemann, 1971), which examines the work of catholic missionary priests and the establishment of a convent in a rural town of Bomba. 74. J. B. Chipenda, A. Karamaga, J. N. K. Mugambi, and C. K. Omari, eds., The Church of Africa: Towards a Theology of Reconstruction (Nairobi: All Africa Conference of Churches, 1991); J. N. K. Mugambi, From Liberation to Reconstruction: African Theology after the Cold War (Nairobi: East African Educational Publishers, 1995); C. Villa-Vicencio, A Theology of Reconstruction: Nation-Building and Human Rights (Cape Town: David Phillip Publishers, 1992).

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75. Kä Mana, cited in V. Dedji, Reconstruction and Renewal in African Christian Theology (Nairobi: Acton Publishers, 2003), 120–123. 76. M. R. Gunda, “African Theology of Reconstruction: The Painful Realities and Practical Options,” Exchange 38 (2009):84–102. 77. Gunda, “African Theology,” 90. For further analyses on the value of liberation hermeneutics, see E. E. Uzukwu, “From Nobody to Somebody: The Pertinence of African Liberation Theology,” in P. Claffey and J. Egan, eds., Movement or Moment? Assessing Liberation Theology Forty Years after Medellin (New York: Peter Lang, 2005), 97–124; A. F. Botta and P. R. Andiñach, eds., The Bible and the Hermeneutics of Liberation (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009). For a sampling of recent perspectives on postcolonial biblical interpretation in Africa, see M. W. Dube, A. M. Mbuvi, and D. Mbuwayensago, eds., Postcolonial Perspectives in African Biblical Interpretations (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012). 78. Mamdani, When Victims Become Killers, 184. 79. See V. Dedji, “The Ethical Redemption of African Imaginaire: Kä Mana’s Theology of Reconstruction,” Journal of Religion in Africa 31, no. 3 (2001):254–274. 80. Mbembe, “Provisional Notes,” 3–4. 81. Mbembe, “Provisional Notes,” 5.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Adi, Hakim. “The African Diaspora, Pan-Africanism and Anticolonial Ideologies.” In The Dark Webs: Perspectives on Colonialism in Africa, edited by Toyin Falola, 88–93. Durham: Carolina Academic Press, 2005. Akoko, R. M. “Ask and you shall be given”: Pentecostalism and the Economic Crisis in Cameroon. Leiden: African Studies Center, 2007. Allen, Chris. “The Machinery of External Control.” Review of African Political Economy 25, no. 75 (1998): 5–7. Amin, S. Re-Reading the Postwar Period: An Intellectual Itinerary. New York: Monthly Review Press, 1994. Apawo Phiri, Isabel, and Sarojini Nadar, eds. African Women, Religion and Health: Essays in Honor of Mercy Amba Ewudziwa Oduyoye. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2006. Austen, Ralph A. Trans-Saharan Africa in World History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Berman, Bruce J. “Ethnicity, Patronage and the African State: The Politics of Uncivil Nationalism.” African Affairs 97, no. 388 (1998): 305–334. Beti, M. The Poor Christ of Bomba. London: Heinemann, 1971. Biney, Ama. “The Legacy of Kwame Nkrumah in Retrospect.” The Journal of Pan African Studies 2, no. 3 (2008): 129–159. Bjornson, R. The African Quest for Freedom and for Identity: Cameroonian Writing and the National Experience. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991. Botta, A. F., and P. R. Andiñach, eds. The Bible and the Hermeneutics of Liberation. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009.

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Burbank, Jane, and Frederick Cooper. Empires in World History: Power and the Politics of Difference. Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2010. Chipenda, J. B., A. Karamaga, J. N. K. Mugambi, and C. K. Omari, eds. The Church of Africa: Towards a Theology of Reconstruction. Nairobi: All Africa Conference of Churches, 1991. Dedji, V. “The Ethical Redemption of African Imaginaire: Kä Mana’s Theology of Reconstruction.” Journal of Religion in Africa 31, no. 3 (2001): 254–274. ———. Reconstruction and Renewal in African Christian Theology. Nairobi: Acton Publishers, 2003. Dickson. K. A. Theology in Africa. Darton: Longman and Todd, 1984. Dower, John W. War without Mercy: Race and Power in the Pacific War. New York: Random Press, 1986. Driver, Felix. “Henry Morton Stanley and His Critics: Geography, Exploration and Empire.” Past & Present 133 (1991): 134–166. Du Bois, W. E. B. The Souls of Black Folk. Originally published in 1903; reprint 2003. Dube, Musa. Postcolonial Feminist Interpretation of the Bible. St Louis, MO: Chalice Press, 2000. ———. “Introduction.” In Postcolonial Perspectives in African Biblical Interpretations, edited by Musa W. Dube, Andrew M. Mbuvi, and Dora Mbuwayesango, Global Perspectives on Biblical Scholarship. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012. Dube, M. W., A. M. Mbuvi, and D. Mbuwayensago, eds. Postcolonial Perspectives in African Biblical Interpretations. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012. Éla, J. The African Cry. New York: Orbis Books, 1986. Englebert, Pierre. “Pre-Colonial Institutions, Post-Colonial States, and Economic Development in Tropical Africa.” Political Research Quarterly 53 no. 1 (2000): 7–36. Fjellman, Stephen M., and Miriam Goheen. “A Prince by Any other Name? Identity and Politics in Highland Cameroon.” American Ethnologist 11, no. 3 (August 1984): 473–486. Gausset, Quentin. “Islam or Christianity? The Choices of the Wawa and the Kwanja of Cameroon.” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 69, no. 2 (1999): 257–278. Geiss, I. “Pan-Africanism.” Journal of Contemporary History, Special Issue on “Colonialism and Decolonisation,” 4, no. 1 (1969): 187–200. Gunda, M. R. “African Theology of Reconstruction: The Painful Realities and Practical Options.” Exchange 38 (2009): 84–102. Holter, K. Yahweh in Africa: Essays on Africa and the Old Testament. New York: Peter Lang, 2000. Iqbal, Zaryab, and Christopher Zorn. “Sic Semper Tyranis? Power, Repression, and Assassination since the Second World War.” The Journal of Politics 68, n. 3 (2006): 489–501. ———. “The Political Consequences of Assassination.” The Journal of Conflict Resolution 52, no. 3 (2008): 385–400.

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Kadmuzandu, I. “Biblical Interpretation and Criticism in Neocolonial Africa: Challenges, Conceptualizations, and Needs in the Twenty-First Century.” In The Future of the Biblical Past: Envisioning Biblical Studies on a Global Scale, edited by R. Boer and F. F. Segovia, 3–12. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012. Kĩriakũ Kĩnyua, Johnson. Introducing Ordinary African Readers’ Hermeneutics: A Case Study of the Agĩkũyũ Encounter with the Bible. Religions and Discourse 54. Oxford: Peter Lang, 2011. Konings, P. “Religious Revival in the Roman Catholic Church and the AutochthonyAllochthony Conflict in Cameroon.” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 73, no. 1 (2003): 31–56. ———. “The Anglophone Cameroon-Nigeria Boundary: Opportunities and Conflicts.” African Affairs 104, no. 415 (2005): 275–301; Konings, Piet, and Francis Nyamnjoh. “The Anglophone Problem in Cameroon,” The Journal of Modern African Studies 35, n. 2 (June 1997): 207–229. Krieger, Milton. “Building the Republic through Letters: ‘Abbia: Cameroon Cultural Review,’ 1963–82 and its Legacy.” Research in African Literatures 27, no. 2 (Summer, 1996): 155–177. Kunene, Mazisi. Anthem of the Decades: A Zulu Epic. London: Heinemann, 1981. Mamdani, M. When Victims Become Killers: Colonialism, Nativism, and the Genocide in Rwanda. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001. Matory, J. Lorand. “The Many Who Dance in Me: Afro-Atlantic Ontology and the Problem with ‘Transnationalism.’” In Transnational Transcendence: Essays on Religion and Globalization, edited by Thomas J. Csordas, 231–262. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2009). Mbembe, A. “Provisional Notes on the Postcolony.” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 62, no. 1 (1992): 3–37. ———. On the Postcolony. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001. ———. “Necropolitics,” Public Culture 15, no.1 (2003): 11. ———. “On the Postcolony: A Brief Response to Critics.” Qui Parle 15, no 2 (2005): 1–49. Mizuno, Nuboriho, and Ryosuke Okazawa. “Colonial Experience and Postcolonial Underdevelopment in Africa.” Public Choice 141, no. 3–4 (2009): 405–419. Monga, Yvette. “Au Village: Space, Culture, and Politics in Cameroon.” Cahiers d’Études Africaines 40, no. 160 (2000): 723–749. Muehlenbeck, Philip E. Betting on the Africans: John F. Kennedy’s Courting of African Nationalist Leaders. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. Mugambi, J. N. K. From Liberation to Reconstruction: African Theology after the Cold War. Nairobi: East African Educational Publishers, 1995. Nadar, S. “Beyond the ‘Ordinary Reader’ and the ‘Invisible Intellectual’: Pushing the Boundaries of Contextual Bible Study Discourses.” In The Future of the Biblical Past: Envisioning Biblical Studies on a Global Scale, edited by R. Boer and F. F. Segovia, 13–27. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2013. Ngoh, Victor Julius. Origins of the Anglophone Problem: Southern Cameroons, 1922–1961: A Constitutional History. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001.

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Njoku, Raphael Chijioke. “Catholicism, Protestantism, and Imperial Claims in Kabaka’s Buganda, 1860–1907.” In Missions, States, and European Expansion in Africa, edited by Chima J. Korieh and Raphael Chijioke Njoku, 53–71. New York: Routledge, 2007. Nugent, Paul. Africa since Independence: A Comparative History. New York: ­Palgrave, 2004. Nyabongo, Akiki. The Story of an African Chief, Illustrations by Eleanor Maroney with Introduction by William Lyon Phelps. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1935. Nyamnjoh, Francis B. “Commentary: Cameroon: A Country United by Ethnic Ambition and Diversity.” African Affairs 98, no. 390 (1999): 101–118. ———. “Blinded by Sight: Divining the Future of Anthropology in Africa.” Africa Spectrum 47, no. 2–3 (2012): 63–92. Nyamnjoh, Francis, and Michael Rowlands. “Elite Associations and the Politics of Belonging in Cameroon.” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 63, no.8; The Politics of Primary Patriotism (1998): 320–338. Nyerere, J. “The Church’s Role in Society.” In A Reader in African Christian Theology, edited by J. Parratt, 117–130. London: SPCK, 1987. ———. “Africa Today and Tomorrow.” Review of African Political Economy 25, no. 75 (1998): 149–52. Oduyoye, M. A. Beads and Strands: Reflections of an African woman on Christianity in Africa. New York: Orbis Books, 2004. Okpewho, Isidore. African Oral Literature: Backgrounds, Character, and Continuity. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1992. Omasombo Tshonda, Jean. “Lumumba, Drame sans fin et Deuil inachevé de la Colonisation.” Cahiers d’Études Africaines 44, no. 173 (2004): 221–261. Page Jr., Hugh R., et al, eds. The Africana Bible: Reading Israel’s Scriptures from Africa and the African Diaspora. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2009. Punt, Jeremy. “Dealing (with) the Past and Future of Biblical Studies: A New South African Perspective.” In The Future of the Biblical Past: Envisioning Biblical Studies on a Global Scale, edited by Roland Boer and Fernando F. Segovia, 29–45. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012. Ritzenthaler, R. and P. Ritzenthaler. Cameroon’s Village: An Ethnography of the Bafut. Milwaukee: Milwaukee Public Museum, 1962. Rodney, Walter. How Europe Underdeveloped Africa. Dar-Es-Salam: Tanzanian Publishing House, 1973. Schneider, L. “Freedom and Unfreedom in Rural Development: Julius Nyerere, Ujamaa Vijijini, and Villagization.” Canadian Journal of African Studies 38, no. 2 (2004): 344–92. Schneider, Laurel C. Beyond Monotheism: A Theology of Multiplicity. London: ­Routledge, 2009. Schraeder, Peter J. African Politics and Society: A Mosaic in Transformation. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2000. Sindima, H. J. Africa’s Agenda: The Legacy of Liberalism and Colonialism in the Crisis of African Values. Westport: Greenwood Press, 1995.

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Soyinka, Wole. Myth, Literature and the African World. London: Cambridge University Press, 1976. Speke, John Hanning. Journal of the Discovery of the Source of the Nile. New York: Harper and Brothers, 1864. Stanley, Henry Morton. How I Found Livingstone: Travels, Adventures and Discoveries in Central Africa; Including Four Months’ Residence with Dr. Livingstone. London: Sampson Low, 1872. ———. Through the Dark Continent: Or The Sources of the Nile around the Great Lakes of Equatorial Africa and down the Livingstone River to the Atlantic Ocean, 2 vols. New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1878. ———. In Darkest Africa: Or the Quest, Rescue and Retreat of Emin, Governor of Equatoria. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1890. Thomas, G. “Retrieving Hidden Traces of the Intercultural Past: An Introduction to Archival Resources in Cameroon, with Special Reference to the Central Archives of the Presbyterian Church in Cameroon.” History in Africa 25 (1998): 427–440. Thompson, T. Jack. Light on Darkness? Missionary Photography of Africa in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2012. Tilley, Helen. Africa as a Living Laboratory: Empire, Development, and the Problem of Scientific Knowledge, 1870–1950. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011. Tutu, Desmond M. “Black Theology and African Theology—Soulmates or Antagonists?” In A Reader in African Christian Theology, edited by John Parratt, 46–57. London: SPCK, 1987 Uzukwu, E. E. “From Nobody to Somebody: The Pertinence of African Liberation Theology.” In Movement or Moment? Assessing Liberation Theology Forty Years after Medellin, edited by P. Claffey and J. Egan, 97–124. New York: Peter Lang, 2005. Villa-Vicencio, C. A Theology of Reconstruction: Nation-Building and Human Right. Cape Town: David Phillip Publishers, 1992. Villa-Vicencio, C. A Theology of Reconstruction: Nation-Building and Human Right. Cape Town: David Phillip Publishers, 1992. Warnier, J. P. “Noun-Classes, Lexical Stocks, Multilingualism, and the History of the Cameroon Grassfield.” Language in Society 8, no. 3 (1979): 409–423. West. G. “The Bible and Economics: Historical and Hermeneutical Reflections from South Africa.” African Journal of Biblical Studies 20, no. 1 (2004): 93–122. ———. “Early Encounters with the Bible among the Batlhaping: Historical and Hermeneutical Signs.” Biblical Interpretation 12, no. 3 (2004): 251–281. ———. “Do Two Walk Together? Walking with the Other Through Contextual Bible Study.” Anglican Theological Review 93, no. 3 (2011): 431–449. ———. “After the Missionaries: Historical and Hermeneutical Dimensions of African Appropriations of the Bible in sub-Saharan Africa.” Studia Historiae Ecclesiasticae 38, no. 1 (May, 2012): 111–130. West, G., and Musa Dube, eds. The Bible in Africa: Transactions, Trajectories, and Trends. Boston: Brill, 2000. Wimbush, Vincent L. “Scriptures for Strangers: The Making of an African-ized Bible.” In Postcolonial Interventions: Essays in Honor of R. S. Sugirtharajah,

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edited by Tat-siong Benny Liew, 162–177. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009. Yafeh-Deigh, Alice Y. “The Liberative Power of Silent Agency: A Postcolonial AfroFeminist-Womanist Reading of Luke 10:38–42.” In Postcolonial Perspectives in African Biblical Interpretations, edited by Musa W. Dube, Andrew M. Mbuvi, and Dora Mbuwayesango, 417–440. Global Perspectives on Biblical Scholarship. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012. Yamauchi, Edwin M. Africa and the Bible. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic Press, 2004.

Chapter 4

The Bible as a De-Colonial Tool for Palestinian Christians Today Michel Elias Andraos

I shall address the question of the Bible and colonialism in the Middle East from an Arab Christian perspective. In thinking about Christian communities in the Middle East, the Bible, and resistance to colonialism, the first group that comes to mind is the contemporary movement of Palestinian liberation theology, which I have been closely observing since the early 1990s. Several Palestinian Christian theologians in Israel and Palestine have been engaged, for quite some time now, in developing a de-colonial criticism and theology. These they have clearly articulated in numerous publications as well as in the social media. Such criticism and theology have been promoted by multiple Palestinian Christian organizations and movements of resistance against Israeli occupation and domination. The emerging critical and theological interpretations by these individuals and movements are, in my reading, unique among Arabic-speaking Christian communities of the Middle East. Such work has not been primarily the product of a new school of interpretation, nor has it been a purely academic endeavor. It has been, rather, the result of a politico-religious movement that has, for many years now, been developing a contextual, de-colonial1 approach to theology and criticism, in conversation with similar, already-existing theological and critical currents in other parts of the world. In this study, I will highlight two Palestinian theologians, Mitri Raheb and Naim Ateek, who, I believe, represent this emerging phenomenon. In the first part, and focusing primarily on their early works, I will summarize how they have initiated a new contextual biblical interpretation that they use as a de-colonial tool in the Palestinian context today. In the second part, I will attempt to situate this new de-colonial theological and critical development within the broader socio-historical context of Palestinian Christianity since the late nineteenth century. The conclusion will focus on the significance and 75

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potential of this emerging theology and criticism. To offer a critical analysis of the biblical hermeneutics of Palestinian liberation theology lies beyond the scope of this study. Here I limit myself to a reading of this emerging theological-critical formation within the context of the Middle East today.

A NEW BIBLICAL INTERPRETATION IN THE CONTEXT OF OCCUPATION In I Am a Palestinian Christian, an autobiographical book by Mitri Raheb, a Lutheran Palestinian pastor and theologian based in Bethlehem, the author notes that, growing up as an Arab Christian in Palestine, the Bible was always an essential book in his family and community life. In Raheb’s words, Bible reading was part of our daily routine. We read all of the Holy Scripture, the Old as well as the New Testament. . . . We thought that we, the Christian Palestinian children in Sunday school, were truly the conquerors of Jericho. . . . We were unanimous in our sympathy for David. He was to us a model for the daring faith and the courage of trust in God. The fact that Goliath was a Philistine and David an Israelite didn’t bother us at a bit. We identified totally with David the Israelite, because we put him and Joshua in the same line as Jesus. . . . Joshua and David were spiritual figures to us, not political ones at all.2

Raheb asserts that the integration of this reading and interpretation of the Bible, which includes personal and collective identification with the biblical heroes, into his family’s daily life and worldview shaped his identity as a Palestinian Christian child. He knew almost the whole book by heart, he says. However, according to Raheb, a forced shift in both the interpretation and use of the Bible took place in the early twentieth century. In a section in I Am a Palestinian Christian on “Palestinian Christians and the Bible,” Raheb argues that “interpreting the Bible started to change after the end of the 19th century. The Bible became a political text at the moment the Zionist movement promised itself the land of Palestine. . . . Palestinians were now forced to seek new ways of interpreting Scriptures. They could no longer interpret the Bible allegorically.”3 What are these new ways of interpreting the Bible to which Raheb is referring? One of the most articulate Palestinian theologians of these new ways and their broader context is Naim Ateek, an Anglican priest based for many years in East Jerusalem. Ateek was the co-founder and director of Sabeel, an Ecumenical Palestinian Liberation Theology Center, a relatively small organization in existence since the early 1990s. Like other movements of liberation theology throughout the world, the Sabeel center and the movement that

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coalesced around it focus on developing a contextual theology—an interpretation of the Christian faith, including the Bible, that takes into consideration the socio-political and -cultural situation of the Palestinian people and their specific history. Sabeel has succeeded, over the last decades, in building an impressive local grassroots movement as well as an international network in support of the struggle of Palestinian Christians, and the resistance of the Palestinian people in general, Christians and Muslims alike, against Israeli occupation.4 Ateek, a well-known international figure who lectures frequently around the world, has published several books and articles, among them two wellknown monographs. The first of these, Justice and Only Justice: A Palestinian Theology of Liberation, appeared in 1989, two years after the First Intifada of the Palestinian people against Israeli occupation. This volume, whose title echoes one of the early books on Latin American liberation theology, A Theology of Liberation, published by Peruvian theologian Gustavo Gutiérrez in the early 1970s, is considered to be a theological reflection on the Intifada and one of the first articulations of a Palestinian liberation theology.5 The second, A Palestinian Christian Cry for Reconciliation, came out in 2008. This volume basically summarizes and affirms the biblical interpretation and theological stance of the author as articulated in the earlier and foundational book.6 Ateek, like Raheb, has several chapters in each book on biblical interpretation from a Palestinian Christian perspective, focusing primarily on the question of occupation and domination by the State of Israel. For Ateek, any Palestinian contextual theology today must address two central and related issues: justice and the Bible. According to him, the Bible, which is usually used as a source of strength and consolation, “has been used by some Western Christians and Jews in a way that has supported injustice rather than justice.”7 Liberation theologies, which have emerged around the world since the 1960s, have read and interpreted the Bible in new ways that supported their movements of liberation. However, the way in which the Bible is used today in Palestine and Israel, affirms Ateek, “appears to offer to the Palestinians slavery rather than freedom, injustice rather than justice, and death to their national and political life.” In other words, the Bible, according to Ateek, is used today in Palestine as an imperial tool of colonization.8 The author then asks: “How can the Bible, which has apparently become part of the problem in the Arab-Israeli conflict, become part of its solution? How can the Bible, which has been used to bring a curse to the national aspirations of a whole people, again offer them a blessing? How can the Bible, through which many have been led to salvation, be itself saved and redeemed?”9 Ateek’s concern here is twofold: not only the Palestinian situation as such, but also saving what the Bible and the God of the Bible represent for him. Raheb shares a similar perspective.10 The main concern of these theologians is to

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construct a new hermeneutic that will serve to undermine the interpretations of the Bible coming from Zionists, Christian Zionists, and other fundamentalist groups, for such interpretations are advanced in support of religious claims regarding the land of Palestine as well as theological claims involving the “exclusive election” of the Jewish people or millennial apocalypticism. In what follows I shall give examples from the writings of both authors that demonstrate their attempts at constructing subversive interpretations of the Bible. Both Ateek and Raheb comment in their works on a number of selected narratives and themes from the Hebrew Bible: the central story of the book of Exodus; the narrative of King Ahab and Naboth’s vineyard in 1 Kings (chapters 21 and 22); a number of Psalms, such as Psalm 42 and 43, that focus on God’s hearing of the cry of the poor and taking side with the oppressed; and the story of Jonah in the book of Jonah—to name but a few. I begin by summarizing the comments of both Ateek and Raheb on the narrative of King Ahab and Naboth’s vineyard from 1 Kings 21 in order to illustrate the dynamics of their de-colonial interpretation. Ateek paraphrases the story in Justice and Only Justice as follows:11 Naboth’s property adjoined the palace of King Ahab (869–850) in Jezreel, his second capital. The King wanted to expand his estate and offered to buy Naboth’s land. Naboth refused. It was not a question of money; the land was the family inheritance passed down from generation to generation and he would never part with it. The King was upset and angry. He really wanted the land, but no amount of money could change Naboth’s mind. Ahab’s wife, Queen Jezebel, had the perfect solution. She plotted against Naboth in a conspiracy that involved the services of the “elders and nobles” of the city and the testimony of false witnesses. Naboth was taken to court and accused of blasphemy and treason by cursing God and the king. With no one to defend him, Naboth was sentenced to death by stoning. Apparently his sons were killed as well. Naboth’s land was confiscated and annexed to that of the king. The prophet Elijah was summoned by God to confront the king for his hideous crime. Their encounter took place in Naboth’s vineyard, where Elijah announced divine judgment on the king and his wife. A few years later the king was killed in battle; about ten years after that, his wife died a very horrible death. Exact and strict justice was meted out as punishment for their crime.

Obviously, Ateek makes an analogy between the dispossession of Naboth’s vineyard by King Ahab and the occupation of Palestinian land. He writes, “The death and dispossession of Naboth and his family has been reenacted thousands of times since the creation of the State of Israel.” For Ateek, there stands, at the heart of the biblical story, a God who is a God of justice, a God “who will not allow injustice to go unchecked forever.” “The Naboth story,”

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he continues, “provides a central biblical paradigm for a Palestinian theology of liberation” that has as its axis reflection on the experience of God in relation to justice in human history.12 Raheb interprets the same narrative in light of a concrete story of a Palestinian family in Bethlehem. He entitles his chapter “Daher’s Vineyard.” Again, after paraphrasing the story and doing a theological commentary, he arrives at a conclusion similar to that of Ateek: I was immediately reminded of . . . [King Ahab’s] story when I heard about the planned confiscation of the Daher family’s vineyard. I was sure that the reason given for dispossessing them was a lie, but it would result in lending the state’s act a spurious legality. In truth, dispossessing Palestinians of their land serves the ambitions of Zionist expansion policy. God, the promise of land, the security of the state of Israel, and alleged concern about fallow land are nothing but “holy means” to facilitate carrying out an “unholy policy.” Today’s state of Israel, with its plan to dispossess Palestinians of their land and its policy of establishing settlements, is in the tradition of Jezebel, and that means that it is not in the tradition of the God of Israel. It is instead the tradition of “alien gods.”13

As mentioned above, for both authors such commentaries on the texts represent a subversion of the biblical theology offered by Zionist Christian and other Zionist interpretations. Both Ateek and Raheb use these biblical stories to undermine the religious and political claims offered for the confiscation of Palestinian land and to develop instead a biblical theology that empowers Palestinian Christians to resist occupation. In this latter vein, for example, Raheb, in addition to reinterpreting this biblical story, recounts the history of trying to save Daher’s vineyard: the years of community organizing by Palestinian groups, of solidarity on the part of Israeli groups, and of the court proceedings in question. Similarly, Ateek comments on the book of Jonah. He asserts that the story of Jonah can be a significant resource for peacemaking and for arriving at a solution to today’s conflict. He considers the writer of the book of Jonah to be the first Palestinian liberation theologian.14 The author or authors of this biblical narrative, according to Ateek, chose as their main character the prophet Jonah, a believer in ethnic nationalism, for mounting a critique of the dominant theology of God at the time of its writing. The narrative is also viewed as a critique of the theology of the people of God and the land. In many ways, comments Ateek, the message of this narrative is “to liberate God from the narrow theology of the day and liberate his people, the Israelites, from a tribal mentality that produced arrogance, haughtiness, and presumptuousness.”15 Ateek concludes:

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In essence, what the author of the book of Jonah was battling against at the end of the fourth century BCE still constitutes the main theological problems we Palestinians face in the conflict today. In the name of an antiquated tribal theology that still insists on a special Jewish god, on the privileges of a special people of God, and on a unique Jewish right to the whole land of Palestine, the Palestinians are oppressed and dehumanized, and their claim to the land on which many families lived for centuries is negated.16

The book of Exodus is the text par excellence of many liberation theologies around the world. It is usually read as a narrative about how God listens to the cries of the poor, takes side with the oppressed peoples, gives them victory over the group that dominates them, and leads them to freedom. It is commonly known as the founding narrative of the Jewish religious experience, which continues to be commemorated yearly to the present day. Several Jewish and fundamentalist Christian groups use this text to provide theological justification for occupying Palestinian land. Palestinian liberation theologians find certain readings of this narrative problematic and try to offer a different interpretation. This explains the emphasis on justice and the prophetic literature rather than on the main narrative of the book of Exodus in Ateek’s first book on Palestinian liberation theology. However, in I Am a Palestinian Christian, Raheb offers an interesting interpretation that subverts the commonly used interpretations of this narrative. He recounts an experience he had with his students at a Sunday school. One time, after paraphrasing the Exodus story to his students, says Raheb, one of them spoke up: “But pastor, that’s not the story of the Hebrews!” “Whose story is it then?” asked Raheb. “That is the story of us Palestinians!” answered the student. The students continue, in Raheb’s words, to describe the experience of the Palestinians in Israel since 1967 in a way that parallels the experience of the Hebrews in ancient Egypt as described in the story of Exodus, and they come to the conclusion that the Palestinians in Israel today seek liberation from the oppressors and look forward to having their land back and the end of occupation. According to these comments, Egypt in the story represents Israel today for the Palestinian people. This interpretation, notes Raheb, emerged from the conversation with the young students in his Sunday class, which engaged them to read their story in a biblical narrative that has as its central theme God’s attitude toward oppression.17 What we see in these examples of biblical interpretation from Palestinian liberation theologians is an emerging contextual, liberationist, subaltern theology whose aim it is to subvert dominant interpretations of biblical narratives and theology, perceived as providing divine justification for their oppression. Instead, they use these stories and their new interpretation as empowerment for the struggle against occupation.

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PALESTINIAN CHRISTIANS’ EXPERIENCE WITH THE BIBLE: SOCIO-HISTORICAL CONTEXT In the light of the brief overview of interpretations above, I would argue that Palestinian theologians recognize four broad historical phases regarding the role of the Bible in the experience of Palestinian Christians. The first phase is the period until the early part of the nineteenth century. During this phase, the knowledge of the biblical text among average people was limited. Christian life then for average Near Eastern Christians was not centered on the biblical text, and the Bible was not available or accessible to the majority of average people. Traditional Christian life was centered rather on the clergy, community liturgical celebrations, and popular religiosity. To a certain extent, this continues to be the case today among many traditional, non-theologically educated Christians. The second phase began in the second half of the nineteenth century, when European and American missionaries arrived with their bibles and messianic visions to save both Christians and Jews in the Bible lands and convert them to the true biblical Christianity that these missionaries represented. Palestinian Christians who were converted by Western missionaries began to read the Bible, which gradually became central to their religious life, as we read in Mitri Raheb’s testimony mentioned above. The third phase began with the emergence of the Zionist interpretations in support of an exclusive theology of the “chosen people” and their “right” to build a Jewish nation-state in Palestine. Nineteenth-century millennial and apocalyptic Western Christian theologies also played a significant role during this period, which in many ways continues to the present day. The fourth phase is the new interpretation by Palestinian Christians, which is the subject of this study. The emerging Palestinian indigenous theology of resistance, in dialogue with other theologies of struggle for liberation around the world, is a new experience for Palestinian and Near Eastern Christians. At the heart of this new biblical interpretation and theology is the Palestinian story of suffering and struggle. There are three main concerns, I believe, that contextual Palestinian theologians today are trying to address: (1) the loss of their land and identity; (2) the loss of their theology of God and their Bible; and (3) the concrete daily life effects of occupation, oppression, domination, and dehumanization. All these experiences seem to be typical consequences of colonization. In a recent article, Mitri Raheb summarizes this point of view, A major problem with us [Palestinian Christians] is not only did we lose our land in 1948 (what we call the Nakbah, or catastrophe) but equally tragic is that we also lost our narrative. . . . For too long we were dancing to the rhythm

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of European theology. It is time that we put the organs aside and take out our drums. It is time to develop hermeneutics that takes our longstanding rootedness in this land seriously; a theology where biblical history is seen as part of our people’s history, where our spiritual forefathers are also our ancestral forefathers, and where occupation and liberation are the real thread throughout our history and are major elements that have been shaping our identity.18

CONCLUSION The religious purpose of strengthening hope for justice and resistance against the colonization of the Palestinian people is very clear in this emerging theology.19 To the point here is the theme of an international conference organized by Sabeel in February of 2011 in Bethlehem, Palestine—later repeated in other parts of the world: “Challenging Empire: God, Faithfulness and Resistance.” The conference gathered together a group of theologians, church leaders, and scholars from around the world. Noted religion and Bible scholar Richard Horsley, well known for his work on religion and empire and his research on Galilee during the time of Jesus, said in his keynote address at the conference that “Jesus was a Palestinian under imperial rule. Thus, in effect, just as the modern state of Israel and other states in the Middle East were the creation of Western colonialism, so the ancient temple-state in Judea was set up by foreign powers.” In an earlier work on this topic, Horsley affirms that Jesus and his followers understood God to be present and acting among them in their communities, despite the unbearable conditions that the imperial power of the time and its systems inflicted upon them. Jesus’ ministry focused on healing the effects of empire and empowering people to rebuild their community life.20 The analogy Palestinian liberation theologians draw between the Roman imperial experience during the time of Jesus and the Palestinian situation today in the same geographical area, almost 2000 years later, is an empowering decolonial biblical imagination. This new theology has gone a long way from the Protestant biblical theology preached in Palestine in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. A significant development for Palestinian liberation theology is the new academic attention it has started to get from international scholars in solidarity with this movement. The conferences and accompanying publication, The Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation, mentioned above are just some examples. Palestinian liberation theology and biblical interpretation did not develop primarily in an academic context. They are, rather, a theological reading and interpretation of the Bible by a relatively small number of local educated pastors and grassroots organizations, all working in difficult

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circumstances. There are no major academic centers or institutions dedicated to developing this theology. The main objective of these theologians is to articulate an interpretation of their faith in a God of love and justice in a way that supports the liberation of their people. This is a particular theology with a specific goal. The new conversations with international theologians and biblical scholars will greatly benefit this emerging theology and the new generation of Palestinian theologians. The theological endeavor among the Christian communities of the Near East has been stagnant for a long time. This new and timely movement and interaction will open a new horizon as Near Eastern indigenous Christians rethink their identity and vocation in the region in light of recent political developments.21 What Palestinian liberation theology has been trying to do, according to historian Laura Robson, who has studied colonialism and Palestinian Christianity,22 is to reposition Christianity as an essential part of a Middle Eastern response to Palestinian oppression rather than as a natural partner of Zionism. Palestinian liberation theology represents a new effort to redefine Christianity as an authentically Palestinian Arab religion, standing alongside Islam in the fight for political justice—a major recasting of the relationship between Christianity, Islam, and Zionism in modern Israel/Palestine.23 It is certainly necessary for Palestinian liberation theologians and biblical scholars to continue their academic conversation and to be constructively challenged by their international colleagues who are in solidarity with them. What is clear so far is that the emerging Palestinian liberation theology movements and biblical interpretations have provided an impetus for developing a new theological horizon that is generating hope for liberation and life in freedom for the Palestinian Christian communities. This hope has opened alternative possibilities for creative, nonviolent struggle against the occupation as well as for justice, freedom, and life in dignity, a development that has implications for the struggle of other Christian communities in the region. The message of these theological movements to theologians and biblical scholars around the world, especially to those in the West, is that a biblical interpretation from the perspective and experience of Palestinian Christians under occupation, and from the experience of struggle of other indigenous Christian communities in the region, is overdue. NOTES 1. The author is aware of the decolonial school of thought that originated among Latin American thinkers, both in Latin America and the USA. The hyphenated term in this article is broadly used to describe the way the Bible is used as a tool of

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decolonization. This use is in the spirit of the decolonial school of thought. For an introduction to decolonial thought by the early thinkers, see Walter Mignolo, “Introduction: Coloniality of Power and Decolonial Thinking,” Cultural Studies 21, no. 2/3 (March 2007): 155–67. For a more detailed introduction, see Mabel Moraña, Enriqué Dussel, and Carlos A. Jáuregui, eds., Coloniality at Large: Latin America and the Postcolonial Debate (Durham: Duke University Press, 2008). 2. Mitri Raheb, I Am a Palestinian Christian (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), 55. 3. Raheb, I Am a Palestinian Christian, 59. 4. Almost every month, there is a major event organized by Sabeel in Palestine or by one of the international Friends of Sabeel organizations worldwide. 5. Gustavo Gutiérrez, A Theology of Liberation: History, Politics, and Salvation (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1973). 6. Naim Stifan Ateek, Justice and Only Justice: A Palestinian Theology of Liberation (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1989); A Palestinian Christian Cry for Reconciliation (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2008). 7. Ateek, Justice and Only Justice, 75. 8. Ateek, Justice and Only Justice, 75. 9. Ateek, Justice and Only Justice, 77. 10. While these questions might be relevant to the Palestinian political situation in relation to the Bible, some biblical scholars find them problematic. For a constructive critique of Ateek’s work, see Fernando F. Segovia, “Engaging the Palestinian Theological-Critical Project of Liberation: A Critical Dialogue,” in Mitri Raheb, ed., The Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation: Towards a New Hermeneutics of Liberation, Contextual Theology (Bethlehem, Palestine: Diyar, 2012), 29–80. 11. Ateek, Justice and Only Justice, 87–88. 12. Ateek, Justice and Only Justice, 87. 13. Raheb, I Am a Palestinian Christian, 50. 14. Ateek, A Palestinian Christian Cry for Reconciliation, 71. 15. Ateek, A Palestinian Christian Cry for Reconciliation, 74. 16. Ateek, A Palestinian Christian Cry for Reconciliation, 76. 17. Raheb, I Am a Palestinian Christian, 88–89. 18. Mitri Raheb, “The Native People of the Land as a Sixth Gospel,” in Mitri Raheb, ed., The Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation: Towards a New Hermeneutics of Liberation, Contextual Theology (Bethlehem, Palestine: Diyar, 2012), 26–27. 19. For an example of this expression of hope, see “Kairos Palestine: A Moment of Truth,” http://www.kairospalestine.ps/. This document, which calls for the end of occupation, is co-authored by representatives of several Palestinian churches and organizations, including the theologians discussed in this chapter. 20. Richard A. Horsley, Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom of God and the New World Disorder (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), 105. 21. On the topic of changing the self-definition of Near Eastern Christian communities, see Michel Elias Andraos, “Christian Communities in the Middle East and Islam: A Shift in the Understanding of Mission among Eastern Catholic Churches,”

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in Elochukwu E. Uzukwu, ed., Mission for Diversity: Exploring Christian Mission in the Contemporary World, Interreligious Studies (Zurich: Lit Verlag, 2015), 171-86. 22. See Laura Robson, Colonialism and Christianity in Mandate Palestine ­(Austin: University of Texas Press, 2011). 23. Laura Robson, “Palestinian Liberation Theology, Muslim–Christian Relations and the Arab–Israeli Conflict,” Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations 21, no. 1 (2010): 41.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Andraos, Michel Elias. “Christian Communities in the Middle East and Islam: A Shift in the Understanding of Mission among Eastern Catholic Churches." In Mission for Diversity: Exploring Christain Mission in the Contemporary World, edited by Elochukwu E. Uzukwu, 171-86, Interreligious Studies. Zurich: Lit Verlag, 2015. Ateek, Naim Stifan. Justice and Only Justice: A Palestinian Theology of Liberation. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1989. ———. A Palestinian Christian Cry for Reconciliation. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2008. Gutiérrez, Gustavo. A Theology of Liberation: History, Politics, and Salvation. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1973. Horsley, Richard A. Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom of God and the New World Disorder. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003. Kairos Palestine: A Moment of Truth, http://www.kairospalestine.ps/ Mignolo, Walter. “Introduction: Coloniality of Power and Decolonial Thinking.” Cultural Studies 21 no. 2/3 (March 2007): 155-67. Moraña, Mabel, Enriqué Dussel, and Carlos A. Jáuregui, eds., Coloniality at Large: Latin America and the Postcolonial Debate. Durham: Duke University Press, 2008. Raheb, Mitri. I Am a Palestinian Christian. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995. ———. “Towards a New Hermeneutics of Liberation: A Palestinian Christian Perspective.” In The Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation: Towards a New Hermeneutics of Liberation, edited by Mitri Raheb, 11–28. Contextual Theology. Bethlehem, Palestine: Diyar, 2012. Robson, Laura. “Palestinian Liberation Theology, Muslim–Christian Relations and the Arab–Israeli Conflict.” Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations 21, no. 1 (2010): 39–50. ———. Colonialism and Christianity in Mandate Palestine. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2011. Segovia, Fernando F. “Engaging the Palestinian Theological-Critical Project of Liberation: A Critical Dialogue.” In The Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation: Towards a New Hermeneutics of Liberation, edited by Mitri Raheb, 29–80. Contextual Theology. Bethlehem, Palestine: Diyar, 2012.

Chapter 5

Israeli Cinema’s Interpretations of the Biblical Imperative of Colonization Yael Munk

Now it came about after the death of Moses the servant of the LORD, that the LORD spoke to Joshua son of Nun, Moses’ servant, saying,2 “Moses My servant is dead; now therefore arise, cross this Jordan, you and all this people, to the land which I am giving to them, to the sons of Israel.3 Every place on which the soul of your foot treads, I have given it to you, just as I spoke to Moses.4 From the wilderness and this Lebanon, even as far as the great river, the rive Euphrates, all the lands of the Hittites, and as far as the Great Sea toward the setting of the sun will be your territory.” 1

—NASB; Joshua 1:1–4 These words of God have served, among other prophecies, as the basis of the biblical land tradition, a tradition that can easily be interpreted in modern times as a colonizing imperative and which, therefore, remains at the center of various political and intellectual disputes both inside and outside the State of Israel. From a historical point of view, this imperative indicates a sensitive lack in the modern history of the Jewish people—the lack of a land. As opposed to biblical times, the majority of Jewish communities in the modern Diaspora were not allowed to own their land and, consequently, for more than a thousand years, rarely developed the option of agriculture. When the Jewish national movement was founded toward the end of the 19th century, its main goal was to find a place that would constitute the Jewish homeland. Though various geographical sites were suggested, the choice was to return to the historical homeland, the cradle of Jewish history: Eretz Israel/Palestine. By doing so the Jewish leaders confirmed the inherent link between the Jewish people and their ancient land and decided that their first priority would be to 87

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inculcate the reclaiming of the land among the newcomers, those who were to become the New Jews.1 Settling the new Land of Israel/Palestine was the first and foremost aim in the early days of Zionism. Decades before the declaration of the State’s independence in 1948, Jewish pioneers came from all parts of Europe to their land of promise, ready to sacrifice their life in order to recreate their historical homeland. Blindly following Israel Zangwill’s famous slogan, “A land without a people for a people without a land,”2 they unconsciously implemented the European Zeitgeist, including the acculturating mission of colonialism inherent to it. For them, settling in the new Land of Israel/ Palestine represented the modern fulfillment of the ancient biblical promise, by establishing the Jewish nation-state. Zionism, however, also found itself confronted with the biblical colonizing imperative, which was to become the justification for the violent occupation of the weaker Other and its silencing. This justification has remained a matter of debate, and various artistic media in today’s Israel, including cinema, have commented on the “original sin” of this biblical command. Since the beginning of the 20th century, cinema has played a major role in the construction of the national imaginary. Past events that could not be imagined by individuals were reconstructed on screen and in this way offered nations their missing historical images. This was the case with the major cinematic epics: D.W. Griffith’s classical Birth of a Nation (1915), Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin (1927), and Abel Gance’s Napoleon (1927). Pre-State Jewish cinema joined this trend in the early thirties, with the firm intention to visually construct the link between the New Jew and his land.3 In the first pre-State documentaries, the complex and rich relationship that the early settlers entertained with their land was often translated onto screen, not only to reflect its importance in the Zionist ideology but also as a deliberate strategy to repress past memories about the newcomers’ previous life in the Diaspora. For those settlers, the land was a source of redemption, their way to regain life. By imposing “amnesia” on the immigrants, the dominant ideology sought to establish working the land as the most efficient means by which to achieve the desired metamorphosis: from a diasporic Jewish subject, the old effeminate and passive Jew—with no real attachment in her ever threatening land of exile; to the New Jew—confident of her ownership of this old-new land due to the legendary biblical promise. The Zionist ideology’s appropriation of the biblical colonizing command was nonetheless surprising, as this same ideology considered itself an outcome of the modern nationalist movements that had appeared in Europe at the end of the 19th century. It seems that the land has served as the mediatory element that enabled Zionism’s contradictory positions: rejecting the

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Jewish religion in the name of atheist modernity, on the one hand; adopting its values in order to justify appropriation of this same land, on the other hand. This duality was not translated on the screen, however, not at least in the pre-State Jewish cinema. Consequently, the tense issue of colonization that was to become the heart of Israeli and Palestinian cinemas alike was not yet represented. On the contrary, the first pre-State Jewish films preferred to relate to the Palestinian dwellers of the land as part of the exotic landscape, thus adopting an Orientalist gaze, that imperialist gaze that turns the Other into an object, dispossessing him of being, past, and history—or in Edward Said’s words in his latest preface to his canonic book Orientalism, “abstract ideas [that] denigrate the relevance of context, and regard other cultures with derisive contempt.”4 This study seeks to illuminate some concerns of Israeli cinema regarding the biblical imperative that involves colonization, concerns that have changed over time with the development of the Israeli nation, at times also in light of developments in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I shall proceed, therefore, in chronological fashion: the Beginning; the Six-Day War and After; and the Disengagement. THE BEGINNING A close look at the first Israeli films reveals the redeeming powers attributed to the Promised Land, as conveyed in Tomorrow is a Wonderful Day (Helmar Lerski, 1949), also known as Adamah (Hebrew for “Land”).5 This film follows Benjamin, a teenage Jewish-German refugee who has survived the concentration camps and now arrives at one of the first Zionist boarding school, Ben Shemen. Presumably post-traumatic, Benjamin is introverted and tends to stay aside, alone. When all his attempts to integrate in his group fail, he decides to turn to the land and begins to work it with fury. Only then does he experience a sort of religious ecstasy that leads to his rebirth as a New Jew, strong and proud like his biblical ancestors. It is no coincidence that the film ends symbolically, when he is chosen to carry the Menorah (the ninebranched candelabrum) during the Hanuka procession. As a foreign filmmaker who gained his fame in Europe, and especially in Germany, where he specialized in portraits, Lerski chose here an iconography that makes a clear connection between the land and the Jewish religion, thus inscribing an analogy between past and present: the past is represented through the Jewish festivities commemorating the successful rebellion of the Jewish Maccabees against the Greek King Antiochus; and the present, through the New Jew finally re-acquiring his identity after 2000 years of

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exile. The historical victory is thus symbolically repeated through the Hanukkah festivities. Whereas Tomorrow is a Wonderful Day was still innocent in its vision of the land, representing it as empty and as awaiting its new inhabitants according to the vision of “a land without a people for a people without a land,” the few films that were to follow would be more skeptical about the issue. Though most feature films tried to avoid the land issue, one documentary remained visionary in its lucid gaze at the Promised Land of Israel: the late French filmmaker Chris Marker’s The Description of a Struggle (1960). This seemingly optimistic documentary about the new-born Jewish State of Israel opens with the following enigmatic motto: “Elected people, wandering people, assassinated people, resurrected people.” This film, commissioned by the Jewish philanthropist Wim Van Leer, still remains, up till today, a unique testimony to the difficulties and the challenges facing the New Jews—those who have decided to leave their past behind and fulfill the promise of the land. As opposed to the few other Israeli films made at the time, the Land of Israel/Palestine figures in Marker’s film both as a source of redemption for the traumatized Holocaust survivors, just as in Tomorrow is a Wonderful Day, and as a source of endless hardships for those Jews who, as opposed to the indigenous Palestinians, had had no experience with agricultural skills. Moreover, Marker was visionary in that he was already pointing at an issue that was to remain taboo for a long time in Israeli cinema—the issue of land and its Palestinian inhabitants, which he indicated it as the major obstacle that the New Jews would confront upon their return to their historical homeland. This, of course, differs from theologian Michael Prior’s optimistic standpoint in his book Bible and Colonialism: A Moral Critique (1999), who suggested that the biblical colonialist command should be read as a metaphor intended to separate the Jewish people from the impure Others. According to Prior, the Jewish people in Israel should learn to distinguish between the “historical Israel” and the “biblical Israel,” as the biblical imperative remains incompatible with the discourse of human rights. Indeed, the issue of human rights was to become more relevant after 1967, following the occupation of the Palestinian territories. THE SIX-DAY WAR AND AFTER Although the State of Israel was not born as a religious state but rather followed the nationalist movements in Europe, it did not hesitate to present in its rhetoric the link between the people and the land as one of divine provenance and therefore unquestionable. This became arguable after the Six-Day War in 1967, when the Jewish settlers adopted this link again for settling in the newly

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Occupied Territories. In doing so, they introduced again the issue of human rights into the relationship between modern-day Israel and the Bible. Though the behavior of these settlers recalled that of the early settlers in Palestine, those who had left their homes in Europe in order to begin a new life in the wilderness, its repetition in the official State of Israel post-1967, manifested in the Jewish settlers’ reading of the Bible as a text justifying colonization, created an uncomfortable feeling for many Israelis. The idea that the link between the people and the land was of divine provenance had provided justification for the first settlers for their appropriation of the Land before the establishment of the State (1948) and was repeated after the Six-Day War (1967), when the State of Israel conquered the JudeaSamaria areas. However, this time, after twenty years of Jewish sovereignty in the State of Israel, such a link raised the question of the moral status of the Jewish occupation of these territories. Since the occupation of the West Bank during the 1967 war was not a religious mission but rather a strategic outcome of the war, the issue of the possible implications of the relationship between modern-day Israel and the Bible again came to the fore. Being fully aware of the moral dangers implicit in ruling other people, the State of Israel decided that the occupation should be limited in time; but no one defined the duration. Moreover, immediately after the war, Israeli men and women, following the biblical command, had left their comfortable homes in order to settle these same Occupied Territories, which were to become the representation of one of the rare contemporary cases of colonization in the Western world. The State of Israel did not explicitly encourage them but did not prevent them either. These Jewish settlers, known as “Gush Emunim” (Block of the Faithful), considered this moment as divine intervention, indicating a Jewish return to the days of the Greater Israel. They settled in the contested territories of Judea-Samaria and the Gaza Strip under the implied protection of the biblical command that had sent their ancestors to unsettled lands many centuries ago. A biblical prophecy is, of course, a very unstable accord upon which to act, especially in the eyes of the rest of the world. As opposed to other world leaders, however, the Israeli government manifested an ambivalent attitude toward the settlers, thus reflecting the basis of the unresolved relationship between the Israeli State and the Bible, and particularly its land tradition—an attitude that persists until today. In a recently published book, Settling in the Hearts: Jewish Fundamentalism in the Occupied Territories (2009), Israeli anthropologist Michael Feige describes the Gush Emunim settlers as belonging to “a religious-fundamentalist movement with a certain brand of messianism and an ultra-rightist political outlook. [Their] declared aim is to bring the whole land of Israel within Israel’s possession, and its main strategy is the construction of Jewish

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settlements in the contested territories.”6 Gush Emunim’s colonialist interpretation of the Bible has set many Israeli intellectuals against them, contending that their behavior is not only a right-wing misreading of the biblical text but also a cynical manipulation of the very concept of faith, the use of which as a justification for acts that cannot be justified (that is, the occupation of other people’s land). Interestingly, although most Israeli filmmakers have opposed the occupation of Palestinian lands, only a few Israeli films have been made about the Israeli colonization in the West Bank. Moreover, most of them have not addressed the issue of the settlers’ religious motivation but rather have limited themselves to those who, in the name of the biblical commands, have become the Israeli perpetrators. During the 1980s, as part of a cinematic revision of the national ethos that created “the cinema of the Other,”7 a number of Israeli feature filmmakers turned their cameras to the Occupied Territories, while choosing to tell of the hardships of the indigenous occupied Palestinians. Feature films—such as Judd Ne’eman’s The Night the King Was Born (1983), Shimon Dotan’s The Smile of the Lamb (Hiuch Ha-Gdi, 1986),8 and Uri Barabash’s Once We Were Dreamers (Ha-Holmim, 1987)—demonstrate a clear standpoint vis-à-vis the Israeli state of affairs, relating to the indigenous Palestinians as the Others, those who have not been included in the Israeli hegemonic discourse. These filmmakers maintained a clear distinction between colonizers and colonized, in relation to the violent and intolerant occupying State. As such, they should be considered as the first political border-crossing by Israeli filmmakers, intended to bring the Palestinians’ narrative to the Israeli audience. In practice, however, these films did not relate to the religious component in the Jewish settlers’ ideology, a component which was and remains at the basis of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Hamsin (Daniel Waxman, 1982) In this context it is interesting to compare one of the few Israeli films that have dealt with the issue of land from another point of view, a more radical and this time more tragic one. The film is Daniel Waxman’s second feature film Hamsin (1982) (an Arabic word referring to the hot desert wind). It tells the story of Gedalia, a Jewish-Israeli landowner in the Galilee, in an unspecified historical period. As opposed to his neighbors, who hold racist positions vis-à-vis the surrounding Arab population that had lived there before the establishment of the State of Israel, Gedalia believes in the possibility of coexistence. He even hires a young Arab worker named Khaled to help him on the farm. Very early on, the narrative splits into two different points of view regarding the land: the Jewish-Israeli one and the Arab one.

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Gedalia, in his somewhat arrogant behavior, represents the Israelis, who feel that they own the land because of its historical repartition,9 while the Arabs are represented by a parallel plot, as they seek to stubbornly cling to their land according to the Arabic concept of Tsumud, whose literal meaning is “persistence.” When an Arab family learns that their land is going to be expropriated by the Israeli government, Gedalia offers them, in what seems like an act of altruism, to buy the land. This generous offer, however, angers both his Jewish neighbors and the Arab family. The Jewish neighbors consider his act as an intervention in the official government politics of land expropriation, while the younger nationalistic members of the Arab family refuse to sell any piece of land to the Jews. Against the background of this tense mixture of interests and passions, Gedalia’s sister falls in love with the young Arab worker and becomes his lover. When Gedalia discovers his sister’s “forbidden” love affair, he kills Khaled by releasing a large bull that fatally wounds the young Arab. Yosefa Loshitzky contends that the “Palestinians in Hamsin are portrayed as connected to and loyal to their land. They prefer that it be taken by force than rather voluntarily sold. Practicing the ideology of the Tsumud (the stubborn clinging to the land), they believe that selling the land is tantamount to betrayal.”10 Hamsin also presents a powerful analogy between woman and land, an analogy that was dominant in the early days of the Zionist discourse, which graphically and rhetorically compared woman’s fertility to that of the land.11 Made more than thirty years after Israel’s declaration of independence, Waxman’s film Hamsin brings this aspect back to life, reinforcing the passionate relationship between man and land in this specific piece of MiddleEastern geography. As Loshitzky notes, Hamsin is rich in sexual metaphors intimately tied to the conflict over the land. Indeed, from its inception the Zionist project of settling in Palestine, as well as Arab resistance to it, were portrayed using sexual imagery. [ . . . ] As Biale suggests, “Zionism meant both the physical rooting of the ‘people of the air’ (Luftmenschen) to the soil of Palestine and the reclamation of the body.” [ . . . ] Essential for this revolution was the cultivation of the “knowledge of the land (place),” in an attempt to re-create the connection with the geography of the ancient homeland.12

Hamsin differs from many other Israeli films of the 1980s that deal with the issue of land and occupation in the sense that it refers to the pre-1967 borders to the land given to the Jewish people upon establishment of the State. It refers to the Jewish lands of the Galilee to which the first Zionist pioneers came at the end of the 19th century, those same lands that served as the background to one of the first national Israeli films, They Were Ten (Dinar, 1960),

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which retraces the first settlers hardships at the turn of the century. This point is particularly important because, as opposed to most political Israeli feature films directed after 1977, which relate to the Occupied Territories as the source of all evil in Israeli politics, Hamsin takes place inside the original borders of Israel (pre-1967) and, therefore, bears a more general message: the land is the real source of tragedy—a tragedy that began when the first Jews conceived of the return to their promised land. In terms of representation, Waxman even suggests by analogy, through the forbidden love affair between the Arab worker and the Jewish girl, that the relationship between the Jew and his land will always be a forbidden love. In effect, while the establishment of the Jewish State has solved a Jewish problem vis-à-vis the place of the Jews in the world, it has created a new one, that of the Palestinians expelled from their land. The historical promise of the land to the Jewish people will always find an echo in the sorrow of those who no longer live there, those who were not promised the land but had worked it and felt an integral part of it. At the intersection between religion and natural affiliation, the sacred land of Israel/Palestine remains an obstacle to any peaceful solution between the two peoples, a love that fails to be fulfilled, just like the love/hate relationship between Jews and Arabs. There are other films, however, that suggest that the tragedy of the land may have begun even prior to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Since the SixDay War, there has been an ongoing debate among the Jewish population in Israel between those who believe in the necessity to hold the Occupied Territories, and consequently to govern the Arab population there, and those who believe that Israel should not be there. Even among those who believe that Israel should hold the Occupied Territories, however, there is disagreement, since the more religious right-wing Jews believe that the Occupied Territories are to be held until the coming of the Messiah. This internal disagreement among the Israeli Right Wing, between political and religious interpretations of the land, is at the center of one of the most interesting Israeli films made to date, Joseph Cedar’s Time of Favor (Ha-Hesder, 2000). Time of Favor (Joseph Cedar, 2000) In his debut feature film, Time of Favor, Joseph Cedar, a New York–born Israeli filmmaker, dared to pursue an issue about which Israeli cinema had proved reluctant to touch: the contested land of the Occupied Territories. It seems that the fact that he grew up outside Israel (he graduated from the New York University) enabled him to touch one of the most complex issues of Israeli society: the conflict between biblical commands and human rights. The film’s narrative focuses on a hypothetic apocalyptic scenario about the potential dangers of the fanatic visions and beliefs about the “liberated” Jewish lands.

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Set in the wilderness of the Judea and Samaria hills, Time of Favor reconstructs an Israeli sterile world, where secular Jews as well as Palestinians do not seem to exist. The film’s setting in the Jewish settlements of the Occupied Territories turns tenser as it reveals all kinds of Jewish rules, norms, and aspirations that could seem exotic in the eyes of a foreigner, including the highest aspiration of all—the destruction of the Temple Mount in order for the Jewish Biblical Temple to be rebuilt. In the specific constellation at work in the Occupied Territories, a strange mixture of messianic spirit and secular Israeli characteristics create the basis for vision of a society under a volcano. As to the plot, nothing seems exceptional about it—a romantic triangle composed of two young men and a young woman, in which one of the young men, Menachem, is a brilliant Israel Defense Forces (IDF) officer, and the other, Pini, a biblical prodigy—except for its unusual location. Both are in love with the same young woman, Michal, who happens to be none other than their charismatic rabbi’s daughter. Whereas the father wishes to see his daughter marry Pini, the prodigy, his daughter clearly seems to prefer the IDF officer Menachem. Her hesitation will reach its climax when the two young men become involved in a phantasmagoric plan to bomb the most holy site of the Old City of Jerusalem, the Temple Mount. At the last moment, their operation is intercepted by Israeli security and peace returns to their settlement. Cedar’s narrative choices are particularly interesting, because, on the one hand, they suggest a look at the world of those who see themselves as modern biblical heroes, while, at the same time, they suggest a fierce criticism of the hegemonic Israeli representatives, who have left the Jewish settlers to rule inside their separate world within the Occupied Territories according to their own laws, which are certainly not compatible with the modern code of human rights. The script was inspired by particular events having to do with the emergence of a religious political group that called the “Temple Mount and Land of Israel Faithful Movement” and saw as its goal “the building of the Third Temple on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem in our lifetime in accordance with the Word of G-d and all the Hebrew prophets and the liberation of the Temple Mount from Arab (Islamic) occupation so that it may be consecrated to the Name of G-d.”13 Besides offering a visual concretization of some fanatic Jews’ vision of the holy city, Time of Favor was the first time that Israeli cinema had dealt with the ambivalence of the second generation of settlers toward “their natural site” in the Occupied Territories. On the one hand, they are fully aware that only the appropriation of this land (and, in the eyes of some, thereby, its “liberation”) will bring them closer toward the rebuilding of the Temple and the coming of the Messiah. On the other hand, they are also fully aware that their attempt to accelerate the blessed time necessarily contradicts the secular law of the Jewish nation. However, as Times of Favor perspicaciously

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demonstrates, the settlers’ second generation is more revolutionary than that of its fathers, and in Time of Favor the narrative moves between these two poles until its ultimate climax. As mentioned above, the film addresses its critique to the hegemonic State of Israel and warns it against the inevitable collision between State and religion in Israel. Finally, the unique biblical landscape in Time of Favor moves from the country’s barren desert to a secret underground tunnel system. The characters bathe in underground pools, run through 1800-year-old catacombs, and pray on large patches of earth whose barren nature conveys a sense of solemnity. In Cedar’s film, however, the purpose of this biblical landscape is not only to connect the viewers with ancient times but also to remind them of the incompatibility of the biblical colonizing imperative with laws and ethics of the modern State of Israel. As such, Time of Favor should be considered as the most complete film narrative about the radical implications of the biblical colonization narrative. Cedar himself commented on the biblical issue of land in an interview on the nomination of his third feature film Beaufort (2007) for an Academy Award: “Beaufort” is a film where dismantling is victory; where the one that withdraws is the brave; where the coward is the hero and whose climax is folding the flag. “Beaufort” was written during the withdrawal [the Israeli withdrawal from the Gaza Strip], and tells about a relationship between a group of soldiers and a mountain (the eponymous military post in Southern Lebanon) and how you separate from a place by which you are defined. Without referring to any concrete withdrawal, Israel’s most important challenge, and to a higher degree religious Zionism’s highest challenge, is to separate the concrete aspect, that of the soil, from the Zionist idea. For 100 years we focused on the land. Today it should be exchanged by something else that could give us a common identity.14

It seems that no Israeli filmmaker until now has been brave enough to condemn the damages created for Israelis by the cult of the land. Though Cedar’s words directly relate to his successful film Beaufort, which dealt with the symbiotic obsession a group of Israeli soldiers develop toward an Israel standpoint located in an old Crusaders’ fortress in Southern Lebanon, they indirectly criticize the obsessive relationship of Israelis to the soil in general, a relationship that became more complicated following the occupation of the Palestinian territories during the Six-Day War. This occupation, which never ended in an annexation but whose status remained undefined, continues to haunt the Israeli present and once in a while bursts out into a trauma, as it was the case in the second Israeli withdrawal, known as the disengagement.

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DISENGAGEMENT: THE TRAGEDY OF A FULFILLED PROPHECY Israel’s unilateral disengagement plan (Hitnatkut) presented a proposal to resettle all Israelis from the Gaza Strip and from four settlements in the northern West Bank. It was proposed by the then Israeli prime minister Ariel Sharon, agreed upon by the government on June 6, 2004, and carried out in August 2005. Its execution, although very fast and well planned in advance, became one of the most painful events Israel had ever experienced. Many Israeli settlers rejected the government’s plan and refused to accept its compensation packages and voluntarily vacate their homes. As a consequence, they were evicted by the Israeli security forces over a period of a few days. The eviction of all residents, the demolition of the residential buildings, and the evacuation of associated security personnel from the Gaza Strip was completed by September 12, 2005. No one, however, was prepared to see the Israeli army forcing the Israeli settlers to leave their houses, an act that was compared by some to Nazi behavior during the Holocaust, with the exception that the role of the Nazi was played by Jews. Many of the evicted Jews chose to perform the mourning ritual to express their deep sorrow. The evacuated settlements were razed by demolition crews, with a total of 2,530 homes destroyed. All but two of the synagogues of the settlements were left intact. Those synagogues, whose construction allowed for them to be taken apart and reassembled, were dismantled and rebuilt in Israel. The demolition of the houses was finally completed on September 1. The disengagement from the Gaza Strip settlements was an issue that polarized Israel at the time and that continues to arouse passionate reactions among Israelis, on both sides. Whereas most Israelis believe that it represented the only possible solution to an occupation that had lasted for too long, most of the Gaza Strip settlers at the time refused to believe that God would let them be dispossessed of their homes and lands. Fervent in their belief, they accused the Israeli army of betraying the Jewish religion, but, convinced that God would intervene in their favor, they refused to counteract until the last moment. This may explain the fact that today, years after the event, the Israeli withdrawal from the Gaza Strip continues to resonate a trauma which seems impossible to overcome, as the Jewish settlers still consider the disengagement process as the utmost betrayal by their beloved homeland—that same homeland, that same country, that had sent them after the Six-Day War to settle in the newly liberated territories. The disengagement process, however, in spite of its tremendous tragic dimension, was not reflected in the arts in general, and in films in particular. Just like the fact that very few feature films have been made about the settlers’

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lives in the Occupied Territories, the disengagement itself, though broadcasted in the entire world, did not enter Israeli cinema’s world of representation. This absence of representation could, of course, be explained by the fact that most Israeli filmmakers are left-wing oriented, meaning that they could not accept the unilateral dimension of the Israeli disengagement. However, a deeper look would lead to the ambivalence of the Israeli filmmakers regarding the transgression of the law, since this act curiously resembled that of Zionism’s founding fathers. Since the filmmakers did recognize this same passion to conquer the land, this same belief in the need to liberate the country and return it to its historical owners, they avoided dealing with the subject. The exception to this rule appeared in the film Disengagement ­(Hitnatkut, 2007) by the internationally acclaimed filmmaker Amos Gitai. Gitai’s prolific filmography reveals his previous dealings with all the complexities of Israeli/Jewish identity,15 always critical but also compassionate. Made a year after Israel’s withdrawal from the Gaza Strip, Disengagement was the first Israeli film to relate to this event, not in terms of ideological criticism but rather as a genuine human tragedy. As such, Disengagement seems to continue Gitai’s process of examining the development of Jewish identity in the State of Israel. In it Jewish identity is reviewed through the prism of the unilateral disengagement process, which for Gitai seems to represent a further dimension of those trapped between Jewish religion and national politics, between a divine mission and international agreements. This is the background to Gitai’s Disengagement (2005), which tells the story of Anna (played by the well-known French actress Juliette Binoche), a woman who, following her father’s will, decides to go to Israel and look for the daughter whom she had abandoned many years earlier. Anna begins her journey in Israel, crossing the various checkpoints, encountering fervent settlers. She experiences the disengagement from within, as she witnesses emotional scenes, such as the one inside a synagogue, where men covered with the talit (prayer shawl) pray, repeating that no one will be able to break their spirit, convinced that God will intervene at the last moment. As time goes by, Anna unwillingly becomes a part of the violent confrontations between Israeli Jews over the land. In effect, a journey that was supposed to be personal—related as it was to Anna’s belonging to the country and to a daughter who has turned religious— becomes unexpectedly more political. This is a film about border-crossing, about one’s ability to follow one’s beliefs and endure the consequences. The disengagement that appears in the title is twofold. On the one hand, it refers to the dramatic political process that took place in 2005, when the Israeli government decided to withdraw from the lands of the Gush Katif settlements in the Gaza Strip. On the other hand, it also refers to one’s personal choice not to follow what is expected of one on the personal, ideological, and

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political levels, pointing at the choice made by Anna, who many years ago had left her daughter in Israel and moved to France. Finally, the film refers to the settlers who, considering themselves as betrayed by their own country, which had refused to support their divine mission to reclaim their ancestors’ land, decided to express their own disengagement from that land’s rules and laws. For Gitai, a filmmaker usually identified with Israeli left-wing politics, the settlers’ choice is more than religious: it represents the opinionated man’s only form of resistance. In contrast to Gitai’s well-known feature Kippur (2000), which deals with the filmmaker’s personal memories of the 1973 war, Disengagement, though touching one of the raw nerves of Israeli society—that is, the need to withdraw from a land that had been considered ours—did not enjoy such success. I believe this point is worth analyzing. Without entering into the cinematic qualities of the film, including the casting of two well-known French actresses Juliette Binoche and Jeanne Moreau, I would contend that Gitai appropriated the settlers’ existential drama (their dispossession of the land they had considered theirs) and turned it instead into a family melodrama. Yet, at the same time, one cannot ignore the film’s dramatic background, which refers to the still-open wound of the settlers. Consequently, its exploitation for a fictional plot was, in the eyes of some, insensitive and therefore unacceptable. CONCLUSION Gitai’s Disengagement represents the only Israel feature film to date that has dared to deal with the biblical imperative of colonization. In its attempt to evaluate what has happened to Jewish religion in today’s Israel, Gitai holds up a mirror to what remains of the secular Zionist ideology and its ambivalent and mostly unsolved relation to colonization. Of course, this film, or indeed any other cinematic text, will not solve the problematic imperative that the Bible dictated more than two thousand years ago. Such films, however, can, in a way, reflect such a problematic for anyone who wishes to think about one of the insoluble situations created by the postcolonial era in the Middle East. The theologian Michael Prior concluded his book The Bible and Colonial­ ism with the following words: “The realization of the ‘Zionist Dream’ has meant the unmitigated nightmare of the indigenous populations of Palestine,”16seemingly ignoring the inherent contradiction between politics and ethics, or between religion and pragmatism. Israeli cinema, however, from its very beginning, has pointed to the insoluble problematic between religion and nationalism as embodied in the land issue. This approach has become more accentuated in the past decade as Israeli filmmakers have

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finally dared to probe the issue and reveal its religious core as the Achilles’ heel of all ideologies. NOTES 1. D. Boyarin, Unheroic Conduct: The Rise of Heterosexuality and the Invention of the Jewish Man (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997); Y. Zerubavel, “The Mythological Sabra and the Jewish Past: Trauma, Memory and Contested Identities,” Israel Studies 7.2 (2002): 115–144. 2. This issue has been widely largely discussed. See, for example, D. Muir, “A Land without a People for a People without a Land,” Middle East Quarterly 15 (2008): 55–62. 3. A. L. Feldestein, Cinema and Zionism: The Development of a Nation through Film (London & Portand: Valentine Mitchell, 2012). 4. E. Said, Orientalism, 25th Anniversary Edition (New York: Vintage Books, 2003), 17. 5. “Tomorrow is a Wonderful Day” was released just after Israel’s Independence, but it was conceived in the spirit of other pre-State films, especially another of Lerski’s films, “Labor” (1936), which may be considered as referring more directly to the biblical text, as it opens with a quotation from Isaiah 11:12: “And He will lift up a standard for the nations / And assemble the banished ones of Israel, / And will gather the dispersed of Judah / From the four corners of the earth” (NASB). 6. M. Feige, Settling in the Hearts: Jewish Fundamentalism in the Occupied Territories (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2009), 6. 7. N. Gertz, Motion Fiction: Israeli Fiction in Film (Tel-Aviv: The Open University, 1993). 8. “The Smile of the Lamb” is an extraordinary example of how the IsraeliPalestinian conflict is intrinsically connected to the land. Set in an imaginary Palestinian village which the Israeli army has just entered, the film tells about the unique relationship established between an Israeli military physician, Uri, and the local Arab madman, Hilmi. Already in the first sequence, when an Israeli major gives a speech to the local population about the beneficial intentions of the Israeli occupation, the old man approaches the local inhabitants and stares at Uri, the major’s adjutant. When everyone else has left, these two remain there looking into each other’s eyes. Later, Uri will join the Palestinian Hilmi in his cave; there he finds him eating his soil. When Uri asks him about the meaning of this weird behavior, Hilmi replies that, for him, this is the only way to protect his land from dispossession. 9. The United Nations Partition Plan for Palestine (1947) was a plan for the future government of Palestine after the termination of the British Mandate. It was accepted by the leaders of the Jewish community in Palestine, through the Jewish Agency, but rejected by the leaders of the Arab community, including the Palestinian Arab Higher Committee. 10. Y. Loshitzky, Identity Politics on the Israeli Screen (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001).

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11. O. Lubin, “The Woman as Other in Israeli Cinema,” in E. Fuchs, ed., Israeli Women’s Studies: A Reader (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2005), 301–16. 12. Loshitzky, Identity Politics, 119. 13. See http://www.templemountfaithful.org/ 14. Yehuda Nuriel, (2011) “An Interview with Josef Cedar,” Yediot Aharonot, 7/10/2011 [Hebrew] (my translation). 15. Y. Munk, “Amos Gitai: Challenging the Blind Spots of Israeli Identity,” in Winfried Nerdinger et al., eds., Munio Weinraub-Amos Gitai Exhibition: Architecture and Film in Israel (Munich: Minerva Editions, 2007). 16. Michael M. Prior, The Bible and Colonialism: A Moral Critique (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999).

BIBLIOGRAPHY Boyarin, D. Unheroic Conduct: The Rise of Heterosexuality and the Invention of the Jewish Man. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997. Feige, M. Settling in the Hearts: Jewish Fundamentalism in the Occupied Territories. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2009. Feldestein, A. L. Cinema and Zionism: The Development of a Nation through Film. London & Portand: Valentine Mitchell, 2012. Gertz, N. Motion Fiction: Israeli Fiction in Film. Tel-Aviv: The Open University, 1993. Loshitzky, Y. Identity Politics on the Israeli Screen. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001. Lubin, O. “The Woman as Other in Israeli Cinema.” In Israeli Women’s Studies: A Reader, edited by E. Fuchs, 305–325. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2005. Muir, D. “A Land without a People for a People without a Land.” Middle East Quarterly 15 (2008): 55–62. New American Standard Bible. The Lockman Foundation, 1995. Nuriel, Yehuda, (2011) “An Interview with Josef Cedar,” Yediot Aharonot, October 7, 2011 [Hebrew]. Prior, Michael M. The Bible and Colonialism: A Moral Critique. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999. Said, E. Orientalism, 25th Anniversary Edition. New York: Vintage Books, 2003. Zerubavel, Y. “The Mythological Sabra and the Jewish Past: Trauma, Memory and Contested Identities.” Israel Studies 7.2 (2002): 115–144.

Chapter 6

Towards a Postcolonial Hermeneutics for the Palestinian Context Mitri Raheb

Hermeneutics is the study of the theory and practice of interpretation. Interpreting a story is an art which requires much creativity and imagination. Hermeneutics is also a science. Science is a product of the empire. Interpretation is not an innocent science, but one which is very closely related to empire. The empire wants to control the storyline, meaning, production, and marketing of the story. It does so consciously and, far more dangerously, often unconsciously. Hermeneutics is one of the most hazardous and repressive elements in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Our problem would be much easier to deal with if it were solely a case of massive injustice, a problem between Israelis and Palestinians. Unfortunately, the Western world is part of the intractability rather than part of the solution. They provide Israel with all the “hardware” and military equipment it needs almost for free. Israel’s occupation is subsidized by the United States and Europe. The Israelis would not have the financial capability to build a three-billion-dollar “separation wall” nor for the thirtybillion-dollar settlements in the West Bank if they paid the bills from their own pocket. Rich uncles donate that money and/or provide soft loans. They do so because for them Israel belongs to the empire. In short, it serves their interests, although a small but growing number of people are beginning to realize that Israel is becoming a permanent liability rather than a strategic partner.1 It is not only the flow of hardware—military equipment and advanced technology—that provides the fuel to maintain the occupying power, it is also the “software”—the culture, the narrative, and the theology—which helps to power the State of Israel. These provide the “soft power” or halo that enables Israel to continue to get away with its oppression of the Palestinian people without serious ramifications. This “software” was long in the making, but became a dominant reality following World War II. Since then, we have been 103

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told that God is on the other side, on Israel’s side. From that time on, the story has been mixed with history and biblical Israel with the modern State of Israel. The myth of a Judeo-Christian tradition has blurred the scene in Palestine, and for the last sixty-three years Palestinians have been demonized by a dominant Western culture. When I talk about a theology and a dominant culture that provide the software and soft power for the continuing Israeli occupation, what comes to mind first is a creative type of hardline evangelical Christian.2 Mainstream evangelical culture is based on four pillars: personal conversion; biblical literalism; involvement in mission; and a kind of millennialism which is often connected to Israel. Israel’s military victory in 1967 and subsequent occupation of the West Bank, the heartland of the Bible, gave this movement a tremendous boost. Many following the news at that time thought they were experiencing divine history unfolding before them. This evangelical movement is powerful and claims in the United States alone to have between thirty to ninety million members. Israel Theology is part and parcel of evangelical Sunday preaching and a recurrent popular theme. Indeed, Israel Theology is part of its mobilizing power. Evangelicals can show a “Deus Glorious,” a victorious God who resembles the empire and who is still active and visible in history today. This Israel Theology is particularly menacing, because it is not mere theology but is also a thriving business for evangelical leaders, many of whom earn their reputation as well as their bread and butter espousing such a mindset. Surprisingly, another kind of subtle culture and theology are also much in evidence in mainline Christianity. One would not necessarily expect to find it there, since this form of Christianity is a child of the Enlightenment, which is liberal and justice oriented. However, here too, since World War II interesting developments have occurred within the realm of theology. Julia O’Brien has identified four distinctive features which are characteristic of mainline Protestant hermeneutics: For typical U.S. mainline Protestants, an interpretation of a biblical text is convincing and compelling if they hear it as: Liberal, supporting universal human rights, especially for those whom they recognize as historically oppressed, and even more especially women. Scientific, objectively verified by text itself or, even more, by historians and archaeologists. Savvy, sufficiently skeptical of human bias. Supportive of Judaism and supported by Jewish readers. An interpretation is problematic if they hear it as:

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Socially conservative, unconcerned with the improvement of this world, especially the status of women. Fundamentalist or overly pious, accepting biblical testimony at face value. Ideological, promoting only one side of a conflict that they believe is multi-faceted. Challenging what Jews say about the Old Testament.3

The danger in this liberal mainline hermeneutics is that it reflects a second stream of dominant culture and discourse in the West. This is the discourse which is constructed in the media. The notion of self-righteousness, although different than that found among evangelical Christians, is both deleterious and detrimental. In fact, the nostalgia for a biblical Israel and the subconscious association of it with the modern State of Israel have led to suppressing the Palestinian narrative. Christian support of the Jewish people has led to indirect support for the Israeli state. Christian support by Jewish readers in the print media is crucial to circulation and thus profit margins. Upsetting Jewish leaders is something most publishers try hard to avoid. The price for standing against the empire is simply too high.4 At the end of the day, only a few are willing to sacrifice their positions on the altar of Palestine, even if the price for that reluctance is to compromise one’s own conscience. Phenomena similar to those present in mainline Protestantism are also to be found in the American Jewish mainline discourse. While many American Jews were involved in the Civil Rights movement in the 1960s and are still highly proactive in defending various liberal values and causes, there is, when it comes to Israel, a profound disconnect. One finds a deafening silence vis-a-vis the Israeli occupation of Palestinian land, a blind defense of Israeli policies, organized defamation campaigns against human rights activists, and threats to end dialogue with their Christian neighbors if the latter dare to raise the Palestinian question.5 Suddenly, the liberals look much like fundamentalists. Even the Left in Europe and North America became so enmeshed in a PostHolocaust theology that it was propelled by the stream of dominant culture. The spectrum from the so called “Christian Right” to the “Christian Left,” including mainline and liberal Christians, has been influenced by one and the same culture, but in different ways. This was the preeminent discourse for over forty years. From World War II to the 1980s, the Jewish-Israeli narrative, or the notion of a Judeo-Christian tradition, had a monopoly over Western dialogue and dominated, to a profound extent, Western culture. Starting in the 1980s, however, a shift began to take place among Palestinians, who started to regain their voice. In the Nakbah of 1948 and the Naksah of 1967, Palestinians did not merely lose their land, but those traumas also took away their language, their

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memory, their narrative, and their ability to tell stories. The trauma made them “talk to themselves,” “blaming themselves and the others” who did not stand with them. In short, they were in a state of collective denial. The 1980s, however, witnessed a gradual recovery, and Palestinians began to speak out. They started challenging the empire not with weapons but, like their forefathers and foremothers, with their story. The 1980s also saw the Palestinians lose hope in the Arab and Western worlds to bring about the change they so desperately desired. This led to becoming proactive, assuming responsibility, challenging the dominant culture, and questioning the omnipresent narrative which for so long had monopolized the Western stage. BEGINNINGS A Voice from Exile The shift began with a Palestinian Christian Protestant by the name of Edward Said. Said was born in Jerusalem in 1935, within the British Mandate of Palestine (1920–1948). When the “Nakbah” or catastrophe happened in 1948, most of Palestine fell into Israeli hands, and Said and his family had to “flee to Egypt.” It sounds familiar and biblical. From there he went to the United States, where he earned degrees from Princeton University and Harvard University, specializing in English Literature. In 1963 Said joined Columbia University, where he became a tenured professor and taught until the end of his life. In exile, like the forefathers/mothers after the Babylonian invasion and the destruction of Jerusalem in 587 BC, Said started wrestling with the interpretation of history and the branding of the story. In 1978 he came to call this interpretation and branding “Orientalism.”6 As a Palestinian living in the diaspora who mastered the tools of the empire, Said observed a disconnect and disparity between the Middle East he knew and the Middle East as presented in Western culture, detecting a subtle and persistent bias against Arabs in general and Muslims in particular. He saw a romanticization of the Middle East whose images served the colonial ambitions of the Western empire. What appeared to be objective science was unraveled by Said as stereotype. In this stereotype the Orient is depicted as an irrational, weak, and sensational feminine “Other” that needed to be subjugated by the rational, strong, and masculine West. Said saw Orientalism as part and parcel of imperialism: the Western empire does not conquer the East by military means alone but also by ideological and cultural means. Said, in his Orientalism, was dealing mainly with literary criticism and did not tie that discipline to Palestine or to theology. Yet, his theory is highly applicable to the dominant discourse of Western theology. The underlying assumption among liberal theologians is that they know, that they have seen

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the light (enlightenment), that they are critical, objective, open-minded, and justice oriented. Although this may well be true for many issues, when it comes to the Middle East in general, and to the Palestinian issue in particular, there is a jarring disconnect. This liberalism, alas, proves to be nothing but a fallacy. They might support numerous human rights causes, but not many are seen upholding the rights of the Palestinians. With their faith in objectivity, they are unable, regrettably, to see how subjective they are, how power-driven is their history, archeology, and theology, while their self-righteousness keeps them from detecting their bias towards Judaism and the State of Israel. Many Western theologians were and are not biased towards Israel because they are bad human beings, but because this is what they hear, read, and see on their screens ad infinitum. Their bias against Arabs and Muslims is visceral and is one side of Orientalism. The other side is the bias towards Israel and Judaism against the Palestinians. The JudeoChristian discourse is part of a subtle colonial and superior ideology that looks at Islam as “the other inferior.” Edward Said was, of course, not the only person who questioned the dominant discourse. Yet, he was, without doubt, one of the founding figures of Postcolonial Studies.7 It is interesting that two other prominent founders hail from a Middle Eastern context, Albert Memmi in Tunisia and Frantz Fanon in Algeria. Their theories were not applied immediately to theology but did lead to the development of postcolonial, racial-ethnic, minority, cultural, and many other forms of hermeneutics. These new hermeneutics started questioning the dominant colonial conversation of the empire. Greater numbers of people began listening to voices from the margin, eager to hear the “subaltern speak” and to begin to take those on the underside of history seriously. R. S. Sugirtharajah, one of the leading figures of Postcolonial Biblical Studies, echoed the words of Said, applying them to biblical criticism: Colonial reading can be summed up as informed by theories concerning the innate superiority of Western culture, the Western male as subject, and the natives, heathens, women, blacks, indigenous people, as the other, needing to be controlled and subjugated. It is based on desire for power/domination. . . . Colonial intentions were reinforced by the replacement of indigenous reading practices, negative representation of the “natives,” and employment of exegetical strategies in the commentarial writing and hermeneutical discourses that legitimize imperial control. The current move towards a postcolonial biblical criticism, seeks to overturn colonial assumptions.8

The Uprising of the People In the mid-1980s, a number of Palestinians on the West Bank and Gaza came to the conclusion that, if they did not speak for themselves, no one would and

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subsequently decided to rise up against the empire. December of 1987 saw the first Intifada or “Uprising.”9 The first Intifada was important for several reasons. First, it changed to some extent the image of Israel in prevailing Western culture. The brutality of the Israeli military employed against a mostly non-violent movement became obvious not only to insiders but also, via mainline media, internationally. Second, the image promoted in the war of 1967, where Israel was depicted as tiny David finally victorious over Goliath, started to erode. The picture seen on television screens worldwide, and over a period of time, of a young Palestinian boy with a stone in his hand facing the latest model of Israeli military tanks exposed a different face of Israel. For the first time, some people in the West began depicting a disconnect between the dominant discourse of Israel, the “one and only democratic state in the Middle East,” and the images visible on the screens everywhere, that of Israel as an occupying military force. Third, the memory of the Jewish people as the “ultimate victims” in history began changing. The history and memory of pre–War World II Jews became inconsistent with the reality of the State of Israel post 1967. It was all too easy to see that something had changed in the intervening decades. Fourth, when the Palestinian people rose above their fear and were ready to face the empire, theologians could not stand still. In response they started organizing themselves and writing. Indeed several theological centers emerged in Palestine dealing with contextual, liberation, and inter-cultural theologies. The first was Al-Liqa’ Center,10 which in 1987 organized a conference on “Theology and the Local Church in the Holy Land” for the purpose of formulating a local response within an ecumenical context in Palestine. This conference produced the “Basic Document on Theology and the Local Church.” The second was the Sabeel Centre for Liberation Theology, established in 1989 by Rev. Naim Ateek. Its objective is formulated as follows: “Sabeel is an ecumenical grassroots liberation theology movement among Palestinian Christians. Inspired by the life and teaching of Jesus Christ, this liberation theology seeks to deepen the faith of Palestinian Christians, promote unity among them, and lead them to social action.”11 Finally, Dar Annadwa Addawliyyah/Diyar12 was established in 1995 with the aim of equipping the local community to assume a proactive role in shaping their future. Developing a Christian theology for the Palestinian context, supporting the emergence of contextual Palestinian Christian art and music, and organizing international theological encounters soon became three distinct foci for Dar Annadwa. This period was characterized by an abundance of Palestinian theological publications by theologians from diverse denominational backgrounds, such as Elias Chacour,13 Jiries Khoury,14 Mitri Raheb,15 Munib Younan,16 Naim Ateek,17 Odeh Rantisi,18 Rafiq Khoury,19 Riah Abu Asal,20 Jean Zaru,21 Nur Masalha,22 and others.23

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RESPONSES FROM THE WORLD Once the Palestinians started to raise their voices and tell their story, the world could no longer ignore them. By the early 1990s the initial responses to their cries showed the shortcomings and misuse of theology in relation to the Palestinian people. The first and most important writing on this subject hailed from a British scholar, Keith Whitelam, as early as 1991, under the title of The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestinian History.24 Whitelam argues that ancient Israel was invented and created after the image of the European nation-state, thus retroacting the modern State of Israel into the Iron Age. On its reception in postcolonial biblical criticism, Ralph Broadbent observes: It is noteworthy that this book is unmentioned in the various accounts of the development of postcolonial biblical scholarship. This may be a historical accident or, it might be because most scholars involved in postcolonial studies have been New Testament specialists rather than Hebrew scripture scholars, or simply that the whole argument of the book was too hot to handle. Whatever the reason, Whitelam presents a long and detailed description of the ideological bias of much of what passes for Old Testament scholarship. The book makes detailed reference to the postcolonial work of Edward Said and also the scholarship of the Indian-based Subaltern Studies Group.25

Many of the initial responses were from postcolonial biblical scholars,26 most of them living like the Palestinians on the margin. Robert Allen Warrior,27 himself a Native American, read the biblical story through the eyes of the Canaanites. The Chinese theologian Pui-Ian Kwok struggled with the question: “Can I believe in a God who killed the Canaanites and who seems not to have listened to the cry of the Palestinians now for some forty years?”28 In 1997 Michael Prior investigated and showed clearly “how the biblical account has been used to justify the conquest of land in different regions and at different periods, focusing on the Spanish and Portuguese colonization and settlement of Latin America, the white settlement in southern Africa, and the Zionist conquest and settlement in Palestine.”29 New theological thinking also emerged in the 1990s among evangelical theologians, such as Don Wagner,30 Gary Burge,31 and Stephen Sizer.32 The titles of their books evince a shift from Israel towards Palestinian Christians. It was during this time that an organization was founded in the United States as the expression of this new consciousness among evangelicals, Evangelicals for Middle East Understanding (EMEU).33 In 2010 a conference on “Christ at the Checkpoint,”34 held on the West Bank, became the local articulation of this growing evangelical movement. Jewish theological voices too started to

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be heard critiquing the policies of the State of Israel. Marc Ellis35 is perhaps the most vocal among them. Soon, other voices started to be heard from within Israel itself, but not necessarily among theologians. In 1988, on the Israeli side, there emerged the so called new historians, like Benny Morris,36 Ilan Pappe,37 and Uri Davis.38 They challenged the traditional myths of Israeli history, especially regarding Israel’s role in the Palestinian Nakbah of 1948. Their research became highly crucial for post-Zionist political ideology. After the first Intifada, Israeli human rights activists also began to observe and record the violations of the Israeli occupation of the Palestinians. One of them, Davis, already described Israel in 1987 as an Apartheid State.39 In 2001, Nadia Abu El Haj’s book, Facts on the Ground: Archaeological Practice and Territorial Self-Fashioning in Israeli Society40 was published. Abu El Haj employs anthropological methods to explore the relationship between the development of scientific knowledge and the construction of the social imagination and political orders, using the discipline of Israeli archeology as the subject of her study. Arguing that the facts generated by archaeological practice fashion “cultural understandings, political possibilities and ‘common-sense’ assumptions,” Abu El Haj writes that, in the case of Israel, the practice works to serve the “formation and enactment of its colonial-national historical imagination and . . . the substantiation of its territorial claims.”41 Moreover, in 2009 the Jewish historian Shlomo Sand of Tel Aviv University published The Invention of the Jewish People,42 which showed how Jewish intellectuals in Germany, influenced by European nationalism, embarked on a project of inventing a modern “Jewish people” retrospectively, where “Judaism would no longer be a rich and diverse religious civilization (rather) became an ancient people or race that was uprooted from its homeland in Canaan and arrived in its youth at the gates of Berlin.”43 He argues that for a number of Zionist ideologues the mythical perception of the Jews as an ancient people led to truly racist thinking. In 2012 a second book, The Invention of the Land of Israel: from Holy Land to Homeland,44 came out, in which he showed how the concept of a Jewish homeland was invented by evangelical Christians together with Jewish Zionists to facilitate the colonization of Palestine. Sand stands in continuity with Whitelam. What the latter tried to show for Old Testament scholarship, Sand illuminates as part of racial and political 19th century European history. Effect on Mainline Theologians Most of these writings unfortunately did not become mainline reading matter and remained marginal. However, a few mainline theologians started

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questioning the “naivete” with which they were doing theology, as if it were divorced from time, space, and power centers. A good example of this shift can be seen in the work of the well-known American critic, Walter Brueggemann. In 1977 Brueggemann published The Land,45 a typical book about biblical theology in which one cannot find any mention of the peoples of the land or of their identities. He and other mainstream theologians wrote about the land as if it were a land without a people for a people without a land. In 2002, in the preface to the second edition of the volume,46 Brueggemann discussed five major developments in Old Testament Studies that needed to be taken into account and that had not been on his horizon at the time of his initial scholarship in 1979. One of them, he wrote, was: the recognition that the claim of “promised land” in the Old Testament is not an innocent theological claim, but is a vigorous ideological assertion on an important political scale. This insight is a subset of ideology critique in the field that has emerged as a major enterprise only in the last decades. Perhaps the most important articulation in this matter is the recognition of Jon Levenson that Israel’s tradition demonizes and dismisses the Canaanites as a parallel to the antiSemitism that is intrinsic to the New Testament. That is, Israel’s text proceeds on the basis of the primal promises of Genesis 12–36 to assume entitlement to the land without regard to any other inhabitants including those who may have been there prior to Israel’s emergence. . . . The shortcoming in my book reflects my inadequate understanding at that time, but also reflects the status of most Old Testament studies at that time that were still innocently credulous about the theological importance of the land tradition in the Old Testament. . . . Most recently scholarly attention has been given to the ongoing ideological force (and cost) of the claim of “promised land.” On the one hand, this ideology of land entitlement . . . has served the ongoing territorial ambitions of the state of Israel, ambitions that, as I write (April 2002), are enacted in unrestrained violence against the Palestinian population.47

What Brueggemann did was to unveil the national Israeli agenda behind the religious packaging. The native peoples of the land—the Canaanites and the Palestinians—were identified by Brueggemann by name and the suffering done to them under religious pretext was finally highlighted. Unfortunately, Brueggemann failed to continue along this path, and in his latest writings has returned to old ways of doing theology. Noteworthy Points When we look at these theological developments, there are several noteworthy points to be observed. The first signs of a “theological awakening”

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regarding Palestine were visible across the theological landscape and included evangelical, mainstream, liberal, and Jewish theologians. Second, the theologians in this era, like Palestinian theologians at that time, did not question the theological discourse itself, but only its ethical side. For many of them, more subconsciously than consciously, the modern State of Israel stood in some continuity to biblical Israel. The only problem they saw was that the modern State of Israel was not as innocent as they had thought. Israel does not “behave biblically,” is not “pursuing justice,” and is not adhering to its “calling and election.” Some tried to solve the problem christologically, although personally I do not think that “Jesus is the Answer” for this particular political question. Others had a spiritual response to this political query, stating that the land belongs to God, whatever that politically means.48 I feel that the answers given were immature. Third, almost all of them, except Whitelam, saw in the Canaanites the prototype of the contemporary Palestinians. In the words of Edward Said, even Palestinian theologians and supporters of their case have internalized Western discourse. They recognize the injustice they experience, but at the end of the day they are the Canaanites. Clearly, they have been mixing the story with history. Let me illustrate this with two personal recollections. First Recollection: Toward Reconciliation of Isaac and Ishmael? A few years ago, at the inauguration of a new building that was supposed to be used for Christian-Jewish dialogue in the Bethlehem region, a German Reformed pastor, one of the main sponsors of that building, stood in the pulpit to declare how happy he was to be able to come from Germany to bring the children of Isaac and the children of Ishmael together after four thousand years of hostility. From his voice one could sense that he was serious about what he was preaching and that he felt that he and his group were called to a noble, historic, and divine mission. The Germans and internationals in that church service were in tears, as they understood themselves to be seeing salvation history unfold before their eyes. I, however, was in total shock and grew increasingly furious and disturbed. Who, for heaven’s sake, was this German pastor to think himself a mediator, a third category over and above Isaac and Ishmael? What kind of exegesis was he preaching where he switched from the time of Isaac to the present as if there had not been four thousand years of history in between, as if history had been on hold and frozen just waiting for this new messenger to show up and complete that which had remained incomplete? How utterly naive to mix the Bible as a story with history without reflecting on its contexts and shifting identities? For this German pastor, it was a given that I, as a Palestinian, was

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a descendant of Ishmael and that the three Jewish rabbis sitting in the front of the sanctuary were the children of Isaac. He had traveled from Germany to bring us together and to make peace between us. Many German congregations had been so moved by the vision that this pastor espoused that they had raised over two million dollars for it. The pastor obviously felt very good about such a response and about himself, and was proud to be entrusted with such a mission. While listening to him, I wondered who told him that I saw myself as the descendant of Ishmael? Who said that the three Jewish rabbis were Isaac’s children? What was he talking about? Was he referring to race, ethnicity, religion, or . . . something else? Further, if those three Jewish rabbis were considered descendants of Isaac and I a descendant of Ishmael, then who was he, as a German Christian? Second Recollection: Taking Care of Strangers? I remember vividly as well a discussion I once had with an American woman. While conversing with me about the situation of the Palestinians in the West Bank, she looked at me and said, “I don’t understand why Israel is not adhering to the Bible. God told them very clearly to ‘take care of the strangers.’” It was clear that she was referring to several passages in the Bible such as Exodus 22:21 and 23:9. I could tell that this woman had good intentions. She was truly unhappy with the way we as Palestinians are treated by the Israeli occupation. Yet, I was angry. I replied, “This is exactly the problem. Because the most important question is: Who is the stranger here? Is it I, the Palestinian and native of this land, whose ancestors have been living here for centuries, or is it the Israeli settlers being imported from Russia and Ethiopia to insure a Jewish demographic majority over the Arab population? I’m not the stranger here! Nor are my people! We belong to this land more than anyone else. We were made strangers.” This is precisely the crux of the problem: the natives of the land have been made strangers in order to make room for an invented people to occupy the land. Recollections as Signifiers of Situation Faced These two stories are highly representative and typical of what we face as Palestinians in general and as Palestinian Christians in particular when dealing with Christians and non-Christians acquainted with the biblical narratives. On the one hand, we are viewed as the Canaanites or as the descendants of Ishmael, which means that theologically we are inferiors and politically second-class citizens. Ishmael then gets connected to Arabs and Muslims, who are viewed with an Orientalist lens, and, after 9/11, with

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fear and hate too. On the other hand, our history, roots, and presence in the Holy Land are glaringly overlooked, so that we become aliens and strangers, and this by divine order. Here, the question posed by David ­Jasper regarding the task of hermeneutics in postcolonial times is very much to the point: What can hermeneutics, as we have been studying it, contribute to the ethical dilemmas posed when texts of power become texts of terror? Can we stand neutral, as merely “academic interpreters”? Is hermeneutics necessarily a political activity? We need to be aware that such a pernicious political program as apartheid in South Africa had its beginnings in a particular biblical hermeneutics that saw all things created as distinct under God, their differences to be clearly acknowledged.49 We might also recall that apartheid in South Africa arose, to some extent at least, from biblical criticism and interpretation. In the postcolonial era of the present day it is easy to see how a very difficult hermeneutic pertains, and how not only is the Bible to be read in different way in the light of political and social experience, but the power of the new reader must be turned against old prejudices that were once regarded as unquestioned truths.50

NEW CRITICAL DEVELOPMENTS With the turn of the millennium, a number of new critical developments have occurred in various academic disciplines which will, in the long-term, question the prevailing narrative. These are empire studies, interdisciplinary and phenomenological approaches, and Kairos Palestine. Empire Studies What began in the early 1990s as a study of the British Empire51 has developed in the twenty-first century into a multi-focal enterprise.52 First, empire studies have widened in scope to include other European empires such as the French, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Japanese, Soviet and others. Second, after the end of the Cold War, the emergence of the United States as the sole global superpower and the formulation of the “New American Century,”53 and the war on Iraq, many critical voices within the United States began writing about the American Empire. This development led theologians to focus on the study of the Roman Empire. Richard A. Horsley,54 Warren Carter,55 Walter Bruegemann,56 and others began looking at the Old and New Testaments in relation to the empire. These developments made imperial studies hermeneutically relevant.

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Still, no one dared to employ imperial studies with the State of Israel. Although most of these studies were done by biblical scholars, many of them were applying what they learned about the Roman Empire to the American Empire. They would talk about biblical Israel facing different empires, but they failed to make the connection from there to the modern Middle East, connecting the empire with the modern State of Israel and the Palestinians with biblical Israel. In fact, only one single western theologian, and in one sentence, made that association. This was Norman Gottwald, who in his article on “Early Israel as an Anti-Imperial Community” (9–24) paints a highly idealistic picture of ancient Israel, then concludes: To complete the analogy, the present-day equivalent of ancient Israel might properly be relatively powerless countries like Cuba, Nicaragua, Chile, Venezuela, Vietnam, and Iraq, all of whom have been the object of hostility and aggression from the American Empire. And in a supreme irony, Palestinians of the West Bank may most nearly approximate the early Israelites since they occupy the same terrain, practice similar livelihoods, and long for deliverance from the “Canannite” State of Israel backed by the American Empire.57

Further, in the context of imperial and ideology studies and the role of the Christian Right in the United States (especially when it comes to waging war in the Middle East) and blind support of Israel), a whole new field of study devoted to Christian Zionism emerged showing the dangerous ideology of such groups.58 Interdisciplinary and Phenomenological Approach With the arrival of empire studies into the discipline of theology, many theologians understood that they could not do theology as usual, that they did not live and write in a vacuum, and that they needed to use interdisciplinary approaches to better understand issues resulting from exposure to empire, occupation, and colonialism. Subsequently, studies on issues like diaspora, migration, exile, lamentation, and statehood started to flourish. To take the issue of exile as an example, Brad E. Kelle argued, in an edited volume titled Interpreting Exile: Displacement and Deportation in Early and Modern Israel, for a thorough interdisciplinary approach to the topic: to consider the exile more broadly, not simply as an event in Judean history, but as a phenomenon (or set of related phenomena) that occurs in both ancient and modern settings and possesses sociological, anthropological, and psychological (not just military and political) dimensions at the heart of its realities and representations. These developments in exilic scholarship—and the insights they

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have yielded thus far—suggests that most appropriate and fruitful future study of exile must be thoroughly interdisciplinary in nature, making increased use of even broader interdisciplinary perspectives than have yet been employed, and expanding the boundaries of phenomenological comparison for Juda’ exile(s) to include even more wide-ranging chronological, geographical, and cultural contexts of both the ancient and Modern world.59

Through such an approach, he continues, the biblical texts yield insight into social history, cultural maps, and general human experience. Seen in this way, warfare and its related experiences such as deportation and displacement are elements of social and cultural identity formation, and the proper study of such experiences demands an interdisciplinary methodology in which one must immerse oneself in rich and complex debates among ethicists, political scientists, psychologist, anthropologists, biologists, and other students of war.60

Interestingly enough, in this 464-page volume on exile, no reference is made to the Palestinians, who happen not only to inhabit the same land as biblical Israel but also to comprise at present almost 12% of the total population of refugees in the world (5 out of 43 million), according to the UNHCR 2011 Statistics. Instead, the book deals with Sudan, New Orleans, and the Jewish Shoah. This volume is no exception. Fredrik Hägglund, in his study on Isaiah 53 in the Light of Homecoming after Exile, examines the dynamics involved in the repatriation of returnees/refugees to Eritrea and Sarajevo.61 Gregory Cuellar, in Voices of Marginality, addresses US-Mexican immigration experiences.62 Fernando F. Segovia, in “Towards a Hermeneutics of the Diaspora: A Hermeneutics of Otherness and Engagement,” talks about Hispanic Americans.63 Again, it is interesting that no one seems to be talking to the Palestinians. It is obvious that each author was dealing with his socio-cultural and political context. Yet, the Palestinian experience seems to be forgotten. This is why a postcolonial Theology for the Palestinian Context is long overdue. One last interesting development in recent years was the post-national work of the Oslo group on Jesus and cultural complexity.64 In his essay on the present debate on the historical Jesus, James G. Crossley investigates the role of the claim that “Jesus was a Jew” in light of modern discussions of identity and its construction. . . . Crossley situates the discussion of the Jewish Jesus within the political context after the 1967 war between Israel and the neighbouring Arab states. Crossley sees that war as a major turning point towards a very pro-Israel political attitude in the US, UK and other European countries, and he finds that this attitude strongly influences scholarly perspectives in Jesus

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Studies. The implicit presuppositions of most historical Jesus Studies, he argues, are pro-Israel, and anti-Arab and Palestinians. Crossley’s analysis is not producing labels of political positions in the Israel/Palestine conflict taken by scholars, but rather making clear presuppositions and interpretative models underlying contemporary discourse about Jesus.65

In his writing Crossley applies “the writings of Naomi Chomsky, Edward Herman, Edward Said and several others on international politics and the supportive role of media, intellectuals and academics to Christian origins and New Testament scholarship since the not insignificant date of 1967.”66 Crossley shows clearly “how New Testament and Christian origins scholarship is profoundly influenced by and supportive of contemporary Anglo-American power.”67 This thesis was investigated further by Halvor Moxnes in Jesus and the Rise of Nationalism, where Moxnes shows how the rise of nationalism in Europe and the beginnings of the historical Jesus studies in the 19th century identified Jesus and Christianity “with national identities and with Western colonialism and imperialism.”68 Kairos Palestine One last and important development in recent years should be mentioned in this context, the Palestine Kairos Document. Written by a Palestinian Christian group of theologians and lay leaders from different denominations in 2009, the document challenges the churches in the West “to revisit theologies that justify crimes perpetrated against our (Palestinian) people and the dispossession of the land.”69 In this historic document, the Palestinian Christian writers move on to “declare that the military occupation of our Land is a sin against God and humanity, and that any theology that legitimizes the occupation is far from Christian teachings.”70 The reception that the document received worldwide showed that a shift is happening in the West as well as the south regarding Palestine. This document shows a new stamina and a renewed energy within the Palestinian Christian community. Yet, it stopped short from adopting a genuine Palestinian Christian narrative that looks at history in the longue durée. A NEW APPROACH It is of utmost importance that we build on these recent developments by applying new methodologies to the Palestinian context, thus creating a new theological discourse in Palestine. Several years ago, Diyar in Bethlehem launched a ten-year plan of interdisciplinary research on the issue of

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“Shaping Communities in Times of Crises: Land, Peoples, and Identities.” As part of this project, several inter-cultural conferences have been held in Bethlehem with scholars from over thirty countries.71 The project has resulted in several important publications.72 The idea behind the project was twofold: first, to analyze trends in the developments of theological disciplines in the last one hundred years and to see their implications for the Palestinian issue; second, to develop a new narrative that reclaims its Middle Eastern roots and to give voice to the subaltern people of Palestine, so that they can continue telling their story in the face of the empire in the manner of their forefathers and foremothers. In Faith in the Face of Empire (1974), I tried laying the ground for a postcolonial Theology for the Palestinian context. In it I argue that Israel has been from its conception a European colonial project. In that sense it stands in “biblical continuity” with the series of empires that have occupied Palestine: the Assyrians (722 BC), the Babylonians (587 BC), the Persians (538 BC), the Greeks (333 BC), the Romans (27 BC), the Byzantines (332 AD), the Arabs (637 AD), the Tartars (1040 AD), the Crusaders (1099 AD), the Ayyubides (1187 AD), the Tartars (1244 AD), the Mamluks (1291 AD), the Mongols (1401 AD), the Ottomans (1516 AD), the British (1914 AD), and the Israelis (1948/67 AD)—to name just the main occupiers. Yet, I point out, most of the prevailing theologies still connect the State of Israel, consciously or subconsciously, with the biblical Israel rather than with the empire, where the Palestinians of today are living an experience similar to that of the Israelites of the Bible. This experience is of utmost hermeneutical importance to understanding the scriptures. A postcolonial hermeneutics for the Palestinian context of today should not only critique the prevailing imperial narrative but also aim at a paradigm shift whereby a genuine and empowering Palestinian narrative is constructed. NOTES 1. John J. Mearsheimer and Stephen M. Walt, The Israel Lobby and US Foreign Policy (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2007). 2. “Defining Evangelicalism,” Wheaton.edu/ISEA, October 6, 2012. 3. Julia O’Brien, “The Hermeneutical Predicament,” in Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation, ed. Mitri Raheb (Bethlehem: Diyar, 2012), 169–170. 4. There are many documented examples of such tactics: Illan Pappe, Out of Frame: The Struggle for Academic Freedom in Israel (New York: Pluto, 2010); James Crossley, Jesus in an Age of Terror: Scholarly Projects for a New American Century (London: Equinox, 2008). See also Kristine McNeil, “The War on Academic Freedom,” The Nation, November 25, 2002.

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5. Alex Kane, “Jewish Establishment pulls out of Interfaith Dialogue, threatens Congressional investigation of delegitimizers over Christian letter,” Mondoweiss, October 17, 2012. See http://mondoweiss.net/2012/10/jewish-establishment-pullsout-of-interfaith-dialogue-threatens-congressional-investigation-of-delegitimizersover-christian-letter.html. See also McNeil, “War on Academic Freedom.” 6. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Random, 1978). 7. Bill Ashcroft, Post-Colonial Studies: The Key Concepts (London-New York: Routledge, 2007). There are many excellent web-sources on this issue: www.postcolonialweb.org; www.postcolonial.org; http://www.english.emory.edu/Bahri/Intro. html. 8. R. S. Sugirtharajah, The Postcolonial Bible, The Bible and Postcolonialism 1 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 15. 9. Mitri Raheb, I Am a Palestinian Christian (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1995), 28–34. 10. Ulrike Bechmann, Vom Dialog zur Solidarität. Das christlich-islamische Gespräch in Palästina (Trier: Aphorisma, 2000). 11. See www.sabeel.org. 12. In 2006 Dar Annadwa became part of the Diyar consortium: www.diyar.ps. 13. Elias Chacour, Blood Brothers (Grand Rapids: Chosen Books 1984); We Belong to the Land (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001); Faith beyond Despair: Building Hope in the Holy Land (London: Canterbury Press Norwich, 2008). 14. Jiries Khoury, The Uprising on Earth and the Uprising in Heaven (Jerusalem: Al-Liqa,’ 1989); Arab Christians (Jerusalem: Al-Liqa,’ 2001); Arab Christians and Muslims: Past, Present and Future (Jerusalem: Al-Liqa,’ 2001). 15. Mitri Raheb, Das Reformatorische Erbe unter den Palaestinensern (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlag 1990); I am a Palestinian Christian (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1995); Bethlehem 2000: Past and Present (Heidelberg: Palmyra, 1998); Bethlehem Besieged: Stories of Hope in Times of Trouble (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2004); God’s Reign and People’s Rule: Constitution, Religion, and Identity in Palestine (Berlin: Aphorisma, 2009); Religion & State: Theology, Women and the Media (Bethlehem: Diyar, 2011) (in Arabic); The Invention of History: A Century of Interplay between Theology and Politics in Palestine (Bethlehem: Diyar, 2011); Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation: Towards a New Hermeneutics of Liberation (Bethlehem: Diyar, 2012); Sailing through Troubled Waters: Christianity in the Middle East (Bethlehem: Diyar, 2013); Faith in the Face of Empire: The Bible through Palestinian Eyes (Maryknoll: Orbis, 2014). 16. Munib Younan, Witnessing for Peace in Jerusalem and the World, ed. Fred Strickert (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2003); Our Shared Witness: A Voice for Justice and Reconciliation (Minneapolis: Lutheran University Press, 2012). 17. Naim Ateek, Justice and only Justice: A Palestinian Theology of Liberation (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1989); Faith and the Intifada: Palestinian Christian Voices (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1992); Jerusalem: What makes for Peace!: A Palestinian Christian Contribution to Peacemaking (London: Melisende, 1997); Holy Land, Hollow Jubilee: God, Justice and the Palestinians (London: Melisende, 1999); Challenging Christian Zionism: Theology, Politics and the Israel-Palestine Conflict (London:

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Melisende, 2005); A Palestinian Christian Cry for Reconciliation (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2008). 18. Audeh Rantisi, Blessed Are the Peacemakers: A Palestinian Christian in the West Bank (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1990). 19. Rafiq Khoury, The Card of the Compatriot: Afflictions and Hopes (Jerusalem 1985); Palaestinensisches Christentum (Trier: Aphorisma, 1993); Editorials for the Time to Come (Jerusalem: Al-Liqa,’ 1996). 20. Riah Abu El-Assal, Caught in Between: The Extraordinary Story of an Arab Palestinian Christian Israeli (London: SPCK, 1999). 21. Jean Zaru, Occupied with Nonviolence: A Palestinian Woman Speaks (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2008). 22. Nur Masalha, Expulsion of the Palestinians: The Concept of “Transfer” in Zionist Political Thought, 1882–1948 (Washington, DC: Institute for Palestine Studies, 1992); The Palestinians in Israel: Is Israel the State of all its Citizens and “Absentees”? (Haifa: Galilee Center for Social Research, 1993); A Land without a People: Israel, Transfer and the Palestinians, 1949–96 (London: Faber, 1996); Imperial Israel and the Palestinians the Politics of Expansion (Sterling: Pluto Press, 2002); The Bible and Zionism: Invented Traditions, Archeology and Post-Colonialism in Palestine-Israel (London-New York: Zed Books, 2007); The Palestine Nakba: Decolonizing History, Narrating the Subaltern, Reclaiming Memory (London-New York: Zed Books, 2012). 23. Raheb, “Displacement Theopolitics,” in The Invention of History: A Century of Interplay between Theology and Politics in Palestine, ed. Mitri Raheb (Bethlehem: Diyar, 2011), 9–32, 26. 24. Keith Whitelam, The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestinian History (New York: Routledge, 1996). 25. Ralph Broadbent, “Postcolonial Biblical Studies in Action: Origins and Trajectories,” in R.S. Sugirtharajah, Exploring Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: History, Method, Practice, ed. R. S. Sugirtharajah (Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2012), 61. 26. Broadbent, “Postcolonial Biblical Studies,” 57–93. 27. Robert Allen Warrior, “A North American Perspective: Canaanites, Cowboys, and Indians,” in Voices from the Margin: Interpreting the Bible in the Third World, ed. R. S. Sugirtharajah (London: SPCK, 1991), 289. 28. Pui-Ian Kwok, Discovering the Bible in the Non-Biblical World (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1995), 99. 29. Michael Prior, The Bible and Colonialism: A Moral Critique (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 11. 30. Don Wagner, Anxious for Armageddon: A Call to Partnership for Middle Eastern and Western Christians (Scottdale: Herald Press, 1995); Dying in the Land of Promise: Palestine and Palestinian Christianity from Pentecost to 2000 (London: Melisende, 2001). 31. Gary Burge, Who Are God’s People in the Middle East? (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1993); Whose Land? Whose Promise? What Christians Are Not Being Told About Israel and the Palestinians (Cleveland-London: Pilgrim Press/Paternoster, 2003); Jesus and the Land. The New Testament Challenge to Holy Land Theology (London-Grand Rapids: SPCK/Baker Academic, 2010).

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32. Stephen Sizer, Christian Zionism: Road Map to Armageddon? (Leicester: Inter-Varsity 2004); Zion’s Christian Soldiers? The Bible, Israel and the Church (Nottingham: Inter-Varsity, 2007). 33. http://www.emeu.net/. 34. A new generation of Palestinian Christian Evangelical theologians is emerging, represented by scholars such as Yohanna Katanacho, Munther Isaac, and others. http://www.christatthecheckpoint.com/. 35. Ellis’ first book, published in 1987 and titled Towards a Jewish Theology of Liberation (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1987), became an expression of this yearning for liberating Israel from itself. Ellis’ titles also include Judaism does not Equal Israel (New York: New Press, 2009). On Ellis, see www.marchellis.com. 36. Benny Morris, The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem Revisited (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). 37. Ilan Pappe, The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (Oxford: Oneworld, 2006); Out of Frame: The Struggle for Academic Freedom in Israel (New York: Pluto, 2010). 38. Uri Davis, Israel: An Apartheid State (London: Zed Book, 1987). 39. Davis, Israel: An Apartheid State. 40. Nadia Abu El Haj, Facts on the Ground: Archaeological Practice and Territorial Self-Fashioning in Israeli Society (Chicago-London: University of Chicago Press, 2001). 41. Nadia Abu El Haj, Facts on the Ground, 2. 42. Shlomo Sand, The Invention of the Jewish People (London: Verso, 2009). 43. Sand, Invention of the Jewish People, 73. 44. Shlomo Sand, The Invention of the Land of Israel: from Holy Land to Homeland (London: Verso, 2012). 45. Walter Brueggemann, The Land (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977). 46. Walter Brueggemann, The Land: Place as Gift, Promise, and Challenge in Biblical Faith (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002). 47. Brueggemann, The Land: Place as Gift, xiii–xiv. 48. Some of these answers are found for example in: Salim J. Munayer and Lisa Loden, eds., The Land Cries Out: Theology of the Land in the Israeli-Palestinian Context (Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2012). See also the works of Eugene March, God’s Land on Loan: Israel, Palestine and the World (Louisville: Westminster, 2007) and Israel and the Politics of Land (Louisville: Westminster, 1994). 49. David Jasper, A Short Introduction to Hermeneutics (Louisville: Westminster, 2004), 123–124. 50. Jasper, A Short Introduction to Hermeneutics, 125. 51. A good overview of empire studies can be found in: http://www.history.ac.uk/ ihr/Focus/Empire/web.html 52. R.S. Sugirtharajah, Exploring Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: History, Method, Practice (Chichester-Malden: Wiley-Blackwell 2012), 16. 53. See: http://www.newamericancentury.org/. 54. Richard A. Horsley, Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom of God and the New World Disorder (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002); Religion and Empire: People, Power, and the Life of the Spirit (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003); Paul and the

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Roman Imperial Order (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2004); In the Shadow of Empire: Reclaiming the Bible as a History of Faithful Resistance (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press. 2008). 55. Warren Carter, Matthew and Empire: Initial Explorations (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2001); The Roman Empire and the New Testament: an Essential Guide (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2006); John and Empire: Initial Explorations (New York: T. & T. Clark, 2008). 56. Walter Brueggemann, “Faith in the Empire,” in In the Shadow of Empire: Reclaiming the Bible as a History of Faithful Resistance, ed. Richard A. Horsley (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 25–40; Out of Babylon (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2010). 57. Norman Gottwald, “Early Israel as an Anti-Imperial Community,” in In the Shadow of Empire: Reclaiming the Bible as a History of Faithful Resistance, ed. Richard A. Horsley (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 9–24, 24. 58. Grace Halsell, Prophecy and Politics: Militant Evangelists on the Way to Nuclear War (Westport: Lawrence Hill Books, 1989); Prophecy and Politics: The Secret Alliance between Israel and the U.S. Christian Right (Chicago: Lawrence Hill Books, 1989). Victoria Clark, Allies for Armageddon: The Rise of Christian Zionism (New Haven-London: Yale University Press, 2007). Nur Masalha, Expulsion of the Palestinians: The Concept of “Transfer” in Zionist Political Thought, 1882–1948 (Washington, DC: Institute for Palestine Studies, 1992); The Bible and Zionism: Invented Traditions, Archeology and Post-Colonialism in Palestine-Israel (London-New York: Zed Books, 2007). Klifford Attick Kiracofe, Dark Crusade: Christian Zionism and US Foreign Policy (London-New York: Tauris, 2009). Stephen Sizer, Christian Zionism: Road Map to Armageddon? (Leicester: Inter-Varsity, 2004); Zion’s Christian Soldiers? The Bible, Israel and the Church (Nottingham: Inter-Varsity 2007). Robert O. Smith, More Desired Than Our Own Salvation: The Roots of Christian Zionism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013); “American Expansionism, Theologies, and the Israel-Palestine Question,” in The Invention of History: A Century of Interplay between Theology and Politics in Palestine, ed. Mitri Raheb, (Bethlehem: Diyar, 2011), 185–210; “Interpreting the Bible, Interpreting the World: Anglo-American Christian Zionism and Palestinian Christian Concerns,” in The Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation: Towards a New Hermeneutics of Liberation, ed. Mitri Raheb (Bethlehem: Diyar, 2012), 147–158. See also: http://www. christianzionism.org/ 59. Brad E. Kelle, “An Interdisciplinary Approach to the Exile,” in Interpreting Exile: Displacement and Deportation in Early and Modern Israel, ed. Brad E. Kelle, Frank Ritchel Ames, and Jacob L. Wright (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), 5–40, 7. 60. Brad E. Kelle, “Interdisciplinary Approach to the Exile,” 20. 61. Fredrik Hägglund, Isaiah 53 in the Light of Homecoming after Exile, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 2 Reihe 31 (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2008), 20. 62. Gregory Lee Cuellar, Voices of Marginality: Exile and Return in Second Isaiah 40–55 and the Mexican Immigrant Experience (New York: Peter Lang, 2009).

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63. Fernando F. Segovia, “Towards a Hermeneutics of the Diaspora: A Hermeneutics of Otherness and Engagement,” in Reading from the Place: Social Location and Biblical Interpretation in the United States, ed. Fernando F. Segovia and Mary Ann Tolbert (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995). 64. Ward Blanton, James G. Crossley, and Halvor Moxnes, eds., Jesus beyond Nationalism: Constructing the Historical Jesus in a Period of Cultural Complexity (London: Equinox, 2009). 65. Ward Blanton, James G. Crossley, and Halvor Moxnes, “Introduction,” in Jesus beyond Nationalism: Constructing the Historical Jesus in a Period of Cultural Complexity, ed. Ward Blanton, James G. Crossley, and Halvor Moxnes (London: Equinox, 2009), 5–6. 66. Crossley, Jesus in an Age of Terror, xiii. 67. Crossley, Jesus in an Age of Terror, 195. 68. Halvor Moxnes, Jesus and the Rise of Nationalism: A New Quest for the Historical Jesus (London-New York: Palgrave McMillan, 2012), 1. 69. Israel/Palestine Mission Network of the Presbyterian Church, Kairos Palestine: A Moment of Truth (2010), 2. See: http://www.kairospalestine.ps/index.php/ about-us/kairos-palestine-document. 70. Kairos Palestine, 2. 71. Five conferences have been organized by Diyar in Bethlehem. The titles of these conferences are: “Shaping Communities in Times of Crises: Narratives of Land, People and Identities” (2005); “God’s Reign and People’s Rule: Religious Communities, Political Entities and Civil Societies in Palestine” (2007); “The Invention of History: A Century of Interplay between Theology and Politics in Palestine” (2009); “Biblical Texts, Ur-Contexts and Contemporary Realities in Israel and Palestine: The Interplay between Biblical Hermeneutics and Modern Politics” (2011); and “Palestinian Identity in Relation to Time and Space: A Dialogue between Theology, Archeology and the Arts” (2013). 72. Mitri Raheb, “Land, Völker und Identitäten: ein palästinensischer Standpunkt,” Concilium (2007): 174–181; God’s Reign and People’s Rule; The Invention of History; The Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Ashcroft, Bill. Post-Colonial Studies: The Key Concepts. London-New York: Routledge, 2007. Ateek, Naim. Justice and only Justice: A Palestinian Theology of Liberation. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1989. ———. Faith and the Intifada: Palestinian Christian Voices. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1992. ———. Jerusalem: What makes for Peace! A Palestinian Christian Contribution to Peacemaking. London: Melisende, 1997. ———. Holy Land, Hollow Jubilee: God, Justice and the Palestinians. London: Melisende, 1999.

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———. Challenging Christian Zionism: Theology, Politics and the Israel-Palestine Conflict. London: Melisende, 2005. ———. A Palestinian Christian Cry for Reconciliation. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2008. Bechmann, Ulrike. Vom Dialog zur Solidarität. Das christlich-islamische Gespräch in Palästina. Trier: Aphorisma, 2000. Blanton, Ward, James G. Crossley, and Halvor Moxnes, eds. Jesus beyond Nationalism: Constructing the Historical Jesus in a Period of Cultural Complexity. London: Equinox, 2009. ———. “Introduction.” In Jesus beyond Nationalism: Constructing the Historical Jesus in a Period of Cultural Complexity, edited by Ward Blanton, James G. Crossley, and Halvor Moxnes, 1–7. London: Equinox, 2009. Broadbent, Ralph. “Postcolonial Biblical Studies in Action: Origins and Trajectories.” In Exploring Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: History, Method, Practice, edited by R. S. Sugirtharajah, 57–93. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2012. Brueggemann, Walter. The Land. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977. ———. The Land: Place as Gift, Promise, and Challenge in Biblical Faith. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002. ———. “Faith in the Empire.” In In the Shadow of Empire: Reclaiming the Bible as a History of Faithful Resistance, edited by Richard A. Horsley, 25–40. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008. ———. Out of Babylon. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2010. Burge, Gary. Who Are God’s People in the Middle East? Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1993. ———. Whose Land? Whose Promise? What Christians Are Not Being Told About Israel and the Palestinians. Cleveland-London: Pilgrim Press/Paternoster, 2003. ———. Jesus and the Land. The New Testament Challenge to Holy Land Theology. London-Grand Rapids: SPCK/Baker Academic, 2010. Carter, Warren. Matthew and Empire: Initial Explorations. Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2001. ———. The Roman Empire and the New Testament: An Essential Guide. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2006. ———. John and Empire: Initial Explorations. New York: T. & T. Clark, 2008. Chacour, Elias. Blood Brothers. Grand Rapids: Chosen Books, 1984. ———. We Belong to the Land. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001. ———. Faith beyond Despair: Building Hope in the Holy Land. London: Canterbury Press Norwich, 2008. Clark, Victoria. Allies for Armageddon: The Rise of Christian Zionism. New HavenLondon: Yale University Press, 2007. Crossley, James. Jesus in an Age of Terror: Scholarly Projects for a New American Century. London: Equinox, 2008. Cuellar, Gregory Lee. Voices of Marginality: Exile and Return in Second Isaiah 40–55 and the Mexican Immigrant Experience. New York: Peter Lang, 2009. Davis, Uri. Israel: An Apartheid State. London: Zed Book, 1987. “Defining Evangelicalism,” Wheaton.edu/ISEA.

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El-Assal, Riah Abu. Caught in Between: The Extraordinary Story of an Arab Palestinian Christian Israeli. London: SPCK, 1999. El Haj, Nadia Abu. Facts on the Ground: Archaeological Practice and Territorial Self-Fashioning in Israeli Society. Chicago-London: University of Chicago Press, 2001. Ellis, Marc. Towards a Jewish Theology of Liberation. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1987. ———. Judaism does not Equal Israel. New York: New Press, 2009. Evangelicals for Middle East Understanding. “About Us.” See: www.emeu.net/ about-us/ Gottwald, Norman. “Early Israel as an Anti-Imperial Community.” In In the Shadow of Empire: Reclaiming the Bible as a History of Faithful Resistance, edited by Richard A. Horsley, 9–24. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008. Hägglund, Fredrik. Isaiah 53 in the Light of Homecoming after Exile. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 2 Reihe 31.6. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2008. Halsell, Grace. Prophecy and Politics: Militant Evangelists on the Way to Nuclear War. Westport: Lawrence Hill Books, 1989. ———. Prophecy and Politics: The Secret Alliance between Israel and the U.S. Christian Right. Chicago: Lawrence Hill Books, 1989. Horsley, Richard A. Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom of God and the New World Disorder. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002. ———. Religion and Empire: People, Power, and the Life of the Spirit. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003. ———. Paul and the Roman Imperial Order. Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2004. ———. In the Shadow of Empire: Reclaiming the Bible as a History of Faithful Resistance. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press. 2008. Israel/Palestine Mission Network of the Presbyterian Church. Kairos Palestine: A Moment of Truth (2010), http://www.kairospalestine.ps/index.php/about-us/ kairos-palestine-document Jasper, David. A Short Introduction to Hermeneutics. Louisville: Westminster, 2004. Kane, Alex. “Jewish Establishment pulls out of Interfaith Dialogue, threatens Congressional investigation of delegitimizers over Christian letter.” Mondoweiss, October 17, 2012, http://mondoweiss.net/2012/10/jewish-establishment-pulls-outof-interfaith-dialogue-threatens-congressional-investigation-of-delegitimizersover-christian-letter.html. Kelle, Brad E. “An Interdisciplinary Approach to the Exile.” In Interpreting Exile: Displacement and Deportation in Early and Modern Israel, edited by Brad E. Kelle, Frank Ritchel Ames, and Jacob L. Wright, 5–40. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011. Khoury, Jiries. The Uprising on Earth and the Uprising in Heaven. Jerusalem: AlLiqa,’ 1989. ———. Arab Christians. Jerusalem: Al-Liqa,’ 2001. ———. Arab Christians and Muslims: Past, Present and Future. Jerusalem: AlLiqa,’ 2001.

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Khoury, Rafiq. The Card of the Compatriot: Afflictions and Hopes. Jerusalem: AlLiqa,’ 1985. ———. Palaestinensisches Christentum. Trier: Aphorisma, 1993. ———. Editorials for the Time to Come. Jerusalem: Al-Liqa,’ 1996. Kiracofe, Klifford Attick. Dark Crusade: Christian Zionism and US Foreign Policy. London-New York: Tauris, 2009. Kwok, Pui-lan. Discovering the Bible in the Non-Biblical World. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1995. March, Eugene. Israel and the Politics of Land. Louisville: Westminster, 1994. ———. God’s Land on Loan: Israel, Palestine and the World. Louisville: Westminster, 2007. Masalha, Nur. Expulsion of the Palestinians: The Concept of “Transfer” in Zionist Political Thought, 1882–1948. Washington, DC: Institute for Palestine Studies, 1992. ———. The Palestinians in Israel: Is Israel the State of all its Citizens and “Absentees”? Haifa: Galilee Center for Social Research, 1993. ———. A Land without a People: Israel, Transfer and the Palestinians, 1949–96. London: Faber, 1996. ———. Imperial Israel and the Palestinians the Politics of Expansion. Sterling: Pluto Press, 2002. ———. The Bible and Zionism: Invented Traditions, Archeology and Post-Colonialism in Palestine-Israel. London-New York: Zed Books, 2007. ———. The Palestine Nakba: Decolonizing History, Narrating the Subaltern, Reclaiming Memory. London-New York: Zed Books, 2012. McNeil, Kristine. “The War on Academic Freedom,” The Nation, November 25, 2002, https://www.thenation.com/article/war-academic-freedom/ Mearsheimer, John J., and Stephen M. Walt. The Israel Lobby and US Foreign Policy. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2007. Morris, Benny. The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem Revisited. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Moxnes, Halvor. Jesus and the Rise of Nationalism: A New Quest for the Historical Jesus. London-New York: Palgrave McMillan, 2012. Munayer, Salim J., and Lisa Loden, eds. The Land Cries Out: Theology of the Land in the Israeli-Palestinian Context. Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2012. O’Brien, Julia M. “The Hermeneutical Predicament.” In Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation, edited by Mitri Raheb, 159–179. Bethlehem: Diyar, 2012. Pappe, Illan. The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine. Oxford: Oneworld, 2006. ———. Out of Frame: The Struggle for Academic Freedom in Israel. New York: Pluto, 2010. Prior, Michael. The Bible and Colonialism: A Moral Critique. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997. Raheb, Mitri. Das Reformatorische Erbe unter den Palaestinensern. (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlag, 1990). ———. I Am a Palestinian Christian. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1995. ———. Faith in the Face of Empire: The Bible through Palestinian Eyes. Maryknoll: Orbis, 2014.

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———. Bethlehem Besieged: Stories of Hope in Times of Trouble. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2004. ———. “Land, Völker und Identitäten: ein palästinensischer Standpunkt.” Concilium 43.2 (2007): 174–181. ———. “Displacement Theopolitics.” In The Invention of History: A Century of Interplay between Theology and Politics in Palestine, edited by Mitri Raheb, 9–32. Bethlehem: Diyar, 2011. ———. Sailing through Troubled Waters: Christianity in the Middle East. Bethlehem: Diyar, 2013. Raheb, Mitri, ed. God’s Reign and People’s Rule: Constitution, Religion, and Identity in Palestine. Berlin: Aphorisma, 2009. ———. The Invention of History: A Century of Interplay between Theology and Politics in Palestine. Bethlehem: Diyar, 2011. ———. Religion & State: Theology, Women and the Media. Bethlehem: Diyar, 2011. (in Arabic) ———. Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation: Towards a New Hermeneutics of Liberation. Bethlehem: Diyar, 2012. Raheb, Mitri, Fred Strickert, and Garo Nalbandian (photographer). Bethlehem 2000: Past and Present. Heidelberg: Palmyra, 1998. Rantisi, Audeh. Blessed are the Peacemakers: A Palestinian Christian in the West Bank. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1990. Sabeel Ecumenical Liberation Theology Centre. Mission Statement. See: www. sabeel.org/statements/ Said, Edward. Orientalism. New York: Random, 1978. Sand, Shlomo. The Invention of the Jewish People. London: Verso, 2009. ———. The Invention of the Land of Israel: from Holy Land to Homeland. London: Verso, 2012. Segovia, Fernando F. “Towards a Hermeneutics of the Diaspora: A Hermeneutics of Otherness and Engagement.” In Reading from the Place: Social Location and Biblical Interpretation in the United States, edited by Fernando F. Segovia and Mary Ann Tolbert, 57–73. Minneapolis: Fortress Press,1995. Sizer, Stephen. Christian Zionism: Road Map to Armageddon? Leicester: InterVarsity 2004. ———. Zion’s Christian Soldiers? The Bible, Israel and the Church. Nottingham: Inter-Varsity, 2007. Smith, Robert O. More Desired Than Our Own Salvation: The Roots of Christian Zionism. New York: Oxford University Press, 2013. ———. “American Expansionism, Theologies, and the Israel-Palestine Question.” In The Invention of History: A Century of Interplay between Theology and Politics in Palestine, edited by Mitri Raheb, 185–210. Bethlehem: Diyar, 2011. ———. “Interpreting the Bible, Interpreting the World: Anglo-American Christian Zionism and Palestinian Christian Concerns.” In The Biblical Text in the Context of Occupation: Towards a New Hermeneutics of Liberation, edited by Mitri Raheb, 147–158. Bethlehem: Diyar, 2012. Sugirtharajah, R. S. Exploring Postcolonial Biblical Criticism : History, Method, Practice. Chichester-Malden: Wiley-Blackwell 2012.

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Sugirtharajah, R. S., ed. The Postcolonial Bible. The Bible and Postcolonialism 1. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998. ———. Our Shared Witness: A Voice for Justice and Reconciliation. Minneapolis: Lutheran University Press, 2012. Wagner, Don. Anxious for Armageddon: A Call to Partnership for Middle Eastern and Western Christians. Scottdale: Herald Press, 1995. ———. Dying in the Land of Promise: Palestine and Palestinian Christianity from Pentecost to 2000. London: Melisende, 2001. Warrior, Robert Allan. “A North American Perspective: Canaanites, Cowboys, and Indians.” In Voices from the Margin: Interpreting the Bible in the Third World, edited by R. S. Sugirtharajah. London: SPCK, 1991. Whitelam, Keith. The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestinian History. New York: Routledge, 1996. Younan, Munib. Witnessing for Peace in Jerusalem and the World, edited by Fred Strickert. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2003. Zaru, Jean. Occupied with Nonviolence: A Palestinian Woman Speaks. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2008.

Part II

ASIA AND THE PACIFIC

Chapter 7

Colonial Storms and Postcolonial Moves Exploring Alternative Filipino Biblical Hermeneutics Eleazar S. Fernandez My aim in this study is twofold: on the one hand, to take account of the trajectory of the Bible in the context of the Philippines, its ambiguous and contested role in the lives of the Filipino people, particularly its alliance with imperializing and oppressive forces; on the other hand, to advance a variety of strategies with liberation in mind. After a critique of its trajectory in the country, therefore, I propose a number of ways on relating to and interpreting the Bible so that it serves as a Scripture of liberation. To accomplish this task, I will carry out two moves: first, deconstruction; then, construction. Under the deconstructive part, I will highlight two aspects in which the Bible has functioned as a colonizing or imperializing tool in the Philippines: the norm of Christian scripturism and the principle of biblicism in interpretation. Given the restrictions of space, these two dimensions will be dealt with in broad terms, in the light of the Philippine experience. For the constructive part, I will explore a variety of postcolonial moves that serve to counter colonizing or imperializing storms. I hope that through this constructive move reflective and faithful Christians will be able not only to react to the onslaught of imperialism but also to contribute toward a liberating Christian praxis. DECONSTRUCTING COLONIAL STORMS: BIBLE AS COLONIZING TOOL IN THE PHILIPPINES Christian Scripturism One of the outcomes of the Protestant Reformation was the prominence and primacy given to the Bible, a move that was critical in the face of the authority of the medieval church. The principle of Sola Scriptura became an 131

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important rallying cry of the Protestant Reformation. Giving primary authority to the Bible and calling believers back to the basic teachings of Jesus and the early church were timely and subversive. However, the primacy given to the Bible came at a great cost, paving the way as it did for the norm of Christian scripturism. Further, since Christian scripturism accompanied Western imperialism, given the rise of the Western imperial powers, one can speak of Christian scriptural imperialism. The dissemination of the Bible thus became intertwined with the interests of the Western imperializing powers. The British and Foreign Bible Society, for example, took the following axiom seriously both theologically and politically: “Protestants without Bibles are soldiers without weapons, ready neither for conquest nor for defence.”1 Although the intention appeared noble, the translation of the Bible into the vernacular hastened the development of scriptural imperialism.2 Wherever Western imperial powers went, so did Christianity, the missionaries, and the Bible. The Bible (and the cross) thus became, and continues to be, a handy and effective ally in the subjugation of peoples of other lands, cultures, and religious faiths, as well as of their sacred texts. Consequently, the Bible has been a handy tool in the “christianizing” and “civilizing” enterprises of the Western imperial powers. It has also been a handy tool of predatory economic progress, which has led to the impoverishment of many and a continuing assault on the ecosystem. I remember as a kid how our neighbor buried a cross and a Bible in a lot where a movie house was soon to be constructed in order to ward off the spirits of nature before this area could be bulldozed. While I can understand the importance of liberating the people from the fear of spirits, Western imperial powers and predatory capitalism have brought other spirits with the aid of the Bible, much more destructive than the spirits of nature—voracious consumerism and rapacious profitism. Peoples’ native wisdom and religiosity have suffered much from this imperializing use of the Bible. Oblivious to the cultural context of the Bible and its interpreters, the imperial powers and their native informants have claimed universal normativity and exclusivity for the Bible and their interpretations in order to oppose and denigrate indigenous wisdom and religious practices. Worse, that wisdom and those practices that they do not consider to be biblically based—understood narrowly as having biblical texts for support—are rendered suspect and denigrated as pagan, if not of demonic origin. Christian scriptural imperialism, which is wedded to a monotheistic worldview, does not allow other religious worldviews and sensibilities to flourish along with Christianity. Instead of encounter (encuentro) or dialogue between religious worldviews, monotheistic exclusivism and Christian scriptural imperialism promote the clash (encontronazo) of religious worldviews. The monotheistic god that Christian scriptural imperialism promotes calls for the erasure of other gods and other religious worldviews.

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Scriptural imperialism is to the Bible as monocropping is to plants: it violates the diversity that is inherent in the web of life. An “amphibolous faith,” which Fumitaka Matsuoka describes as the presence of various religious worldviews within a person, is anathema to both Christian exclusivist monotheism and Christian scriptural imperialism.3 An “amphibolous faith” would be considered a form of syncretism; it has no place in the exclusivist Christian monotheistic worldview. Religious worldviews and scriptures that Christian monotheistic exclusivism and scriptural imperialism cannot erase are relegated to subordinate status. This leads to the stance of supersessionism. Christian scriptural imperialism is basically supersessionist: it supersedes not only the Hebrew Scripture (relegated as “Old” Testament) but also the Scriptures of other faiths. It even denies the status of Scripture to the sacred books of other religions, insofar as it limits the notion of “divinely inspired text” to the Bible (absorbing Hebrew Scripture). This supersessionist view may grant that there are elements of truth and goodness in the sacred texts of other religions, but it reserves the notion of “divinely inspired text” exclusively for the Bible.4 In the Philippine context, this means giving subordinate status to the sacred texts of Muslims (the Qur’an) and the religious traditions of tribal Filipinos, a move that is not helpful in promoting healthy relations among Muslims, Christians, and tribal communities. Biblicism in Interpretation The area of method in biblical interpretation is one in which colonialism has remained very much alive; various examples of this approach may be found in the Philippines. Among the more conservative and fundamentalist evangelical circles, biblicism represents the main face of colonialism. It is a major export product of US evangelicalism to a former colony and now a neo-colony. The principle of Sola Scriptura is not necessarily identical with biblicism, but, as time moved on, the sola became, with the rise of evangelicalism, solo. This sounds similar to what some have referred to as “Bible-only-ism.” Biblicism constitutes a constellation of beliefs about the Bible. This includes, to use some of the categories Christian Smith has identified, the following: plenary inspiration (the words of the Bible are completely identical with God’s very own words); complete coverage (addresses all concerns); democratic perspicuity (any reasonable person can understand the plain meaning of the text); solo Scriptura (the significance of any text can be deciphered without reliance on the historical tradition of the church); internal harmony and consistency; universal applicability; and primacy, as a handbook (rulebook) for doctrines and inerrant teachings on morals, science, politics, economics, health, and so forth.5

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Regarding plenary inspiration, what came as a testimony to and a product of the faith experience of Christians (Bible) is conflated with the Word itself and the propositional truths contained in it. In this instance, Scripture, the privileged witness to God’s self-revelation in the lives of the faith communities, usurps the status of God’s self-revelation. Plenary inspiration is an example of confusing finger pointing to the moon with the moon itself, or a raft with the shore. Contrary to what many have long assumed, plenary inspiration, appropriating Slavoj Žižek’s provocative comments, is a concoction of the inability to believe, in the proper sense of the term, on the part of fundamentalist Christians. A fundamentalist Christian “does not believe, he knows directly.”6 The fundamentalist Christian bestows on Scripture—a witness (medium) to God’s self-revelation—the modality of positive knowledge or the status of quasi-empirical statements. Plenary inspiration provides the fundamentalist the direct knowledge that she or he had been looking for: security. To reinforce plenary inspiration, biblicism sets the Bible against faith experience and tradition, as if the Bible were not itself a product of the traditioning process (actus tradendi). Thereby the sediment (traditum—Bible) becomes primary and turns into an instrument that kills the living experience. Here the Bible becomes a “deathbed” instead of a “seedbed” and the “last word” instead of the “living word.” Smith rightly contends that, under the pretext of defending a high view of Scripture, biblicism “too often traps, domesticates, and controls the life-quaking kerygma (proclamation) of the gospel in order to provide the Bible reader with the security, certainty, and protection that humans naturally want.”7 Many churches are captive to biblicism, completely conflating the Word with the word of the Bible, as if the Word of God were confined to the Bible. I had a terrible encounter with this limited and limiting view when I submitted myself to a ministerial call process. In this process, the applicant is subjected to a battery of questions, not primarily because the congregation is interested in deepening its knowledge, but rather because it wants to find out if the applicant’s theology is compatible with the prevailing beliefs of influential and vocal church members. The first question that I had to answer was: “Do you believe that the Bible is the Word of God?” Although I knew that the question was set as a trap, based on a narrow and exclusivist view of the Word of God, I answered “yes” to the question without further explanation. In my mind I could answer “yes” with theological integrity: after all, to say that the Bible is the Word of God does not negate the point that the Word of God is more than the Bible. There was, however, a follow-up question that I could not answer in the affirmative without sacrificing my basic theological conviction: “Do you believe that the Bible is verbally inspired?” Having encountered many Christians who ask this kind of question, I knew that the

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reference point was plenary inspiration, which means that the Bible is completely identical with God’s words and, therefore, inerrant. Biblicism is present not only in evangelical churches but also in churches identified with mainline Protestant groups. A quick tour of the Facebook page of the United Church of Christ in the Philippines would readily give an idea of the presence of biblicism. When a theological stance is sought in relation to a pressing issue or topic, a post will start with the question: “What is the biblical basis of . . . ?” From the subsequent exchanges, it becomes evident that the one who started the post is expecting a biblicistic response rather than a biblical one, in the wider sense of the term. The one who posted is expecting biblical passages to give warrant to a stance that he or she has already taken. Rather than asking broadly about the theological grounding of a particular issue, a question that would draw from various sources (experience, tradition, Bible) and involve an interpretive-constructive act, the focus remains on the biblical, which is confused with biblicism. As one responded in the same Facebook conversation, “[T]he Biblicist [is] heretic. Bible-believer instead of Christ-believer.” Colonizing and imperializing methods of biblical interpretation are not, however, limited to conservative circles. They are present in sophisticated ways in academically well-garbed biblical studies programs of seminaries and divinity schools. They are present in the continuing dominance of the Enlightenment mode of rationality, which favors certain forms of reasoning, in cultural assumptions/presuppositions of an Orientalist nature, and in the pretense to objectivity that hides the power-knowledge nexus of Western hegemony. Moreover, imperializing methods continue to hold sway among people with progressive political agendas. R. S. Sugirtharajah points out that two of the most notable achievements of biblical scholarship—the search for the historical Jesus and textual criticism, which were often classified as higher and lower criticism—happened at the height of modern colonialism.8 Contrary to how they have been presented as free of ideological motivation, they were intertwined with and tainted by ethno-nationalist and imperial interest. This is not to totally dismiss their contributions to the biblical field, but to point out the insidious character of colonial and imperial interest. These scholarly achievements were taught in seminaries around the world. With this new-found knowledge, seminary graduates went to their communities and parishes armed with the latest in biblical scholarship, often alienating the very people and the culture they were sent to serve. What can we expect from intellectual and culturally castrated seminary graduates except to do the same to their communities and church members? More developments in biblical scholarship followed suit after historical criticism, such as literary criticism and social scientific criticism. In contrast to historical criticism and social scientific criticism, which focus on the

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historical world that is decipherable from the text, literary criticism focuses on the literary character of the text, but often is oblivious to the reality that the text is not politically and historically innocent. Social scientific criticism made it its business to pay attention to the world depicted in the text. However, its account of the historical world fell into the trap of Orientalism: it reorientalized the biblical world and the nations of the global South. Further, in resisting Western domination, nationalist contextualizers adopted this orientalized image to lay claim to what they have believed to be essentially theirs. Eastern thinking is different from Western thinking, they vehemently argued, not realizing that the Eastern thinking so readily reclaimed as essentially theirs is partly a product of Western ways of seeing the world. Many efforts at contextualization have fallen into the orientalizing trap.9 Many attempts at Filipinizing theology have fallen into a similar trap. The rise of liberation movements and rights advocacy groups has had a significant influence on method in biblical interpretation as well as on the outcomes of biblical interpretation. No pretense is made to a neutral reading of the Bible; instead, reading is viewed as ideologically motivated, leading to an option for the poor and victims. After all, it is understood that the Bible is resistance literature—a book of the poor. Thus, the Bible is seen as having been liberated to speak for the victims. However, while the socio-political message of the Bible changes in the process, there are strands in the method employed by many liberationist/human rightist groups in the Philippines that resemble their conservative evangelical counterparts. Though not as pervasive, the crudest one is what is referred to as the “Gospel/politics” model, in which biblical verses are mustered to support a liberationist stance. A much more common approach in my experience is the “correspondence of terms” model, which “sets up two ratios it regards as mutually equivalent and transfers the sense of the first ratio to the second by a sort of hermeneutical switch.”10 Although better than the “Gospel/politics” model in the sense that it examines the historical context of each (the context of the Bible and the context of the interpreter), I agree with Peter Phan that this is “still unacceptable, because it assumes a perfect parallel between the first ratio and the second.”11 One may note further that, although there is a difference, in both the “Gospel/politics” model and the “correspondence of terms” model the hermeneutical flow is linear and one-directional: from the Bible to the context. The trajectory is from explication (explicatio) of the Bible to mine a core and enduring message to its application (applicatio) in specific contexts.12 An improvement to the “correspondence of terms” model is that of the “correspondence of relations.”13 In this model both the situation of the Bible and the situation to which the Bible is to be applied are given autonomy. Moreover, the correspondence of relationship centers not on particular texts or situations but on the relationship itself; hence, it is

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more appropriately a “relationship of relationships.” For Clodovis Boff, this method gives space for creative interpretation, while avoiding “hermeneutic positivism” and “improvisation ad libitum.”14 While the “correspondence of relations” can be viewed as a significant improvement on the “correspondence of terms,” and certainly on the “Gospel/politics model,” it has not moved far enough in some aspects. Thus, it continues the linear one-directional trajectory, from biblical text to context, from explication to application. Even as it claims to allow for the autonomy of both context and text and to let them engage in dialogue, the primacy it gives to the Christian Scripture as the norma normans (sole rule in the norming of all doctrines) makes it susceptible to Christian scripturism, even if it avoids biblicism. It is also susceptible to supersessionism, which is very much present among some liberationist interpreters. This is true in the Philippines, where Christians, particularly Roman Catholics, are the majority. Liberation hermeneutics may be progressive in some aspects, like human rights advocacy and, to a certain extent, ecology (especially in recent times). However, it lags behind in the project as well as in the hermeneutics of interfaith relations. Indeed, it is still trying to catch up with other issues like gender and sexuality, because it has been preoccupied for so long with matters of class and US imperialism. Given the fact that many progressive interpreters are still supersessionist in their understanding of the Christian Scripture, we cannot expect a genuine dialogue of sacred texts among religions. Because of its stranglehold on salvation history model, supersessionism has not been supportive, to say the least, of indigenous culture and religiosity or of multireligious contexts. Moreover, if one adopts Christian scripturalism and supersessionism, it is but logical that the Bible itself would not be questioned; one can only expect an uncritical acceptance of the Bible. Conclusion The prevailing progressive biblical hermeneutics and theologies in the Philippines are generally supersessionist, non-dialogical in relation to other religious texts, and remain comfortable with the framework of salvation history. Conservative evangelicals continue with biblicism and prooftexting in order to make inroads into mainline Protestant denominations (the United Church of Christ in the Philippines and the United Methodist Church). Meanwhile, religious progressives, because they do not question the Bible itself (like fundamentalist evangelicals), often end up mining biblical texts to support political stances they have already taken. Sometimes I wonder how different liberationists and evangelical conservatives in the Philippines really are with regard to method. I have heard laments that the Philippines have stopped producing creative theologians and biblical scholars. If this

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is true, it may be because liberationists and progressive interpreters alike have been imprisoned by the linear hermeneutical approach (from text to context), which has mainly served to buttress political stances with biblical warrants.

CONSTRUCTING POSTCOLONIAL MOVES: BIBLE AS LIBERATING TOOL IN THE PHILIPPINES While differences exist between Roman Catholics and Protestants in the way each regards the Bible, both give the Bible an important place in their lives. Despite its alliance (or maybe because of it) with colonizing and imperializing forces, we cannot simply dismiss the Bible, because it already occupies a place in the lives of the people. We cannot act now as if the Bible did not hold sway in the lives of the Filipino people. However, given the prevalence of colonizing tools in its interpretation, what is called for, I believe, is an account of the Bible—particularly, with regard to the nature of its authority— that liberates it from such captivity to scripturism, biblicism, and supersessionism. How shall we regard the Bible’s role and authority? In what sense is the Bible Scripture? We cannot move forward in articulating a postcolonial biblical hermeneutics unless we have removed certain obstacles from our theology of the Scriptures. Preliminary Steps Role, Function, and Authority of the Bible It is one thing to give the Bible a central and authoritative role in one’s life and community; it is another to submit to the totalitarianism of scripturism and biblicism. Affirming the former does not have to lead to an affirmation of the latter. A faith community may canonize a body of writings and give it the status of Scripture, but the granting of the status of Scripture has nothing to do with the norms of scripturism and biblicism. The recognition of a body of writings as Scripture basically means that such writings have functioned significantly in the life of a faith community, that is, they have been useful in teaching, equipping, edifying, commissioning, and sustaining faith communities. To use the language of 2 Timothy 3:16–17, they have been useful for “teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness.” William Brown puts it succinctly: The “Bible’s authority is fundamentally a functional authority or, more accurately, a formative authority. What makes the Bible the Word of God does not depend on any particular theory of inspiration so much as to testify to what the Bible has done and continues to do

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in people’s lives.”15 It is from this experience of formative authority that the Bible, if I were to extend the point, is given normative authority. A Scripture’s authority as Scripture is a community-recognized authority. Because of its recognition from within the community, it becomes authoritative. Scripturism and biblicism are attempts on the part of some Christians to assert the “external” basis of authority through a circuitous theory of inspiration, while downplaying, or just plain being oblivious to, the authorizing role of the faith communities. This move does not end here: a community’s attempt to assert “external” authority forms the basis for the claim that their exposition of the Bible is based on objective-external truth, hence, the correct one. I do not deny the “external” dimension of authority, but I see it as a function of the community’s “internal” recognition that a text has been formative for that community’s life. For Christians, the Bible is the Word of God (external basis) only because it has functioned as such. While it is true that, once an experience becomes a text, such experience acquires an independent status that presents itself as something external to the writer or the believing communities, even in such a case the external element is an outcome of a community’s recognition. This interpretation is consistent with the understanding that the Bible—the canon of the New Testament in particular—emerged out of the bosom of Christian communities. Faith communities came first, long before the Bible came into existence. God’s self-revelation had occurred long before, and continued through and long after, the emergence of the Bible: it did not start with the Bible, and it is not identical to the Bible. The Bible is a witness to God’s self-revelation in nature and history as it has been received and understood by the people. The Bible is a human testimony (human words) of the faith communities’ experience of the Word of God as it spoke to the life-and-death questions of the people. It is a vehicle of God’s self-revelation that embraces the whole gamut of life in all of its myriad expressions and particularities. There is no need to claim that the Bible is the exhaustive and final account of God’s selfrevelation, superseding all others, much less to claim complete identity for the Bible with the Word of God, in order for it to remain as Scripture for a believing community. When we see the Bible as Scripture in this way, we are opening the way for other witnesses of God’s self-revelation to stake the claim, such as the sacred oral traditions of tribal communities and the Scriptures of other religious faiths. We are opening the way for the diversity of witnesses to God’s self-revelation or manifestation. This recognition of other witnesses to God’s self-revelation does not diminish the authority of the Bible as a witness to God’s self-revelation. The Bible remains truly and fully God’s self-revelation, even if it is not the only such revelation. Its particularity among others is not a deficit but an asset. It is in virtue of its particularity that it is truly and fully

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experienced as Scripture. It is in virtue of its particularity among others that it serves effectively God’s universal availability. As a true and full witness of God’s self-revelation in the world among others, it shares with other sacred traditions (oral and written) a common calling: witnessing to God’s selfdisclosure in nature and history. This opens multiple ways: mutual ­recognition and cooperation in common societal concerns along with mutual illumination and transformation through engagement in inter-textual hermeneutics. What I have sought to do in this section is to unset what Archie C. C. Lee considers a critical obstacle to “cross-textual hermeneutics”: the presumed supremacy of the Bible in Christian understanding and exclusivist truthclaims against other religions. This is necessary in order to make it possible for “Asian Christians to quest for a new hermeneutics that could both enhance Asian theological construction and enrich the larger global community.”16 The Bible and the Limits of Liberation Hermeneutics Putting the Bible in its rightful place is a crucial step in liberating the Bible and in opening the way for the possibility of cross-textual (interfaith) hermeneutics. There is another obstacle, however, that needs to be addressed, one that is difficult to change, much more so because it presents itself as embodying a progressive-liberative stance. What I am speaking about is the claim that the Bible itself is resistance literature. On this issue I adopt Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza’s criticism of some anti-imperial studies, particularly Christian New Testament studies of the Roman Empire, which do not proceed in a “self-critical fashion” but end up trying to “rehabilitate Christian writings.”17 While I celebrate anti-imperial or resistance discourse because it supports my political stance, I realize that in many ways it has not carried the historical project of criticism far enough to see and expose how resistance discourse/literature “re-inscribed the structures of domination against which it seeks to argue.”18 Further, by claiming that the gospel is unambiguously counter-imperial, such studies refuse to examine how imperial language is inscribed in the sacred text itself and how such imperial language functions today. When imperial language becomes inscribed as gospel language and thereby acquires performative character, such language shapes identity and contemporary praxis.19 With ideas from postcolonial and, particularly, feminist discourse, I have become more critical of the biblical text itself, not just of the interpretation of the text. While liberation hermeneutics is prophetic in responding to themes of social justice, the way it construes the Bible and the reading strategies it employs tend to be conservative. Liberation hermeneutics needs to remember that “[a]s a collective memory, the Bible is constrained and determined by

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the culture in which it was produced, and its contents remain unfinished and uncertain.”20 It needs to critique the text as “text” and “history” as well as its ideological function in society, both past and present.21 With this understanding of text, the approach of liberation hermeneutics tends to proceed in a linear fashion: from text to context. In a context in which the interpretations of the Bible are questioned but its ambivalent history—including its production, translations and dissemination—is not, there is the danger of textualism reinforcing Christian “scriptural imperialism.”22 While the main insights of liberation hermeneutics, particularly God’s identification with the poor or the weak in any society and the call for rigorous socio-economic criticism,23 continue to influence my reading approach, I have also undergone a transformation with regard to such hermeneutics. I affirm Schüssler Fiorenza’s point that, while liberation hermeneutics and postcolonial discourse are not “exclusive oppositions,” a distinction has to be made.24 I must say that, in contrast to early versions of liberation hermeneutics, I no longer see the poor as “a unified and homogenous revolutionary subject,” a homogenous special class that will drive history forward, but instead as a diverse group composed of individuals from various walks of life who are struggling for a more dignified life.25 The experience of oppression on the part of the poor or the oppressed cannot be understood reductively, viewed solely through economics or class. The multiple ways in which people are marginalized relate to each other in interlocking fashion.26 This understanding of oppression is predicated on a more nuanced understanding of power, unconstrained by deterministic materialist analysis and informed by postructuralist ideas.27 Postcolonial Moves: Some Philippine Expressions In light of the previous discussion, I find myself now in a better position to articulate a hermeneutical approach with a sharper liberationist edge. To begin with, moving away from an essentialized understanding of the poor and adopting the notion of multiple and shifting identities and locations in the power-knowledge nexus, I am now better able to formulate a hermeneutical strategy that is able to address multiple and interlocking structures of oppression and that has a greater ability to be self-critical. What I mean by self-critical here is the consciousness that discourses/practices create their own regimes of truth. In addition, embracing a view that questions the Bible itself, particularly in re-inscribing imperial practices, I am now better able as well to formulate a hermeneutical strategy that is no longer captive to textualism (the from-text-to-context trajectory) but that rather approaches text and context as interacting freely with each other. In this strategy, the context (for example, the Philippines) functions not only as receiver but also as giver: it

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interrogates and illumines the text. Further, moving away from scripturism and supersessionism, I am also better able to formulate a hermeneutical strategy that is dialogical in nature: one that engages in dialogue with people of other religious traditions as well as in cross-textual/oral reading of traditions. I noted in the deconstructive critique above the prevalence of biblicism and supersessionism as well as textualism in the Philippines. A biblicistic and supersessionist view of the Bible, common among evangelical-fundamentalist Christians, would logically lead to textualism. Most Filipino liberationist interpreters continue to be haunted by supersessionism and textualism, even if we can say that they have moved away from biblicism. True, they engage in analysis of the biblical context, but the trajectory is still from text (Bible) to contemporary context (explication and application to context), as if the contemporary context had nothing to say to the Bible and the Bible had everything to say to the contemporary context. This unnecessary privileging of the Bible (textualism) tells us that progressive interpreters continue to operate on the understanding that the primary and final location of God’s revelation is the Bible. In my understanding, however, such revelation should be located in the continuing activity of God in nature and history. This linear hermeneutic trajectory—from Bible to contemporary context— ends up mustering and, in many cases, milking the Bible of biblical references in order to support a particular stance or issue taken. The pervasiveness of this linear hermeneutic of textualism may help explain the complaint that Filipinos have ceased to produce creative biblical scholars and theologians. Textualism may be useful in promoting progressive agendas, such as human rights, over against a conservative politics aided by narrow biblicism. In the long run, however, it proves defeatist: it stifles freedom and creativity, which constitute the enduring core of liberationist practices. We must refuse to become like the ones we are opposing. What I am advocating is a hermeneutical strategy that does not embrace a linear trajectory of text to context, but rather a dialogue of text and context, or of texts and contexts (plural). I am not driven by the agenda of letting the text (Bible) speak to the context, or of finding correspondence or equivalence between the text and the context. I am interested, rather, in affirming and maintaining their independence and strangeness (otherness) to one another as necessary for a fruitful dialogical encounter. The common tendency among interpreters is to remove the otherness or polish the strangeness of both the text and the context in order to find connections, and therefore the message, which usually proceeds from the text to the context. In such a case, the reader, who is located in the contemporary context, befriends the Bible or considers the “Bible as an old friend.” Yet, in doing this, we have done a great disservice to both our faith and the Bible. If, as Eunjoo Mary Kim puts it, “we fail to encounter the biblical text as a stranger, our reading risks using the Bible as an instrument for the

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confirmation of our own prejudices and the status quo.”28 Reading the “Bible as the Other,” continues Kim, is like having “a dialogue with a stranger.” It is much more difficult and challenging to “dialogue with a stranger,” but such engagement is worth our while in spite of the risks involved. In dialoguing with the stranger and letting the stranger remain as subject, the stranger or the other is more able to represent, following Raúl Fornet-Betancourt, “the exteriority that widens the frontiers of our horizon of understanding.”29 In allowing this to happen, “we discover a new world”: we are “born again.”30 With the independence and strangeness of text and context affirmed and maintained by the interpreting subject, who is acutely cognizant of her or his multiple and shifting locations and positions, a fruitful encounter of texts and contexts is possible. The Bible may not speak clearly to the context or to an issue (vice versa), but that is less of a worry because the interpreter is not driven to find correspondence, whether of “terms” or of “relations”—the interpreter only needs a set of eyes to see a new horizon/reality unfolding in the resonance or dissonance. Even in the silence or the dissonance of both, something more is being said or is happening: a third space is being created or a third narrative is unfolding in one’s midst. This new horizon (third space or narrative) emerges in the interaction of text and context through the lens of the interpreting subject. This is the kind of hermeneutical strategy I explored in my study “Exodus-toward-Egypt: Filipino-Americans’ Struggle to Realize the Promised Land in America.”31 As the title itself indicates, I conjure up the usual trajectory (Exodus away from Egypt) to create a third narrative, which happens when we do not let ourselves be imprisoned by Christian textualism. Creative and liberating hermeneutics are possible outside of Christian scriptural imperialism and textualism. Christian textualism kills the spirit of the Bible: a witness to God’s continuing self-revelation in nature and history. Christian textualism defeats the purpose of hermeneutics: to interpret life with the help of the text (Bible). Hermeneutics is primarily about interpreting life with the help of the Bible, not the other way around, which kills life. The horizon (third space or narrative) that emerges out of the encounter of text and context calls the interpreting subject to inhabit poetically and politically. The third space (new horizon) issues an invitation to the interpreting agent to dwell and walk, which leads to a greater understanding of the character of the third space, because the space is made by walking. As the Spanish poet Antonio Machado has aptly put it: “Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar” (“Traveler, there is no path: the path is forged as one walks”).32 This is similar to the Latin saying solvitur ambulando (It is solved by walking; or it is proved by walking). Although slow in coming, there are examples of creative and liberating hermeneutics that have emerged from the womb of Philippine society and that are visible for those who have the eyes to see. One such expression is

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Filipino popular religiosity, crafted in the face of imperializing forces and with the backing of Christianity and the Bible. Another is that of “jeepney hermeneutics,” as articulated by Revelation Velunta. Popular Religiosity The area of popular religiosity provides a lens on how we may relate to or engage with the Bible in ways that subvert its colonializing/imperializing power and transform it into a means of emancipation. When interpreted through a postcolonial optic, popular religiosity offers a reading strategy that enables the subaltern to speak. Without a doubt, the liberating power of Filipino popular religiosity is ambiguous: it does contain plenty of politically conservative elements, but it also provides a clue as to how we may pursue the project of transformative discourse in a situation where everything is contaminated by empire.33 As a religious practice that is widely embraced by the common people, postcolonial discourse needs to find a home in the religiosity of the people, if postcolonial theology is not to remain a theology without the common people. Filipino popular Christianity is a product of the encounter between Christianity and indigenous Filipino culture and religion. One may view this encounter as a clash between a more powerful force and a less powerful one, but the clash has not resulted in the total acceptance of everything foreign or in the abdication of everything indigenous.34 The Filipinos, observes historian John Leddy Phelan, were no mere passive recipients of the socio-religious and political package imposed on them by the Spanish colonialists.35 The adoption of Christianity by the early Filipinos, contends Steffi San Buenaventura, involved a “conversion process that was more complex than simple procedure of removal and replacement of faith.”36 This complex double process of conversion has given birth to Filipino popular Christianity. Even when official Christianity has tried to marginalize it, it continues not only to be widely practiced by the common people but also to gain vitality. When viewed from a postcolonial optic and infused with postcolonial desires, popular religiosity is and can be an expression of transgressive hybridity and fluidity. It is and can be a form of subversive cohabitation when everything is contamination. The hybridized constitution of Filipino popular religiosity is a testimony to its adaptability, mobility, and portability.37 Religious practices that revolve around the cycle of life are engaged in by many immigrant communities, even as they also adapt to new contexts. Jeepney Hermeneutics Jeepney hermeneutics takes seriously the multiple ways in which the Bible has functioned in the lives of the Filipinos. The Bible is like a sharp knife:

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useful for cutting an enemy’s throat as well as for slicing food to feed a hungry family. The term “jeepney” is derived from the army jeep, a military vehicle that had a mount for a 30-caliber machine gun, used by the US Army during World War II in the Philippines. Filipino ingenuity converted the army jeep, a vehicle of war, into a common transportation vehicle, a sort of minibus that can accommodate around 18 people. Instead of a mounted machine gun, Filipinos mount on the dashboard images of their favorite saints. The jeepney is like a “house on wheels” with an altar. Jeepney hermeneutics presupposes an understanding of the Bible similar to an army jeep. It is a dangerous text: it is an imperializing text, as demonstrated throughout history in various lands and certainly in the Philippines. Many Filipinos were cut to pieces in the name of this sacred text—the Bible. The Filipinos cannot, however, simply wish the Bible away; it is already part of the lives. They can do something, however, to this dangerous text in a manner similar to what they have done with the US Army jeep. Jeepney hermeneutics helps us understand the capacity of the people to transform weapons of mass destruction into instruments of life construction—mortar shells into church bells; gun barrels into flutes; and, yes, army jeeps into passenger jeepneys. In jeepney hermeneutics we are made to understand that there is not just one way of responding to an oppressive power. Fighting frontally the might of empire when one does not have sufficient force yet is suicide. To use an analogy, the mouse should be smarter than the cat: the cat can afford to make a mistake and still survive, but the mouse’s single mistake could make it land in the mouth of the hungry cat. Jeepney hermeneutics is a people’s way of subverting empire when direct confrontation does not work, at least not at the moment, or when strategic offense is not yet a possibility. To use a different language, jeepney hermeneutics is akin to “guerilla hermeneutics.” CONCLUSION These two examples of Filipino popular religiosity and jeepney hermeneutics have given us a sense of the ability of the people to subvert imperial practices in the midst of imperial conditions. They both point to the creativity of the people in re-appropriating and re-purposing what is present in their localities as well as in reflecting on their given realities, that is, engaging in contextual thinking. What remains in need of articulation is the place of indigenous cultures (oral and written) and other religions in the development of a creative and liberating hermeneutics in the Philippines. While the Philippines may not be as religiously diverse as India or other parts of Asia, there is no excuse for not articulating a hermeneutical strategy that seeks the companionship of

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other religious traditions in interpreting our shared situation. Taking insights from popular religiosity and jeepney hermeneutics, Filipinos must articulate and advance a reading strategy that not only takes a strong anti-imperial stance and a serious socio-economic critique in light of the experience of the most vulnerable but also opts for an approach that is interfaith and dialogical. A liberating and creative hermeneutic for the Filipinos must walk with the socio-politically impoverished as well as with people of other faiths and cultures in the Philippines. NOTES 1. R. S. Sugirtharajah, The Bible and the Third World: Precolonial, Colonial and Postcolonial Encounters (London: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 52. 2. Sugirtharajah, The Bible and the Third World, 57. 3. Fumitaka Matsuoka, Learning to Speak a New Tongue: Imagining a Way that Holds People Together—An Asian American Conversation (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2011), 94–125. 4. Peter Phan, “Can We Read Religious Texts Interreligiously? Possibilities, Challenges, and Experiments,” in Tat-siong Benny Liew, ed., Postcolonial Interventions: Essays in Honor of R. S. Sugirtharajah (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009), 317. 5. Christian Smith, The Bible Made Impossible: Why Biblicism Is Not a Truly Evangelical Reading of Scripture (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Brazos Press, 2011), 4–5. 6. Slavoj Žižek, God in Pain: Inversions of Apocalypse (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2012), 191 (Emphasis in the text). 7. Smith, Bible Made Impossible, 94. 8. R. S. Sugirtharajah, Exploring Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: History, Method, Practice (West Sussex: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 39. 9. Todd S. LaBute, “Beyond Contextualism: A Plea for Asian First Level Theology,” Asia Journal of Theology 20, no. 1 (April 2006): 36–56. 10. Peter Phan, “A Common Journey, Different Paths, the Same Destination: Method in Liberation Theologies,” in Eleazar Fernandez and Fernando F. Segovia, eds., A Dream Unfinished: Theological Reflections on America from the Margins (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2001), 142. 11. Phan, “A Common Journey, Different Paths, the Same Destination,” 142. 12. David Lochhead, “The Liberation of the Bible,” in Norman K. Gottwald, ed., The Bible and Liberation: Political and Social Hermeneutics (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1983), 74–93. 13. Clodovis Boff, Theology and Praxis: Epistemological Foundations, trans. Robert Barr (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1987). 14. Boff, Theology and Praxis, 149. 15. William Brown, “Introduction,” in William Brown, ed., Engaging Biblical Authority: Perspectives on the Bible as Scripture (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007), xiii (Emphasis belongs to the original text).

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16. Archie C. C. Lee, “Cross-Textual Hermeneutics and Identity in a Multiscriptural Asia,” in Sebastian C. H. Kim, ed., Christian Theology in Asia (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 193. 17. Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, The Power of the Word: Scripture and the Rhetoric of Empire (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), 4. Richard Horsley’s works provide an example of biblical scholarship that seeks to “rehabilitate” Christian writings. See, for example, his Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom of God and the New World Disorder (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002). 18. Schüssler Fiorenza, The Power of the Word: Scripture and the Rhetoric of Empire, 4. 19. Fiorenza, The Power of the Word, 6. 20. R. S. Sugirtharajah, Troublesome Texts: The Bible in Colonial and Contemporary Culture (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2008), 123. 21. For a more substantive account of reading strategies, see Fernando F. Segovia, “Reading Across: Intercultural Criticism and Textual Posture,” in Fernando F. Segovia, ed., Interpreting Beyond Borders (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 59–83, particularly page 64. 22. R. S. Sugirtharajah, The Bible and the Third World, 57. 23. Fernando F. Segovia, “Liberation Hermeneutics: Revisiting the Foundations in Latin America,” in Fernando F. Segovia, ed., Toward a New Heaven and a New Earth: Essays in Honor of Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2003), 106–132. 24. Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, “Transforming the Margin—Claiming Common Grounds: Charting a Different Paradigm of Biblical Studies,” in R. S. Sugirtharajah, ed., Still at the Margins: Biblical Scholarship Fifteen Years after the Voices from the Margin (London: T & T Clark, 2008), 31. See Gerald O. West, “What Difference Does Postcolonial Biblical Criticism Make? Reflections from (South) African Perspective,” in Postcolonial Interventions, 256–273. 25. Ivan Petrella, ed., Latin American Liberation Theology: The Next Generation (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2005), xv. See R. S. Sugirtharajah, Postcolonial Criticism and Biblical Interpretation (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 120. 26. See Eleazar S. Fernandez, Reimagining the Human: Theological Anthropology in Response to Systemic Evil (St. Louis: Chalice Press, 2004). 27. See Dwight Hopkins, “Postmodernity, Black Theology of Liberation and the U.S.A.: Michel Foucault and James Cone,” in David Batstone, Eduardo Mendieta, Lois Ann Lorentzen, and Dwight Hopkins, eds., Liberation Theologies, Postmodernity, and the Americas (New York: Routledge, 1997), 205–221. Hopkins sees Foucault’s account of power as complementing the account of power of Black liberation hermeneutics. 28. Eunjoo Mary Kim, Preaching in an Age of Globalization (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 67. 29. Raúl Fornet-Betancourt, “Hermeneutics and Politics of Strangers: A Philosophical Contribution on the Challenge of Convivencia in Multicultural Societies,” in Daniel Groody and Gioacchino Campese, eds., A Promised Land, A Perilous Journey: Theological Perspectives on Migration (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), 217.

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30. Fornet-Betancourt, “Hermeneutics and Politics of Strangers,” 218. 31. Eleazar S. Fernandez, “Exodus-toward-Egypt: Filipino-Americans’ Struggle to Realize the Promised Land in America,” in R. S. Sugirtharajah, ed., The Postcolonial Biblical Reader (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2005), 291–304. 32. Antonio Machado, “Proverbios y Cantares XXIX,” Campos de Castilla (1912) 33. Rachel A. R. Bundang, “May You Storm Heaven with Your Prayers: Devotions to Mary and Jesus in Filipino American Catholic Life,” in Rita Nakashima Brock, Jung Ha Kim, Kwok Pui-Lan, and Seung Ai Yang, eds., Off the Menu: Asian and Asian North American Women’s Religion and Theology (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007), 87–105. 34. See Fernando F. Segovia, “Aliens in the Promised Land: The Manifest Destiny of U.S. Hispanic Theology,” in Ada María Isasi-Díaz and Fernando F. Segovia, eds., Hispanic/Latino Theology: Challenges and Promise (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996), 16. 35. John Leddy Phelan, The Hispanization of the Philippines (Madison: University of Wisconsin, 1959), viii. 36. Steffi San Buenaventura, “Filipino Religion at Home and Abroad: Historical Roots and Immigrant Transformations,” in Pyong Gap Min and Jung Ha Kim, eds., Religions in Asian America: Building Faith Communities (New York: Altamira Press, 2002), 147. 37. See Eleazar Fernandez, “Filipino Popular Christianity,” in Mary Bednarowski, ed., People’s History of Christianity, vol. 7 (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2008), 37–60.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Boff, Clodovis. Theology and Praxis: Epistemological Foundations. Translated by Robert Barr. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1987. Brown, William. “Introduction.” In Engaging Biblical Authority: Perspectives on the Bible as Scripture, edited by William Brown, ix–xvi. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007. Bundang, Rachel A. R. “May You Storm Heaven with Your Prayers: Devotions to Mary and Jesus in Filipino American Catholic Life.” In Off the Menu: Asian and Asian North American Women’s Religion and Theology, edited by Rita Nakashima Brock, Jung Ha Kim, Kwok Pui-Lan, and Seung Ai Yang, 87–105. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007. Fernandez, Eleazar S. Reimagining the Human: Theological Anthropology in Response to Systemic Evil. St. Louis: Chalice Press, 2004. ———. “Exodus-toward-Egypt: Filipino-Americans’ Struggle to Realize the Promised Land in America.” In The Postcolonial Biblical Reader, edited by R. S. Sugirtharajah, 291–304. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2005. ———. “Filipino Popular Christianity.” In People’s History of Christianity, edited by Mary Bednarowski, vol. 7, 37–60. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2008. Fornet-Betancourt, Raúl. “Hermeneutics and Politics of Strangers: A Philosophical Contribution on the Challenge of Convivencia in Multicultural Societies.”

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In A Promised Land, A Perilous Journey: Theological Perspectives on Migration, edited by Daniel Groody and Gioacchino Campese, 210–224. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008. Hopkins, Dwight. “Postmodernity, Black Theology of Liberation and the U.S.A.: Michel Foucault and James Cone.” In Liberation Theologies, Postmodernity, and the Americas, edited by David Batstone, Eduardo Mendieta, Lois Ann Lorentzen, and Dwight Hopkins, 205–221. New York: Routledge, 1997. Horsley, Richard. Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom of God and the New World Disorder. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002. Kim, Eunjoo Mary. Preaching in an Age of Globalization. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010. LaBute, Todd S. “Beyond Contextualism: A Plea for Asian First Level Theology.” Asia Journal of Theology 20, no. 1 (April 2006): 36–56. Lee, Archie C. C. “Cross-Textual Hermeneutics and Identity in a Multi-scriptural Asia.” In Christian Theology in Asia, edited by Sebastian C. H. Kim, 179–204. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Lochhead, David. “The Liberation of the Bible.” In The Bible and Liberation: Political and Social Hermeneutics, edited by Norman K. Gottwald, 74–93. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1983. Machado, Antonio. “Proverbios y Cantares XXIX.” Campos de Castilla, 1912. Matsuoka, Fumitaka. Learning to Speak a New Tongue: Imagining a Way that Holds People Together—An Asian American Conversation. Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2011. Petrella, Ivan, ed. Latin American Liberation Theology: The Next Generation. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2005. Phan, Peter. “A Common Journey, Different Paths, the Same Destination: Method in Liberation Theologies.” In A Dream Unfinished: Theological Reflections on America from the Margins, edited by Eleazar Fernandez and Fernando F. Segovia, 129–151. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2001. ———. “Can We Read Religious Texts Interreligiously? Possibilities, Challenges, and Experiments.” In Postcolonial Interventions: Essays in Honor of R. S. Sugirtharajah, edited by Tat-siong Benny Liew, 313–331. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009. Phelan, John Leddy. The Hispanization of the Philippines. Madison: University of Wisconsin, 1959. San Buenaventura, Steffi. “Filipino Religion at Home and Abroad: Historical Roots and Immigrant Transformations.” In Religions in Asian America: Building Faith Communities. Edited by Pyong Gap Min and Jung Ha Kim, 143–184. New York: Altamira Press, 2002. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elizabeth. The Power of the Word: Scripture and the Rhetoric of Empire. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007. ———. “Transforming the Margin—Claiming Common Grounds: Charting a Different Paradigm of Biblical Studies.” In Still at the Margins: Biblical Scholarship Fifteen Years after the Voices from the Margin, edited by R. S. Sugirtharajah, 22–39. London: T & T Clark, 2008.

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Segovia, Fernando F. “Aliens in the Promised Land: The Manifest Destiny of U.S. Hispanic Theology.” In Hispanic/Latino Theology: Challenges and Promise, edited by Ada María Isasi-Díaz and Fernando F. Segovia, 15–41. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996. ———. “Reading Across: Intercultural Criticism and Textual Posture.” In Interpreting Beyond Borders, edited by Fernando F. Segovia, 59–83. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000. ———. “Liberation Hermeneutics: Revisiting the Foundations in Latin America.” In Toward a New Heaven and a New Earth: Essays in Honor Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza. Edited by Fernando F. Segovia, 106–132. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2003. Smith, Christian. The Bible Made Impossible: Why Biblicism Is Not a Truly Evangelical Reading of Scripture. Grand Rapids, Michigan: Brazos Press, 2011. Sugirtharajah, R. S. The Bible and the Third World: Precolonial, Colonial and Postcolonial Encounters. London: Cambridge University Press, 2001. ———. Troublesome Texts: The Bible in Colonial and Contemporary Culture. ­Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2008. ———. Exploring Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: History, Method, Practice. West Sussex: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012. West, Gerald O. “What Difference Does Postcolonial Biblical Criticism Make? Reflections from (South) African Perspective.” In Postcolonial Interventions: Essays in Honor of R. S. Sugirtharajah, edited by Tat-siong Benny Liew, 256–273. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009. Žižek, Slavoj. God in Pain: Inversions of Apocalypse. New York: Seven Stories Press, 2012.

Chapter 8

Carrying Out “The Great Commission” until the “Second Coming of Christ”? Overseas Mission Currents in the Context of US Military Imperialism Nami Kim In the early twentieth century, on the heels of Japanese colonization of Korea, Uchimura Kanzo, founder of what is known as the Non-Church Movement in Japan, beseeched Koreans to “become a Christian country that can defeat Japan as soon as possible.”1 Just a century later, the Republic of Korea (hereafter referred to as South Korea) appears to have heeded Uchimura’s call and become a “regional Protestant superpower.”2 Although Christianity is not the majority religion in terms of demographics, Protestant Christianity— specifically conservative Protestant Christianity—wields substantial social, economic, and political power in contemporary South Korea. In addition to supporting conservative social and political views, the churches and organizations that comprise conservative Protestant Christianity in South Korea, including the Protestant Right,3 share “a common set of core fundamentalist/conservative beliefs, especially the inerrancy of the Bible and its verbal inspiration.”4 Such beliefs cut across denominational boundaries, and, according to Kelly H. Chong, over 90 percent of Protestant churches in South Korea share them.5 Timothy S. Lee also acknowledges the predominance of evangelicalism, which is “broadly defined to include movements more specifically known as Fundamentalism and Pentecostalism” in Korean Christianity, and uses it interchangeably with Protestantism.6 Thus, although some differences exist among them, the majority of South Korean Protestant churches and their members share a conservative theological, political, and social stance. Today, South Korea boasts having twenty-three of the fifty largest churches in the world, including five in the top ten.7 The country also sends out more missionaries around the world than any other country except the United States. As of 2008, about 18,000 Korean missionaries were engaged in what are known as long-term missions (longer than a two-year period) in 151

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168 countries.8 This number does not include those who have participated in what is called short-term mission, which is aimed at providing basic medical assistance, humanitarian aid, and education to potential converts.9 These short-term missions (typically one or two weeks long) have become very popular among the Christian laity, especially young people. Many factors have contributed to the expansion of overseas missions of conservative Korean Protestant Christianity, including the slowdown of domestic church growth, travel liberalization due to the 1988 Seoul Olympics, and the state-led emphasis on globalization following the election of a civilian president in the early 1990s. Korean missionizing abroad has been legitimized through the use of specific biblical passages—including Joshua 6:1–27, Matthew 24:14 and 28:18–20, and Acts 1:8. These are cited to authorize and justify expanding mission activities abroad, such as planting churches, establishing Christian schools, and providing humanitarian aid. Adherents of conservative South Korean Protestant Christianity view overseas missions as “biblically mandated” duties. Missionaries and the churches that support them interpret these passages literally, and without much contestation, as authoritative references that command overseas missions. In this study I discuss the ways in which conservative Korean Protestants use select biblical passages to validate overseas missions and the implications of the practice. I also examine how such efforts espouse rather than resist US military imperialism, or what feminist scholar Anne McClintock calls “imperialism-without-colonies,” by reinscribing the colonial logic of “othering.”10 This interrogation is warranted because, as postcolonial biblical scholar Musa W. Dube puts it, asking “why the Bible is a usable text in imperial projects and how it should be read in the light of its role” is key to the “process of decolonization and the struggle for liberation.”11 However, it is not my intention to provide alternative interpretations of frequently invoked biblical passages that legitimate overseas missions in this chapter. Instead, I ask, how are biblical passages deployed in contemporary Korean Protestant overseas missions, and how and to what extent does the literal interpretation of those passages, wittingly or unwittingly, reinscribe the US military imperialist agenda? I also attempt to address the complex dynamics at play in “world Christianity,” which is multifold and heterogeneous as it is manifest in the global South.12 Keeping these questions in mind, I will first briefly discuss the broader context in which I bring up this issue, followed by a look at dominant mission trends and movements of conservative Korean Protestant Christianity, which has fervently engaged in overseas missions for the past two decades. Then, I will discuss some implications of the use of biblical passages by mission organizations in legitimating their mission activities abroad.

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CONNECTING THE PAST WITH THE PRESENT When Uchimura encouraged a recently colonized Korea to become a Christian nation in order to be able to defeat Japan, Japan was a rising military imperial power threatening Western empires. Although Uchimura believed that Japan could bridge the West and the East, he harshly criticized Japan’s war efforts and colonial aggression toward neighboring countries in Asia. At the same time, as an evangelical Christian, he was a strident critic of the denominationalism of Western Christianity, especially that found in the United States. His condemnation of war, pacifist stance, and opposition to Japan’s military imperialism as an evangelical Christian illustrate his eschatological yearning for a “true peace and order” that will be achieved only at “the second coming of Jesus Christ,” which he believed to be the final stage in the history of social progress.13 Uchimura and his fellow Non-Church Christians believed that “true Christians should oppose war under all circumstances, even though the power to stop war rests in the hands of God alone.”14 It was in this context of Japan’s military imperialist expansion in the Asia-Pacific region that Uchimura led the Non-Church Movement in Japan and saw the potential power of Christianity in countries like Japan and Korea. The imperial Japanese era in which Uchimura was propounding Christianity was clearly different from the current geopolitical context of US military imperialism in which contemporary conservative South Korean Protestant Christianity is aggressively engaged in overseas missions. Yet, as Setsu Shigematsu and Keith L. Camacho remind us, early-twentieth-century Japanese imperialism and early-twenty-first century US imperialism are not unrelated. In order to understand the current state of militarization, they argue, one must recognize the relationship between US and Japanese imperialisms.15 Viewing the current state of militarization across the regions of Asia and the Pacific Islands as an “extension of colonialism,” Shigematsu and Camacho deliberately use the term “currents” in the title of their anthology, Militarized Currents: Toward a Decolonized Future in Asia and the Pacific, to signal “how militarization operates across temporal and spatial boundaries, as contemporary military technologies are informed by past and projected imperialist imperatives.”16 As the authors indicate, these points are still relevant, as the United States “directs and leads multinational military alliances in the so-called war on terror,” manifested in the current US-led invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan, in which South Korea, as a US ally, also participates.17 The United States has military bases in more than 150 countries.18 Since the launch of the so-called war on terror, the United States has expanded its military bases in West Asia (aka the Middle East) to the extent that one third of US military bases abroad are now located in so-called Islamic countries, compared to “less than

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1 percent of bases located there during the Cold War.”19 It is in this context that conservative Protestant Christianity in South Korea is fervently carrying out their overseas missions and justifying them as “biblically” commanded. OVERSEAS MISSIONS IN THE GLOBAL SOUTH BY CONSERVATIVE SOUTH KOREAN PROTESTANT CHRISTIANS Korean Christianity, especially conservative Protestant Christianity, grew exponentially between the late 1960s and late 1980s. South Korean Protestant Christianity, with a few exceptions like Minjung churches and social justiceoriented Christian organizations, has strived for church growth and expansion within South Korean society. Beginning in the late 1980s, due to the factors I have mentioned previously, they started to pay attention to missions abroad. Since then, overseas missions, including the now popular short-term mission, began mushrooming. Most, if not all, Protestant churches, denomination-led and -sponsored mission organizations, independent mission organizations, and local branches of international mission organizations in South Korea have zealously promoted overseas missions and the number of missionaries exploded. In 1979, there were only 93 South Korean overseas missionaries; by the end of 2008, that number had skyrocketed to 19,413.20 According to a 2009 report by the Korea World Missions Association (KWMA), 217 South Korean mission organizations sent out 11,780 missionaries, over 57 percent of the total number of South Korean overseas missionaries. Indeed, the University Bible Fellowship (UBF) ranks number one in the number of missionaries sent abroad (1,567), and the International Cooperation Mission Agency (InterCP) is one of the top ten mission organizations in terms of the number of overseas missionaries.21 As single unmarried missionaries (more females than males) consist of 11.3 percent of the total number of missionaries abroad, KWMA foresees that the number of female and/or single missionaries will continue to increase. While the current percentages of the ordained ministers and laity are 63.4 percent and 36.6 percent, respectively, KWMA anticipates that the number of professional lay missionaries will increase as well.22 Discussing the meanings and implications of contemporary Korean Protestant Christianity’s overseas missions is complicated by the fact that the number of female missionaries is slightly higher than that of male missionaries in overseas missions. No longer being the “despicable” object of Western Christian mission, female missionaries from South Korea now participate in the “saving mission” of “other” women, especially “oppressed Muslim women,” rendering them as the objects of their mission in the global South.

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In so doing, they inadvertently participate in reinscribing the unequal global power dynamics that place one group of women under another group of women for the sake of “saving” less privileged women in the global South. Although South Korean women’s participation in mission work is not exactly the same as the white evangelical women’s project of “saving poor brown women” within the framework of the Western colonial legacy, their “saving work” has some effects, such as rendering Muslim women inferior to Christian women and without agency. At the same time, South Korean women’s increasing participation in overseas missions also begs the question of whether this actually indicates that women, who have been struggling for gender equality in Korean churches, have resorted to the overseas mission “fields” as a context where they can exercise a certain degree of leadership without direct or heavy-handed supervision of sending churches or organizations. Regardless of a growing number of female missionaries, however, women tend to remain mostly subordinate to men in the mission fields, still relegated to auxiliary roles in South Korean churches in general. This new class of postcolonial elite women from the global South may have exposed deeply rooted patriarchal church structures and practices that continue to relegate women to the margins in the leadership position and roles. Conservative South Korean Protestant Christianity does not perceive its overseas missions in relation to Western colonialism and maintains an uncritical stance as regards ongoing US military imperialism. This tendency to not associate with Western colonialism is likely due to Korea’s history with Japan rather than directly with its take on Western colonial history per se. Western Christian missionaries in general and missionaries from the United States in particular, who came to volatile Korea at the turn of the twentieth century and afterward, were not perceived as colonizers in the same way that they were in other regions colonized by the West. Rather, they were viewed as allies who could help Korea to resist Japanese occupation and later, potential communist military invasion. In particular, the benevolent image of the United States intensified along the course of the Korean War, because it was commonly perceived by Korean Christians that the United States is the nation that not only ended World War II, thereby “liberating” South Korea from Japan’s colonization, but also once again “saved” Korea from communist takeover. However, most North American missionaries were not interested in supporting Koreans’ efforts to turn over Japan’s colonization of Korea. For instance, as David Kwang-sun Suh argues, American missionaries who came to Korea intentionally inaugurated the nationwide revival meetings of 1907 that laid the foundation of Korean Protestantism in order to counteract specific nationalist uprisings against Japan’s colonial ambition. The revivals

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stressed “fundamentalist and dispensationalist avoidance of the sinful world” rather than active engagement with such a world.23 Timothy Lee also maintains that premillennialism has been a predominant eschatological belief in Korean evangelicalism since the days of two American missionaries, Horace G. Underwood and Henry G. Appenzeller, who came to Korea in 1885.24 Premillennialism is the belief in the physical return of Jesus Christ for his millennial reign based on the literal interpretation of Revelation 20, and this premillennialist belief is still widely accepted by conservative Korean Protestant Christians.25 South Korean Protestant Christianity’s premillennialist tendency has also affected its approaches to Islam, Islamic countries, the State of Israel, Zionism, and the Israel-Palestine conflict. Due to this historical background, conservative South Korean Protestant Christian churches seldom view overseas missions in relation to Western colonialism, let alone current US military imperialism. Even when they are aware of the legacy of Western colonialism with respect to Christian overseas missions in the global South, those engaged in overseas missions tend to differentiate them from Western missionaries, deeming themselves unrelated to such legacy because they are not Westerners but Koreans, who cannot possibly be “colonizers” and/or “oppressors.” Conservative Korean Protestant churches go further, maintaining that South Korea should and will assume the responsibility of evangelizing the global South from the West, because the West is no longer capable of carrying out God’s mission due to its “secularization” and “liberalization.”26 One of the distinctive characteristics of Korean overseas missions is the firm belief that Korea is not just one of God’s chosen nations but “the last redeemer nation,” which can be traced to the 1980 World Evangelization Crusade held in South Korea.27 David Lee, director of the Global Missionary Training Center in South Korea, also states, “In terms of theology and missiology, in terms of methods, we may not be unique. But it’s uniquely Koreans doing this with Korean structure, with Korean church support, with Korean zeal and Korean spirituality, which is willing to suffer and willing to shout to God with perseverance.”28 Korean overseas missions clearly carry nationalist tones and sentiments while keeping transnational connections and networking. The Mission Korea Global Network (MKGC) has expanded its network across national borders, especially targeting South Korean college students in diaspora—many of them in the United States—as potential missionaries. For instance, the Korean Diaspora Mission Network (KODIMNET), initiated in 2002, is a global network among Korean Christian communities in diaspora, which aims to recruit Korean young adults and mobilize churches to engage in mission activities. KODIMNET hopes to see that mission movements are not limited to the geographical boundary of Korea and that the entire Korean

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people would be involved in missions.29 Leo Oosterom attests to this view, stating, “National pride and a deep sense of divine calling and responsibility for the salvation of the world are inextricably intertwined in most Korean missionary thought.”30 The special role that South Korean missionaries play and the special place Korea, including Korean diaspora, occupies in the evangelization of the world are key emphases in Korean Protestant overseas missions. BIBLICAL AUTHORITY AS JUSTIFICATION FOR SOUTH KOREAN OVERSEAS MISSIONS For the majority of Korean Protestant Christians, the Bible is considered the authoritative book—the inspired, transhistorical, and error-free Word of God. Korean Christians even regard it as a most sacred object to be handled with loving care. As stated previously, the conservative tendency of South Korean Protestant Christianity can generally be traced to Western missionary Christianity, which spread in Korea at the turn of the twentieth century. Since then, the belief in the Bible’s inerrancy has been irrefutable among South Korean Protestant Christians, who literally believe, for example, in the virgin birth of Christ and Christ’s imminent return.31 The validity of overseas missions is also seldom questioned among conservative Protestant Christians, who deem missionizing a devout Christian’s core responsibility. Yet, for most Christians, this responsibility is fulfilled either through tangible support of professional missionaries who are engaged in long-term overseas missions or through participation in short-term mission. What does it mean to biblically legitimate evangelical mission activities, whether in the form of voluntary relief work or church planting, in the current geopolitical context of US military imperialism? As feminist biblical scholar Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza reminds us in her book The Power of the Word, biblical interpretation has been “articulated for the most part not only by elite Western educated clergymen but also in the interest of imperial cultural and political benefits.”32 This leads us to ask “whether a particular text of scripture espouses the power of empire, which as ‘power over’ demands submission, subordination, and subjection, or whether it exhibits creative ‘power,’ which energizes and enables one to resist daily injustice and global exploitation.”33 Thus, as Schüssler Fiorenza argues, a crucial question we need to ask for biblical interpretation is not so much what these texts mean but “what do these do to those who submit to their world of vision and power of imagination in various contexts that also determine the meaning of the text?”34 This insight prompts us to critically examine not only how certain biblical

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passages are interpreted and cited in support of overseas missions in the global South but also how and to what extent such use of biblical passages is in alliance with military imperialist projects in the regions that are religiously/ culturally rich and complex and that are ostensibly less affected by so-called Western civilization. Several biblical passages are repeatedly used to legitimate overseas missions. Matthew 28:18–20, for example, is foundational to Christian missions abroad, mandating “the Great Commission” or the worldwide spreading of the good news until the “second coming of Christ” (Matthew 24:14) marks the end of the world. Another biblical passage frequently cited as authorizing overseas missions is Acts 1:8, which states, “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth” (New Revised Standard Version). Pastors, directors of mission organizations, and missionaries themselves use these passages in sermons, Bible studies, testimonies, church fund-raising events for missions, and other mission-related programs to affirm and reaffirm overseas missions. Mission activities in unsafe regions are regarded as an indispensable part of fulfilling “the Great Commission,” and the risks following such activities are considered a task that “true disciples” of Jesus should take on. The International Cooperation Mission Agency (InterCP), founded by Paul Choi, is among those South Korean mission organizations that define their mission in terms of carrying out the Great Commission until the second coming of Christ. InterCP is known for its collaboration with Saemmul Church, whose twenty-three members the Taliban held hostage for forty-three days in Afghanistan in 2007, killing two of them.35 InterCP also organized the “Jerusalem Jesus March 2004,” a procession through Jerusalem and parts of Palestine from 7 to 12 August, 2004, for which six hundred Korean Christians visited Israel to attend, despite warnings of potential terrorist attacks. In 2006, an estimated thousand Korean Christians traveled to Kabul from South Korea to participate in a “2006 Afghan Peace Festival,” which was also organized by InterCP, but they were deported by the Afghan government.36 Most recently, in January 2009, it was reported that InterCP helped arrange a trip for a group of ministers and laypersons to Dagestan, a republic of the Russian Federation, where not only mission activities but also foreign travelers more generally are restricted.37 InterCP is also leading the Back to Jerusalem Movement, inspired by a movement by the same name that began in the early 1940s in China, in the hopes of sending missionaries back to Jerusalem along the historic Silk Road. InterCP’s Back to Jerusalem Movement argues that, while the original movement was initiated by Chinese Christians in China, it is also the task of South Korean Christians in the twenty-first century as part of the global mission

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movement. The regions targeted by Back to Jerusalem mostly overlap with the areas encompassed by the 10/40 Window, a term coined by Luis Bush in 1990 and popularized by the AD2000 and Beyond Movement that refers to those countries located between 10 degrees and 40 degrees north latitudes. Emboldened by the same biblical passages mentioned previously, missions to regions in the 10/40 Window have been viewed as urgent tasks by conservative Protestant Christians. These regions are areas that Christianity has not reached yet or in which it has left minimal impact due to geopolitical and cultural/religious factors; they are called the places where the “unreached people groups” dwell. Most of the “unreached people groups” are Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, and people with so-called indigenous religions, who are referred to as “spiritually impoverished souls.”38 These regions include sixty-two countries with about four billion people. Despite some critical voices against them, both the Back to Jerusalem and the 10/40 Window are now popular mission themes and slogans, and have gained great momentum and followers among conservative Protestant Christians in South Korea and Korean immigrant churches in the United States as well. Along with InterCP, KWMA and its branch organizations as well as Korean churches also promote missions in the regions included in the 10/40 Window. Not surprisingly, InterCP’s vision statement is based on biblical passages depicting the second coming of Jesus Christ and promoting the Great Commission: We believe that God’s vision is to accomplish His [sic] kingdom [sic] on this earth, and that is possible only through Jesus Christ’s second coming. As the young generation who is preparing the way of the Lord for the end times, we inherit the faith that the older generations guarded with their lives. We believe that this generation is the last runner in the race for Lord’s second coming. . . . We believe that preaching the gospel to all nations is the only absolute condition of Jesus Christ’s second coming [Matthew 24:14]. The gospel that started from Jerusalem will go around all the nations and will be back to Jerusalem [Romans 11:25–27]. To accomplish this vision, we will be witnesses of Jesus Christ to the ends of the earth who make all nations his disciples [Acts 1:8]. We believe that the gospel has been moving westward, as church history testifies. We also believe that the Back to Jerusalem vision, which God has revealed and continues to reveal to his [sic] faithful people, is the vision of the global church for the end times, and we will accomplish it with the Lord’s anointing. . . . We will carry our cross to accomplish the Great Commission through the BTJ vision, and we declare ourselves to be faithful to complete God’s kingdom [sic] with the eternal gospel.39

As is clearly indicated in this vision statement, anticipation for the second coming of Jesus Christ provides impetus and legitimacy for engaging in

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“westward” mission activities until the Great Commission is completed back in Jerusalem. The second coming of Jesus Christ is closely interrelated with the Great Commission, without which the former cannot be realized. This vision statement takes the second coming of Jesus Christ literally, as the end point or completion of history upon the physical return of Jesus Christ. Furthermore, these passages legitimate travel for the purpose of evangelization, more specifically the “westward” travel as authorized by Jesus, that is unrestricted in terms of special boundary (the ends of the earth) and historical time (the end times). A network called UPMA (Unreached People Mission Alliances) is another organization that grounds its vision of mission in Matthew 24:14. A branch organization of the Korean World Mission Association, UPMA includes various mission-related sub-organizations such as the Korean division of AAP (Adopt-A-People), METI (Mission Expedition Training Institute), PAMI (People and Missions Information), SIReN(Strategic Information Research Networker), and IMPAC (Institute for Mission to People and City). The purpose of UPMA is to enable the “unreached people” to start a church of their own. In order for that to happen, UPMA utilizes an adoption program, that is, each church in South Korea “adopts” a group of “unreached people” and takes responsibility to evangelize them as if churches are “adopting parents.” UPMA estimates that there are about seven thousand groups of “unreached people” across the world and insists that it is possible to evangelize all of them, provided that there are enough churches in South Korea alone that can adopt each group as if they were adopting a child.40 Framing the evangelization of the “unreached people” through the adoption metaphor—Korean churches as “parents” and the “unreached people” as “adopted children”—is disconcerting. The paternalism these mission organizations and programs demonstrate reinscribes the colonialist mindset that treated the “other” as inferior, dependent, unequal, frail, and helpless, and thereby in need of “parental” guidance, rules, restrictions, and discipline. Furthermore, that Korean mission organizations use the adoption metaphor for their evangelizing work is ironic when South Korea has been one of the top countries “exporting” native Korean-born children for adoption to Western countries since the ceasefire of the Korean War in 1953 and throughout the Cold War period. The adoption program is also promoted by the Joshua Project, which initially began within the AD2000 and Beyond Movement in 1995 and later became an official ministry of the US Center for World Mission.41 The Joshua Project is also a program of the Korea Lost of the Earth Mission Society and the International Mission Organization of the Lost Earth.42 The Joshua Project

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is a research initiative seeking to highlight the ethnic people groups of the world with the least followers of Christ. Accurate, regularly updated ethnic people group information is critical for understanding and completing the Great Commission. Jesus said in Matthew 24:14 “This gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all the nations, and then the end will come.” Jesus directly links His return to the fulfillment of the Great Commission. While no one knows the date or time of His return, we do know that this gospel of the kingdom must be preached to all the nations first.43

The Joshua Project is based on the narrative of Joshua in which inhabitants of the city of Jericho, including women and children, are slaughtered by God’s people, an action sanctioned by God because they are idolatrous “heathens.” Linking the story of Joshua and the Great Commission is an indication of how missionaries view “ethnic” people and their religious/cultural heritages: contemporary “heathens” need to be converted to Christianity (read: spiritually “slaughtered,” then led to become “born again” Christians). In order to carry out this task, the Joshua Project observes these groups of “ethnic” people and notes noticeable changes, sounding suspiciously similar to the narrative of Joshua being sent by Moses to “spy” on the land of Canaan before its conquer. Given the interrelatedness of US hegemony and global geopolitics, these mission organizations’ focus on “westward” travel, specifically toward Jerusalem and passing through the regions located between 10 and 40 northern latitudes, is alarming. Dube includes the Bible among the texts that “legitimate and authorize imperialism,” specifically through “the promotion of travel that characterizes the travelers as authoritatively above foreign lands and their inhabitants” and “the construction of foreign people and spaces in specific legitimizing forms.”44 As I have demonstrated, Korean mission organizations and sending churches have urged Christians to travel with the specific goal of evangelizing to the regions where other religious traditions have already been deeply integrated into inhabitants’ lives. By appealing to selective biblical passages, they authorize their overseas missions—missions that often devalue, debase, or even vilify other religions as inferior to Christianity and their followers as in desperate need of salvation from their oppressive religions, customs, and practices through the helping hands of “civilized” Christians. In doing so, overseas missions inadvertently, if not unequivocally, support US military imperialist projects in the regions that they consider as potentially fertile mission fields. This is taken to be a necessary step in preparing for and anticipating the world that will be governed by Jesus Christ, who will ultimately defeat evil forces. George M. Soares-Prabhu drives home this point in his reading of Matthew 28:16–20. He argues that the Great Commission can become a “call to

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an aggressively selfish mission, a form of ‘conquest,’ in which the numerical growth of the missionizing church, or the political interests of its colonial patrons, becomes more important than the welfare of the evangelized peoples. Mission then ceases to be an act of service and becomes a sinful exercise of institutional survival, expansion, or power.”45 Citing Rebecca Todd Peters, Letty Russell also views the Great Commission as creating a “global Christian empire,” noting that “these words from Matthew about going to teach, preach, and baptize in Jesus’ name echo the imperial Roman practice of expansion to ‘the ends of the earth’ and have been used by colonial empires ever since to justify colonization, domination, and forced conversion to Christianity.”46 When South Korean missionaries travel to war-torn regions like Afghanistan or other predominantly Muslim countries to “save” oppressed women and children, they, along with Christians who provide both tangible and intangible support back home, participate in building a “global Christian empire” and legitimate US military imperialist projects in the same regions, which are also implemented under the banner of “saving” and “liberating” oppressed women and children.47 Arguing for the need to interpret the Great Commission in new ways, Peters contends that the “colonial heritage of evangelization as primarily spreading Christianity through conversion is anti-thetical to the worldview of a decolonized Christianity.”48 The reconceptualization of traditional notions of mission, which is based on the call to “value and respect others in ways that allow for human connection and solidarity,” is needed.49 Mark Lewis Taylor’s suggestion can also resonate with those who wish to look at mission more critically, though he mainly addresses US evangelicals. Reflecting on the legacy of Billy Graham, Taylor suggests that US evangelicals “renounce the organized intention to convert non-Christians.” But, as he adds, this would not necessarily mean “renouncing all notions of the missio Dei, but it would be a view of mission as witness born on the other side of that renunciation.”50 It is, however, questionable whether conservative Christians from the global South would be willing to “renounce the organized intention to convert non-Christians,” when in fact they have adopted some major strategies for overseas missions from the so-called colonizing churches of the West by reinscribing the same colonizing mindset and work. Yet, if they would, under what circumstances would they be willing to renounce such intention? Ongoing critical scrutiny of overseas mission currents in the global South seems necessary and even urgent without overlooking power differences among conservative evangelical Christians in the global North and the global South, for decolonization is necessary for both groups of Christians.

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CONCLUSION When Uchimura urged colonized Korea to become a Christian nation that could rise above Japan, he was wishing for Korea to become a Christian country that actively resisted military imperialism. He likely could never have imagined that the dominant form of Christianity to be found a century later in postcolonial South Korea would not strongly oppose US military imperialism. Uchimura also would have not imagined that contemporary Korean Protestant churches and mission organizations would so believe in the second coming of Jesus Christ that they thus legitimated their “saving mission” in regions considered strategically significant to US military imperialist expansion. Oddly enough, instead of becoming the anti-militaristic, antiimperialist, peace-promoting kind of Christian country Uchimura wished for it to become, conservative Korean Protestant Christianity instead has come to occupy a “strange” place in the global South, empathizing more with the Western colonizing missions. This irony of “world Christianity” needs to be further probed. NOTES 1. Chang-Wook Kang, “The Controversy over ‘Korea-Japan Annexation’ in Japanese Christianity,” Kukmin Ilbo, March 1, 2010, http://kr.news.yahoo.com/service/news/shellview.htm?linkid=dispute&articleid=20100301195835413e5&type=d ate (accessed March 3, 2010). 2. Paul Freston, Evangelicals and Politics in Asia, Africa, and Latin America (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 61. 3. The Protestant Right refers to a subset of conservative/fundamentalist Korean Protestant Christianity. 4. Kelly H. Chong, Deliverance and Submission: Evangelical Women and the Negotiation of Patriarchy in South Korea (Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2008), 25. Politically liberal or progressive Protestant churches and organizations are still a small minority in Korean society. 5. Chong, Deliverance and Submission, 25. 6. Timothy S. Lee, Born Again: Evangelicalism in Korea (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2010), xv. 7. Timothy S. Lee, “Beleaguered Success: Korean Evangelicalism in the Last Decade of the Twentieth Century,” in Robert E. Buswell, Jr. and Timothy S. Lee, eds., Christianity in Korea (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2006), 340. 8. Jonathan Park, “Major Korean Mission Conference Ends,” The Christian Post, August 3, 2009, http://www.christianpost.com/article/20080803/major-koreanmission-conference-ends/index.html (accessed October 18, 2009). According to a new study completed in 2010, South Korea ranked sixth, falling behind Brazil and

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other countries. See Melissa Steffan, “The Surprising Countries Most Missionaries Are Sent From and Go To,” Christianity Today, July 25, 2013, http://www.christianitytoday.com/gleanings/2013/july/missionaries-countries-sent-received-csgc-gordonconwell.html (accessed July 30, 2013). 9. See Robert J. Priest and Joseph Paul Priest, “‘They See Everything and Understand Nothing’: Short-Term Mission and Service Learning,” Missiology: An International Review 36, no. 1 (January 2008): 53–73. Some missionaries say that a short-term mission can last from a few weeks to several years. 10. Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest (New York: Routledge, 1995), 13. 11. Musa W. Dube, “Reading for Decolonization (John 4.1–42),” in R. S. Sugirtharajah, ed., Voices from the Margin: Interpreting the Bible in the Third World (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2006), 303. 12. See Namsoon Kang’s critique and use of the term “World Christianity” in “Constructing Postcolonial Mission in World Christianity: Mission as Radical Affirmation to the World,” in Desmond van der Water, ed., Postcolonial Mission: Power and Partnership in World Christianity (Upland, CA: Sopher Press, 2011), 105. 13. Carlo Caldarola, “Pacifism among Japanese Non-Church Christians,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 41, no. 4 (December 1973): 506–19, esp. 517. 14. Caldarola, “Pacifism,” 517. 15. Setsu Shigematsu and Keith L. Camacho, “Militarized Currents: Decolonizing Futures,” in Setsu Shigematsu and Keith L. Camacho, eds., Militarized Currents: Toward a Decolonized Future in Asia and the Pacific (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), xvi. 16. Shigematsu and Camacho, “Militarized Currents,” xv. 17. Shigematsu and Camacho, “Militarized Curents,” xxv. 18. Maria Höhn and Seungsook Moon, “Empire at the Crossroads?,” in Maria Höhn and Seungsook Moon, eds., Over There: Living with the U.S. Military Empire from World War Two to the Present (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010), 397. 19. Kent Calder, Embattled Garrison: Comparative Base Politics and American Globalism (Princeton: Princeton University Press), 51. Quoted in Höhn and Moon’s “Empire at the Crossroads?” 401. 20. “The State of Korean Missionaries (January 2009),” Missionmagazine, January 16, 2009, http://www.missionmagazine.com/main/php/search_view.php?idx=2030 (accessed June 5, 2010). 21. “The State of Korean Missionaries.” 22. “The State of Korean Missionaries.” 23. David Kwang-sun Suh, “American Missionaries and a Hundred Years of Korean Protestantism,” International Review of Missions 74 (1985), 11. Cited in Steve Brouwer, Paul Gifford, and Susan D. Rose, Exporting the American Gospel: Global Christian Fundamentalism (New York: Routledge, 1996), 112. I also talk about the conservative tendency of Korean Christianity in my article “S(e)oul Search: The Changing Religious Landscape in Seoul and Its Implications for Defining ‘Asia,’” ASIANetwork EXCHANGE: A Journal for Asian Studies in the Liberal Arts 18, no. 1 (Fall 2010): 40–52.

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24. Lee, Born Again, 118. 25. Ernest Sandeen claims that there was active presence of premillennialists within the US overseas missionary movement of the late nineteenth century. See Ernest R. Sandeen, The Roots of Fundamentalism: British and American Millenarianism, 1800–1930 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970). 26. Lee, Born Again, 111. 27. Lee, Born Again, 105. 28. Rob Moll, “Mission Incredible,” Christianity Today 50, no. 3, March 1, 2006, 30–34, http://www.ctlibrary.com/ct/2006/march/16.28.html (accessed July 28, 2007). 29. Available at http://partners.missionkorea.org/missionkorea-network/kodimnet (accessed July 15, 2011). 30. Leo Oosterom, Contemporary Missionary Thought in the Republic of Korea: Three Case-Studies on the Missionary Thought of Presbyterian Churches in Korea (Utrecht-Leiden: Interuniversitair Instituut voor Missiologie en Cecumenica, 1990), 82. Cited in Amos Yong, “Many Tongues, Many Practices: Pentecost and Theology of Mission at 2010,” in Ogbu U. Kalu, Peter Vethanayagamony, and Edmund Kee-Fook Chia, eds., Mission after Christendom: Emergent Themes in Contemporary Mission (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 51. 31. Lee, “Beleaguered Success,” 333–34. 32. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, The Power of the Word: Scripture and the Rhetoric of Empire (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), 49. 33. Schüssler Fiorenza, The Power of the Word, 59. 34. Schüssler Fiorenza, The Power of the Word, 60. (Italics original.) 35. See Nami Kim, “A Mission to the ‘Graveyard of Empires’? Neocolonialism and Contemporary Evangelical Missions of the Global South,” Mission Studies 27, no. 1 (2010): 3–23. 36. Sarah Pulliam, “Costly Commitment,” Christianity Today 51, no. 9 (September 2007), 23. 37. Hyun-ho Nam, “Korean Christians Traveling to Dagestan,” Korean Economy, January 17, 2009, http://www.hankyung.com/news/app/newsview. php?aid=2009011754348 (accessed January 28, 2009). InterCP insisted that only twenty-two laypeople traveled to Dagestan, denying the allegation that ordained ministers were also included among them. 38. Luis Bush, “The 10/40 Window, Getting to the Core of the Core,” AD2000 & Beyond Movement, http://www.ad2000.org/1040broc.htm (accessed May 10, 2010). 39. Available at InterCP, “Vision is Not about You,” http://www.intercp.us/about/ vision (date accessed July 15, 2010). 40. Available at http://www.upma21.com/ (accessed March 10, 2012). 41. Joshua Project, “What Is Joshua Project?,” http://www.joshuaproject.net/ joshua-project.php (March 10, 2010). 42. See http://www.joshuaproject.com/ (July 12, 2012). 43. Joshuaproject. 44. Dube, “Reading for Decolonization,” 301. 45. George M. Soares-Prabhu, “Two Mission Commands: An Interpretation of Matthew 28.16–20 in the Light of a Buddhist Text,” in R. S. Sugirtharajah, ed., Voices

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from the Margin: Interpreting the Bible in the Third World (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2006), 341. 46. Rebecca Todd Peters, “Decolonizing Our Minds: Postcolonial Perspectives on the Church,” in Letty M. Russell, Aruna Gnanadason, and J. Shannon Clarkson, eds., Women’s Voices and Visions (Geneva: World Council of Churches, 2005), 93–110. Cited in Letty M. Russell, Just Hospitality: God’s Welcome in a World of Difference, eds. J. Shannon Clarkson and Kate M. Ott (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 81. 47. Kwok Pui-lan has also pointed out how some biblical stories have been interpreted to “justify mission to the Gentiles.” Kwok maintains that the Bible was “selectively cited to legitimate imperial authority through the claim that Christianity was superior to other religious traditions because of its treatment of women.” See Kwok Pui-lan, Postcolonial Imagination & Feminist Theology (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005), 65–66. 48. Peters, “Decolonizing Our Minds,” 107. 49. Peters, 107. 50. Mark Lewis Taylor, “U.S. Evangelicals: Recovering a Post-9/11 Prophetic Spirit,” in Michael G. Long, ed., The Legacy of Billy Graham: Critical Reflections on America’s Greatest Evangelist (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 213.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Brouwer, Steve, Paul Gifford, and Susan D. Rose. Exporting the American Gospel: Global Christian Fundamentalism. New York: Routledge, 1996. Bush, Luis. “The 10/40 Window, Getting to the Core of the Core.” AD2000 & Beyond Movement. http://www.ad2000.org/1040broc.htm Caldarola, Carlo. “Pacifism among Japanese Non-Church Christians.” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 41, no. 4 (December 1973): 506–519. Calder, Kent. Embattled Garrison: Comparative Base Politics and American Globalism. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008. Chong, Kelly H. Deliverance and Submission: Evangelical Women and the Negotiation of Patriarchy in South Korea. Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2008. Dube, Musa W. “Reading for Decolonization (John 4.1–42).” In Voices from the Margin: Interpreting the Bible in the Third World. Edited by R. S. Sugirtharajah, 297–318. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2006. Freston, Paul. Evangelicals and Politics in Asia, Africa, and Latin America. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Höhn, Maria and Seungsook Moon. “Empire at the Crossroads?” In Over There: Living with the U.S. Military Empire from World War Two to the Present. Edited by Maria Höhn and Seungsook Moon, 397–408. Durham: Duke University Press, 2010. Kang, Chang-Wook. “The Controversy over ‘Korea-Japan Annexation’ in Japanese Christianity.” Kukmin Ilbo. 1 March 2010. http://kr.news.yahoo.com/service/news/ shellview.htm?linkid=dispute&articleid=20100301195835413e5&type=date

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Kang, Namsoon. “Constructing Postcolonial Mission in World Christianity: Mission as Radical Affirmation to the World.” In Postcolonial Mission: Power and Partnership in World Christianity. Edited by Desmond van der Water, 105–130. Upland, CA: Sopher Press, 2011. Kim, Nami. “A Mission to the ‘Graveyard of Empires’? Neocolonialism and Contemporary Evangelical Missions of the Global South.” Mission Studies 27, no. 1 (2010): 3–23. ———. “S(e)oul Search: The Changing Religious Landscape in Seoul and Its Implications for Defining ‘Asia.’” ASIANetwork EXCHANGE: A Journal for Asian Studies in the Liberal Arts 18, no. 1 (Fall 2010): 40–52. Kwok, Pui-lan. Postcolonial Imagination & Feminist Theology. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005. Lee, Timothy S. “Beleaguered Success: Korean Evangelicalism in the Last Decade of the Twentieth Century.” In Christianity in Korea. Edited by Robert E. Buswell, Jr. and Timothy S. Lee, 330–350. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2006. ———. Born Again: Evangelicalism in Korea. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2010. McClintock, Anne. Imperial Leather: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest. New York: Routledge, 1995. Moll, Rob. “Mission Incredible.” Christianity Today 50, no. 3 (March 1, 2006): 30–34. http://www.ctlibrary.com/ct/2006/march/16.28.html Nam, Hyun-ho. “Korean Christians Traveling to Dagestan.” Korean Economy. 17 (January 2009). http://www.hankyung.com/news/app/newsview. php?aid=2009011754348 Oosterom, Leo. Contemporary Missionary Thought in the Republic of Korea: Three Case-Studies on the Missionary Thought of Presbyterian Churches in Korea. Utrecht-Leiden: Interuniversitair Instituut voor Missiologie en Cecumenica, 1990. Park, Jonathan. “Major Korean Mission Conference Ends.” The Christian Post. 3 (August 2009). http://www.christianpost.com/article/20080803/major-koreanmission-conference-ends/index.html Peters, Rebecca Todd. “Decolonizing Our Minds: Postcolonial Perspectives on the Church.” In Women’s Voices and Visions. Edited by Letty M. Russell, Aruna Gnanadason, and J. Shannon Clarkson, 93–110. Geneva: World Council of Churches, 2005. Priest, Robert J. and Joseph Paul Priest. “‘They See Everything and Understand Nothing’: Short-Term Mission and Service Learning.” Missiology: An International Review 36, no. 1 (January 2008): 53–73. Pulliam, Sarah. “Costly Commitment.” Christianity Today 51, no. 9 (September 2007). http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2007/september/3.23.html Russell, Letty M. Just Hospitality: God’s Welcome in a World of Difference. Edited by J. Shannon Clarkson and Kate M. Ott. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009. Sandeen, Ernest R. The Roots of Fundamentalism: British and American Millenarianism, 1800–1930. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth. The Power of the Word: Scripture and the Rhetoric of Empire. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007.

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Shigematsu, Setsu and Keith L. Camacho. “Militarized Currents: Decolonizing Futures.” In Militarized Currents: Toward a Decolonized Future in Asia and the Pacific. Edited by Setsu Shigematsu and Keith L. Camacho, xv–xlviii. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010. Soares-Prabhu, George M. “Two Mission Commands: An Interpretation of Matthew 28.16–20 in the Light of a Buddhist Text.” In Voices from the Margin: Interpreting the Bible in the Third World. Edited by R. S. Sugirtharajah, 331–346. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2006. “The State of Korean Missionaries (January 2009).” Missionmagazine (January 16, 2009). http://www.missionmagazine.com/main/php/search_view.php?idx=2030 Steffan, Melissa. “The Surprising Countries Most Missionaries Are Sent From and Go To.” Christianity Today (July 25, 2013). http://www.christianitytoday.com/ gleanings/2013/july/missionaries-countries-sent-received-csgc-gordon-conwell. html. Suh, David Kwang-sun. “American Missionaries and a Hundred Years of Korean Protestantism.” International Review of Missions 74 (1985): 5–18. Taylor, Mark Lewis. “U.S. Evangelicals: Recovering a Post-9/11 Prophetic Spirit.” In The Legacy of Billy Graham: Critical Reflections on America’s Greatest Evangelist. Edited by Michael G. Long, 197–218. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008. “Vision is Not about You.” InterCP. http://www.intercp.us/about/vision “What Is Joshua Project?” Joshua Project. http://www.joshuaproject.net/joshuaproject.php Yong, Amos. “Many Tongues, Many Practices: Pentecost and Theology of Mission at 2010.” In Mission after Christendom: Emergent Themes in Contemporary Mission. Edited by Ogbu U. Kalu, Peter Vethanayagamony, and Edmund Kee-Fook Chia, 43–58. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010.

Chapter 9

The Jesuit Missionary Enterprise Christianity, Slave Trade, and Gun Powder Enter Japan Hisako Kinukawa Francis Xavier (1506–1552), a Jesuit, came to Japan with the first Bible in his hand in August of 1549. He arrived at Kagoshima, the most southern part of Japan, accompanied by a Japanese man, Yajiro Paul, whom he had met at Goa, India. Xavier was 43 years old.1 The order of the Society of Jesus had set up base in Portugal. They wanted to strengthen the Catholic Church as an institution, since the Protestant Church had begun to expand and gain more believers. For the next one hundred years, about 760,000 Japanese were baptized by Jesuit missionaries. Then, in the middle of the 17th century, Christianity was totally expelled from Japan, including all missionaries; only the hidden Japanese Christians remained. A historian has named this particular period as the “Christian Century.”2 In Japan, over the course of this time, local warlords fought against each other, trying to expand their territories. Thus, Japan’s first contact with the Western world took place during this period of the warring states. The power of the feudal lords of these states was extremely strong in their territories, which were, therefore, firmly structured as a hierarchical system. In this study I would like to examine how the Bible journeyed through this period of the “Christian Century,” variously meeting feudalism and militarism, befriending materialism and initiating admiration of the Western world, taking advantage of colonialism and coexisting with slave trade practices. My main interest in so doing is to examine how slave trading could possibly be conducted alongside mission work and how the women and children who were taken away in slavery were treated.

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THE BIBLE MEETS FEUDALISM Francis Xavier traveled a lot, leaving 137 letters behind. He wrote letters to colleagues in India and Portugal.3 He left Japan after a few years with the intention of heading toward China as his final destination. In his letter No. 96, written on January 29, 1552, on his way to China and addressed to his Jesuit colleagues in Europe, he reflectively writes on how he and his companions practiced their mission work and biblical interpretation in Japan. He explains his struggle with acquiring a new language, learning about a multireligious society, and encountering cultural differences. In it he emphasizes two things: (1) the importance for the Japanese to know that there is one Creator of all things, about whom they had no knowledge; and (2) the belief that, if the Japanese failed to become Christians, it would be through fear of the lord of the land, not because they failed to perceive that the law of God was true and their laws were false.4 It is very interesting to see him point out why the number of believers did not increase as he wished in spite of his feverish efforts. He may be quite right to say that people were more afraid to be disobedient to their feudal lords than to be faithful to their own minds. The letter reflects the political and social situation of the time, when people had to yield their life to the will of the ruling power. In contrast, once a feudal lord converted to the Christian faith, all of his subjects became Christians regardless of their conviction.5 In his letter No. 90, addressed to his companions in Goa and dated November 5, 1549, Xavier talks highly about the Japanese as a race: First of all, the people with whom we have thus far conversed are the best that have as yet been discovered; and it seems to me that no other pagan race will be found that will surpass the Japanese. They have, as a race, very fine manners; and they are on the whole good and not malicious. They have a marvelous sense of honor and esteem it more than anything else. As a race they are generally poor, but the poverty that is found among the nobles and those who are not is not deemed to be a matter of reproach.6

He seems to see no hurdle in pursuing mission work, except for learning the Japanese language. He writes, “This island of Japan is well disposed for there being a great increase of our holy faith on it; and, if we knew how to speak the language, I have no doubt in believing that many would become Christian.”7 Indeed, in letter No. 91, addressed to three colleagues of his (Father Gaspar Barzaeus, Father Baltazar Gago, Brother Domingos Carvalho), he summons them to come to Japan for their mission work. He tries to instill excitement in them for their future field of work. In fact, these three priests would form the second group of missionaries to Japan. By then, Xavier had made up his mind to choose China as his next destination.8

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In letter No. 93, addressed to Father Antonio Gomes in Goa, Xavier talked about the possibility of opening a trading center in Sakai, a rich city with a port, giving concrete instructions on how to proceed with the plan. He asked his colleagues to come with some presents along with a letter for the “king” of Japan from the governor. Knowing that there were many Japanese merchants with much silver and gold, he urged them to ask for a trading ship to take them, assuring them that the owner of the ship would stand much to gain by doing so. He coached them on how to use the monsoon season to make the trip smooth and fast. At the end, he gave a list of commodities to bring with them and added, “The ship should not carry much pepper . . . for if it brings little, it will sell very well in Japan, and much money will be gained if it sails to the harbor of Sakai.”9 It was not possible for the Catholic Church or the Jesuit Order to raise funds and ship their missionaries abroad independently. Mission work was a part of national endeavors under Padriad (the protected right of mission work). Thus, Xavier, under the integrated system of Church and State and with the aid offered by the Bishop in Goa, had to make use of the trading relations between the two countries of Portugal and Japan. The second team of missionaries was dispatched on a trading ship.10 Propagation of the good news could only be promoted by means of a tight relationship with the trading policies of the nation. In another part of letter No. 93, Xavier writes, “From my experience in India, I am not very confident that they would send a ship with priests solely out of a love for God and without any other considerations.”11 Mission work was inseparably linked with the economic system that benefitted the shipping business and ultimately the nation. Maybe that is why Xavier was well acquainted with the trading business. He even showed his talent in this regard by specifying how much pepper to bring in order to obtain the maximum benefit. He was very tactful in drawing the attention of the people interested in foreign trade by writing about how thriving and promising the port of Sakai was. Thus, the propagation of the good news had to co-exist with materialism.12 THE BIBLE TAKES ADVANTAGE OF COLONIALISM In other words, mission work was the product of “the age of great sailing,” in which both Portugal and Spain made colonial advances. Portugal took its direction eastward, arriving in Asia, while Spain went westward, arriving in South America.13 According to Koichiro Takase, “Portugal and Spain promoted secular enterprises of sailing, conquering, colonizing, and trading while the Catholic Church aimed at the conversion of the people to faith. The two enterprises of religion and state which have an entirely different nature and purpose were promoted by the state. In addition they were justified by the spiritual authority of the Pope of Rome.”14

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THE BIBLE ACCEPTED ALONG WITH MILITARISM The most distinctive feature of Portugal’s (Nanban) trade was the fact that the local warlords competed with each other in buying powerful guns, which were essential for expanding their territories. The match-locks, which were aboard the Portuguese ship that had arrived at a beach in Tanegashima, spread all over Japan in a flash and completely changed the style of war, because they were easy to ignite and to fire rapidly. In the beginning, every feudal/war lord had doubted the efficacy of this new weapon, but, as soon as they saw its effectiveness in war, they rushed to buy as many as possible. Soon, they made every effort toward mass production in Japan. Since the iron for guns was produced in Japan, they succeeded in making match-locks guns by following the models imported from abroad. However, gun powder (phosphorus saltpeter) had to be imported, since Japan had never produced it. Thus, in effect, the ships that brought missionaries also carried gun powder for trading. It is so ironic to see the Bible necessary for the promulgation of the good news and the gun powder essential for warfare come into our country together. Trading in general was broad. Silk and its products were imported from China. Silver and gold were exported. Pumpkins, watermelons, corn, potatoes, tobacco, terrestrial globes, world maps, and glasses were all brought in by Europeans. THE BIBLE TAKES ADVANTAGE OF JAPANESE ADMIRATION OF WESTERN CULTURE The Jesuit order also participated in trading, which brought a huge income; indeed, most of the budget spent for mission work in Japan was provided by trading. Takase writes, “Though Jesuit traders dealt with a wide range of subjects, the main subject was raw silk bought at the trading base in Macao. The Jesuits traders participated in Portuguese merchants’ business to import raw silk produced in China to Macao. . . . As time went on, they added various fabrics of silk and cotton, gold, lead, mercury, pottery, ambergris, musk, etc., to their imports.”15 Trading was very important in enabling the Jesuits to support themselves, since they had come up against a funding dilemma: the budget sent from the main office of the Jesuit order in Portugal could not support in full the mission work in Japan. There was a reason for Jesuit missionaries to make their first overtures to the ruling class of Japan. This was the shortcut needed to get permission to unfold their mission work as well as to help trading flourish. Influenced by the words and behavior of the missionaries, quite a few local warlords converted

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and gave protection to the missionaries and their work in their territories. Behind the conversion of the warlords in such a short span of time, one can see their admiration for and interest in seeing the world outside Japan. At the same time, one cannot ignore the high interest of Portugal in colonizing the new places visited by the missionaries. Japan could not be an exception. THE BIBLE STRENGTHENS CLASSISM It is plausible to say that the missionaries took the best chance for promoting their work by playing an important role in the trading business between the two countries. Soho Tokutomi writes: When the first missionaries arrived in Nagasaki, there were only 500 families residing there. As time went on, more trading ships came in and more business thrived. While European ships were moored for four months from March to June while waiting for good seasonal wind, more Japanese people in commerce and industry visited and stayed there. In 1590, there were more than 5000 residents without counting short-stay people.16

Many people came to live there for a variety of purposes and reasons. Among them were poor Christians who had no other means to support themselves than by lodging the people who came on business. Their income was very limited, for the ships stayed in the harbor only four months. For the rest of the year, they had to depend on vegetables they grew in the fields and plants they found in the mountains.17 This flourishing trade resulted in an incredible discrepancy between haves and have-nots in the feudal system of the hierarchically constructed society of Japan. Destitute people must have put their hope in the good news and followed the teachings given by missionaries. THE BIBLE COEXISTS WITH SLAVE TRADING A record of a slave sale involving a Japanese was recently found in Argentina. It mentions an incident that happened at almost the same time as the period that draws my interest in this study. It reports that a Japanese young man was sold as a slave by a slave trader to a priest named Poles for 800 pesos on July 6, 1596. The record reads: “He is Francisco Hapon (21 years old), booty (POW), slave without collateral and poll tax.”18 This discovery is exciting enough to stir my interest in knowing how this young man was taken so far away to Argentina, the opposite side of Japan on the globe, to be sold as a slave. I wonder if Portuguese traders were involved in this trade, and, if so,

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if Portuguese missionaries were so involved as well. Some have pointed out, in Records on Ancient Orient published by Nova Koa in India, that there are still more important documents that have never been translated into Japanese. In this regard, it is shocking to know that there were more Japanese slaves in Goa than Portuguese.19 I am particularly interested in seeing if women and children were also sold as slaves and, if so, how they were treated after having been sold as commodities. For this purpose, it is necessary to trace the historical record left on both sides, Portugal and Japan. I shall look at the History of Japan, written by Lois Frois,20 and Records of Tensho Delegates Sent to Europe, written by Alessandro Valignano, the Visitor to the East Indies, and later edited by Duarte de Sande—both major resources written by their Portuguese in their language.21 In their volume Slavery System in Modern World, Kozo Ikemoto, Masahiro Furukawa and Akira Shimoyama write: In Portugal in the middle of the 16th century, an enormous number of slaves were employed in various corners of life. More of them were found in ports and cities along the Atlantic seashores and in the agricultural belt in the south of Portugal. According to a resource, the slave population amounted to 3% (35,000) of the total population. . . . It is said that almost all the Portuguese of every class as well as every business owned slaves. Among them, domestic slaves dominated. They took care of their lords and their families. Others worked on farms. Some worked at sculleries of the orders or did menial work at charity institutions.22

It may thus be plausibly said that slaves were to be found in many realms of people’s lives in Portugal. Slaves must have been considered indispensable to their daily lives. The Portuguese used to get slaves in Africa in exchange for European products, following negotiations with district rulers or kings. They built trading offices in places where they accommodated the captured slaves. “By the beginning of the 16th century,” write Ikemoto, Furukawa, and Shimoyama, “slave trading became equally matched with gold trading in the income of the Portugal Royal Household.”23 The nation was financially sustained by slave trading. It is plausible to say that black slavery had firmly taken root in Europe by the middle of the 16th century, led by Portugal and Spain.24 Among the slaves, there were naturally women and children included, but one cannot read in any record the suffering and pain they must have experienced. Portuguese Resource I turn first to Records of Young Boy Delegates to Europe, a travel book. Alessandro Valignano, the Visitor to the East Indies,25 proposed to have the Japanese

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travel abroad and experience the great European Catholic world. Four young Japanese boys (13 to 15 years old), representing Christian Daimyos (feudal lords), were chosen and sailed off from Nagasaki for a long journey in the winter of 1582. It was more than eight years later when they eventually came back home in the summer of 1590.26 Valignano had in mind for the four boys not only to deepen their Christian faith also but to see with their own eyes the dignity of kings and their senior retainers, the flourishing cities, and the honor and authority that the Christian church could enjoy in the grace and blessings of God. The book takes the form of recorded dialogues held among the four boys on their journey, but the real author was Valignano himself. His writing was later edited by Duarte de Sande. Consequently, it should be clear that this book does not reflect actual experiences on the part of the four Japanese boys. However, interestingly enough, one can get glimpses of the time in question and what Valignano and de Sande wanted the boys to see in their homeland. Occasionally, they let the boys talk about slavery in Europe.27 Such comments represent a significant resource for us, insofar as they allow us to know what the world of the time thought about slavery. A sample of their conversation proceeds as follows: Migel: At various places of our current journey, with our own eyes we saw Japanese who were sold in a lot to be slaves. We were furious about our own people who sent away their family members, relatives, or friends at such low prices. They seemed to throw away their moral sense and dealt with their people as if they were not human, as if they were not Japanese and as if they did not speak the same language. Martino: Certainly. Getting to know so many Japanese men and women including boys and girls who had been snatched away, sold out to foreigners, scattered to many different places in the world, and subjugated to do the work of slaves, how could we bear seeing their miserable situations. It might be a bit bearable if they were sold to only Portuguese, because Portuguese people are benevolent as well as kind to our people. They instruct them on Christian faith. In contrast, it becomes unbearable to see our people scattered to wild places where inferior ethnics with pagan religions live. It is worse to see them enduring the miserable life of slaves among savage people with skins of black color. They might even be inspired with false delusion. It is so pitiful even to think of the fact that they are our own people.28 From the conversation, it is obvious that slave trading had already become by then popular in the world, a situation assumed by the two boys. The high evaluation regarding the attitude of the Portuguese in this regard clearly indicates that the volume was written by the Portuguese.

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Japanese Resource There had been Imperial edicts29 and laws issued by Toyotomi Hideyoshi, Kanmpaku or chief advisor to the emperor, the Shogunate, to prohibit slave trading, but such measures had no effect on the practice. It is generally accepted that slave trading was introduced in Japan in the 1540s, soon after the first Portuguese ship had made land in Kagoshima. By the end of the 16th century, the Japanese were being sent as slaves not only to Portugal but also to Argentina. Since the 1560s two routes were used for slave trading: one was the existing route between the Yellow Sea and the Indian Sea; the other, a new route that had opened in the Pacific Ocean between Manila in the Philippines and Acapulco in Mexico.30 I examine now one of the resources written in Japanese. Hideyoshi had an official writer, Yuko Omura, author of Kyushu Godoza Ki (1587). He writes as follows: Recently more Portuguese merchants came with full loads of treasure and materials with a stratagem of enjoying good business. The stratagem for them was that when they went around the ports of Goto, Hirato, Nagasaki, etc., they first made contact with the Lords of the districts and drew them to the Christian faith. . . . Not only that, they bought hundreds of Japanese, men and women, put their hands and feet in iron chains, drove them into the bottom of their ships, and gave them hellish hardship. . . . By following the example of the Portuguese merchants, the Japanese began selling their children, parents and wives. Watching what was going on, Hideyoshi, the Shogunate, became worried about his people who were being influenced by the Christian faith as long as he allowed missionaries to keep doing their work. Then he began thinking of expelling the missionaries from the country. (Italics mine)31

The misery that accompanied the Japanese slave trading is revealed in this writing. One can also imagine that there were destitute people who had no means to make a living without selling their family. Those with power lined their own pockets at the expense of the civilians. It should be said, therefore, that it was not the Christian faith but rather poverty that caused slave trading to flourish in the ports of Kyushu. Portuguese Resource Let us look at another resource in Portuguese. This is the History of Christian Religion in Japan by Leon Pages, to which access is possible only through quotations made by a Japanese author, Soho Tokutomi, who discovered the book in a library of the Academy of History in Madrid. It reads,

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not only Portuguese merchants but also sailors and even cooks purchased Japanese and took them away. However, most of the slaves died before they arrived anywhere because they were excessively packed in a small space under terrible conditions. If the owner—in some cases black slaves were their owners—got sick, they quit paying attention to their property. The slaves did not get fed. Sailors sexually harassed the Japanese young women and did not feel ashamed of their obnoxious behaviors. Sometimes they took girls into their private rooms on the way to Macao. By giving birth to illegitimate babies, the Portuguese astonished the Portuguese Christians by their licentious behaviors. I cannot talk about the incident without reserve.32

Japanese Resources There are two more historical resources written in Japanese concerning the slave trade. One is a law consisting of 11 Articles (June 18, 1587) issued by Hideyoshi. The other is the Command (Sadame) issued on June 19, 1587 by Hideyoshi. The law I am only able to locate, at present, in Goshuin Shishiki Kokaku, which is kept in the Jingu Library. From the first to the ninth article, the contents may be roughly summarized as follows: It is up to an individual to convert to the Christian faith. The Daimyo or Warriors (his military commanders) must not force their subjects to convert. Daimyos who own more than a certain amount of land must make a report to the government. There are many religions in Japan, so anyone is allowed to convert to Christianity. Article 11 claims that it is prohibited to slaughter and eat cows and horses. For my purposes, my focus on slavery, Article 10 is important, which prohibits the selling of Japanese to Portuguese. It reads, “It is wrong to sell Japanese to Min (China), Namban (Portugal), and Kourai (Korea). In addition it is also prohibited to sell people domestically.” The reason for the issue of the 11 articles might be found in the impeachment of the Christian Daimyo, Ukon Takayama. He broke down Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples in his territories of Takatsuki and Akashi as well as forced his subjects to convert to Christianity. It may be more plausible to take these articles not as prohibiting slave trading by the Portuguese but rather as keeping feudal lords (Daimyos) from getting involved in slave trading. The Command may be found in the “Matsuura Document.” This Lois Frois recorded in detail in his History of Japan. It has been generally thought that this Command was addressed to the missionaries. The Articles roughly read as follows: 1. Japan is a country of many gods. It is not good to import the Christian faith from Christian countries.

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2. Missionaries promulgated the good news and broke down Shinto Shrines and Buddhist Temples. This is outrageous and should be punished.33 3. Missionaries should leave Japan in twenty days and go back to their own country.34 4. It is permitted for trading ships to come for business. 5. Hereafter it will be permissible for them to come to Japan if they do not interfere with the teaching of our religions.35 The most important element in the Command is found in the insistence that Japan is a country of many gods, a position that is contradictory to the teaching of one god by the missionaries, and that the people of Japan and its land are under the reign of Hideyoshi. It prohibited Christian Daimyos from contributing a portion of land to the church or selling people to foreign merchants. In the past, Hideyoshi had accepted individual conversions and prohibited forced ones by Daimyos. Now, however, he changed his policy by adopting strong measures prohibiting any mission work. Hideyoski decided to get rid of the Christian faith in order to keep Japan as a country under the gods of Shintoism and Buddhism. Thus, he conquered the whole country by putting all of his subjects under his control. His ambition for centralization of power made him think of missionaries and their work as both dangerous as well as disturbing.36 Although Hideyoshi tried to make the most of Portuguese trading and Christian Daimyos, at some point he became suspicious that they were actually being manipulated by the Portuguese missionaries. It seems, therefore, that his fear and suspicion made him issue the Command against the missionaries. Portuguese Resource I look now at another incident recorded in Portuguese by Luis Frois, who was quite fluent in Japanese. He recorded three messages sent by Hideyoshi to the Portuguese missionaries. The first and second messages can be summarized as follows. First, if missionaries cannot stay in their residence or church to teach their faith, as Buddhist priests did, they should go back to Macao. Second, missionaries should not eat horsemeat and beef; they should eat, rather, the meat of deer, wild boar, foxes, pheasants, and monkeys. The third command, which draws more attention, reads: I know that Portuguese, Chinese and Cambodians who came to Japan have trafficked many Japanese, deprived them of their home country, parents, children, and their friends, and taken them to different countries as slaves. This is an unbearable incident to have happened. I order you, missionaries to bring back to Japan all those who were taken away to India and other remote places to be sold. If it is impossible for you to bring them back because they are too far away, you

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should release those whom Portuguese merchants are currently buying. I will reimburse the money they spent.37

Gaspar Coelho, the Jesuit Vice-Provincial, formulated the response on behalf of the missionaries and sent it by messenger to Hideyoshi. According to Frois, the response to the selling and buying of slaves read as follows: Concerning the third question on selling and buying Japanese, I had already written in my memorandum that was prepared to be sent to you. The prohibition of slave trading is one of the most important issues that I raised in it. I would like you to prohibit slave trading or expect severe punishment. It has been surely deplorable to see human trafficking in Japan, where honor is the most respected value. People only lose their prestige by keeping the practice domestically or internationally. However, as I see it, this abusive practice of human trafficking and slave trading has been done only in the Kyushu area, not everywhere in Japan. We Jesuits can never tell enough how much effort we made for abolishing such harmful customs of human trafficking and slave trading. Here I must say it is most important for the warlords whose ports harbor foreign trading vessels to strictly prohibit such practices.38

The missionaries acknowledged that human trafficking and slave trading did take place in front of their eyes. They claimed, however, that the problem lay not with them but rather with the Japanese warlords. They challenged Hideyoshi and the warlords to deal with the issue. The missionaries defended themselves by saying that they could never accept these practices. They seemed to separate their mission work from the trading business, although the two were part and parcel of the same enterprise. One can surmise that there were upper-class, rich Japanese who craved the commodities brought by these ships. They would have victimized their lower-class, poor subjects for the purpose of obtaining whatever it was that they desired to possess. The slave market would have helped them to satisfy their greed. One can also entertain the possibility that missionaries connived in slave trading, even though they characterized it as a great hindrance to their mission work. Until the Command was issued, both the Jesuit order and the Japanese government had a common understanding that the mission work of the Jesuits and trading by the Portuguese were intertwined, not separate, activities. This sense of oneness is readily conveyed by the fact that Jesuits played an important intermediary role as translators, communicators, and presenters, despite the fact that Coelho’s message implied that it was possible to separate slave trading from mission work. There he affirmed, “If your Majesty wishes, you may command the feudal lords of the ports to prohibit human trafficking and to punish violators severely: slave trading can be quit very easily.”39 As time went by, trading expanded and mission work diminished. This development was not at all expected by the Jesuits: they never expected to be

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expelled from Japan for their mission work. On the other hand, it was welcomed by Hideyoshi: he never wanted to quit trading. Hideyoshi put Portuguese trading under his control and kept it going until Japan went into full national seclusion in 1639. At the same time, he issued the Command for the expulsion of the Jesuits. It is not quite certain whether the Command brought about the end of slave trading or not. Such a prohibition might have been reversed as the religious pressure diminished. As for the Jesuits, they never imagined that their expulsion from Japan would last for the next three hundred years. Japan thus effectively stemmed the tide of Portuguese colonial aggression. After the middle of the 16th century, in all regions of the world where the Portuguese had advanced, Japanese slaves were also to be found. According to Maki Hidemasa, “In Japan in her old days, there was a custom for a boy belonging to his father and for a girl belonging to her mother. The custom was held regardless of their origin; ordinary or slave. This was traced in the old family registration records.”40 A newborn child, whether ordinary or slave, belonged to either its father or its mother, depending on the sex of the child. The difference in social standing was totally ignored. That means that the difference was not tied to discrimination. Slaves used to be called “Fudai no Genin,” “Fudai Souden no Mono,” “Genin,” “Shoju,” or “Nu.” They designated those who were laborers on farms or domestic workers. Domestically, they were customarily subject to selling and buying. Therefore, it might have been natural for the Portuguese to think that there were slaves in Japan. In 1598 Bishop Celceila held a meeting to discuss slave trading with Japan, leaving detailed minutes of the discussion. They carefully considered the legitimacy of selling Japanese as slaves:41 In Japan people were sold and bought. It has been a social convention and it gave birth to the slave class. The story was identical with the concept on slaves owned by Europeans. However there was a distinctive difference between the two. For Europeans, buying and selling meant the transfer of ownership based on their legal sense. For the Japanese it did not mean the same. Transfer of a person for a certain period of time or controlling power over a person was also categorized as a selling and buying business. In Japan, being sold did not necessarily bring a person a change of his/her social status. Quite often it meant going into an apprenticeship rather than enslavement.42

It was necessary for Hideyoshi to prohibit the domestic selling and buying business for the sake of establishing despotic control over Japan. Through wars between warlords people were dispersed. Hideyoshi needed them to go back to their villages for farming. Then, he restricted farmers to stay on the same farms. This was a part of his ruling policy to establish fixed class strata. The prohibition of buying and selling persons was executed for the same purpose of putting everyone under his control.43

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Hideyoshi suggested more than once that he would be willing to become a Christian if he would be allowed to have more than one woman around him.44 It seemed that he could not think of life without concubines. It was common for rich people in Japan to have concubines. In such a society, one can easily imagine the presence of prostitution. It was not exceptional for lower-class families suffering economic hardship to send their daughters to the rich as concubines or to offer them as professional sexual objects. During a time of famine, such was a common way for the people to stave off hunger. CONCLUSION It is inconceivable that, when slave trading was introduced into Japan, women and children would not also have been the targets of this trade. Famine, floods, earthquakes, fires, and so forth rendered people’s lives very hard. As far as I was able to ascertain in the historical sources, hardly any document refers to the treatment of women and children. Their experiences and pain might not have been recorded. They might also still lie buried, waiting for someone to discover them. The Jesuits, who had more contact with the ruling class of the regions, might not have heard about the suffering of the oppressed in the hierarchical and patriarchal/kyriarchal society. What the young boys refer to in Tensho Ken-ou Shisetsuki with regard to women and children might only reflect the actual situation in Portugal and other European countries of the time. Even so, one can expect almost the same to have taken place in the case of the Japanese women taken away from their country. Another reference in Kyushu Godoza Ki to women may reflect more of such experiences. An extensive search of the historical resources revealed few documents that particularly referred to the situation women and children experienced. Nevertheless, one can say that they witnessed in unison that there was a flourishing slave trade alongside mission work. How the Jesuits reconciled bringing both the Gospel and slave trading to Japan is not clearly spelled out. Perhaps further research could shed light on this mystery. Similarly, what one has read in the historical resources may not reflect exactly what actually happened to women and children slaves, yet neither can one say that such atrocities did not happen to them. This is only the beginning of my research in seeking the voices of silenced women. NOTES 1. In 1541 the first Portuguese ship landed on the shores of Japan. Then, in 1543 a Portuguese merchant arrived aboard a Chinese ship at Tanegashima, a southern island

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of Japan, bringing two guns with him. Trading between Japan and Portugal was thus already taking place before the arrival of Xavier in 1549. Trading ships had already sailed to Korea, China, India, and so forth. 2. C. R. Boxer, The Christian Century in Japan, 1549–1660 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1951). Cited in Haruko Nawata Ward, Women Religious Leaders in Japan’s Christian Century, 1549–1650, Women and Gender in the Early Modern World (Farnham, Surrey (UK)-Burlington, VT: Ashland Publishing Company, 2009), 1. 3. M. Joseph Costelloe, S.J., trans., The Letters and Instructions of Francis Xavier, with Introduction, Jesuit Primary Sources in English Translation 10 (St. Louis, MO: The Institute of Jesuit Sources, 1992). 4. Letter No. 96, written on January 29, 1552 and addressed to Jesuit colleagues in Europe from Cochin. G. Schurhammer and J. Wicki, eds., Letters Written by Saint Francisco Xavier, trans. Kawano, Suminori (Tokyo: Heibon-Sha, 1985), 530. (Electronically downloaded.) 5. See the following paper for detailed information on Xavier’s intention of missionary work: 岸野久、「フランシスコ･ザビエルの東アジア布教構想」、『東 京大学史料編纂所研究紀要』、第11号、2001．3,188–194. (Hisashi Kishino, “San Francisco Xavier’s Plan for Missionary Work in East Asia,” Bulletin of Historiographical Institute, The University of Tokyo, No. 11 (2001.3): 188–194. 6. Costelloe, The Letters, 297. 7. Costelloe, The Letters, 300. 8. 岸野久、「ザビエルによる第二次宣教団来日命令（1549）の展開と意 義――日本布教構想との関連」 『キリスト教史学』　64, 2010.7,　キリ スト教史学会、63–65. (Hisashi Kishino, “Francisco Xavier’s 1549 Order for the Dispatch of a Second Japanese Apostolate,” The Journal of History of Christianity 64 (2010): 63–85. 9. Costelloe, The Letters, 317–318: (1) . . . intervene with the governor so that he sends some articles and presents along with a letter for the “king” of Japan; (2) if he (the king of Japan) is converted to our holy faith, . . . he erects a trading center in Sakai; (3) Sakai is a very large port and city where there are very many wealthy merchants and much silver and gold; (4) the king of Portugal will secure much temporal gain from the trade, (5) ask a trading ship to take priests on it. The one who brings the priests on his ship will gain much silver and gold if he brings with him the goods indicated on this list . . . (6) Be very circumspect with regard to the permission which the governor gives to the one who is to bring the priests. It should only be given on the condition that he does not stop in China in order to trade there, since much time would be lost in reaching Japan. If the ship does not leave China for Japan before August, it will not have a monsoon from there for another year. The captain of the ship must therefore make a specific promise to the lord governor that he will not trade in China on his way. (7) The ship should not carry much pepper, up to eighty bahars at the most; for if it brings little, it will sell very well in Japan, and much money will be gained if it sails to the harbor of Sakai. See also Kishino, “San Francisco Xavier’s 1549 Order,” 81–85. 10. Kishino, “Francisco Xavier’s 1549 Order,” 72. 高瀬弘一郎 『キリシタン時代の文化と諸相』八木書店、2001, 4–5. (Koichiro Takase,

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Culture and Various Features of the “Kirisitan” Centuries [Tokyo: Yagi Books, 2001], 4–5). 11. Costelloe, The Letters, 317. 12. It was 1543 when a Portuguese ship arrived at Tanegashima, a southern island of Kyushu, Japan. One year earlier, the Portuguese had arrived at Ryukyu (currently called Okinawa), but because the Ryukyu people knew that the Portuguese had attacked Malacca and occupied it, they rejected trading with them. On the other hand, the Japanese welcomed the trade. Therefore, more Portuguese ships visited Japan. Since 1557, when the Portuguese gained the right of using the port of Macao, trading among Japan, China, and Portugal flourished through Macao. Shogunates Nobunaga Oda and Hideyoshi Toyotomi basically promoted the Nanban (Japanese designation for Portuguese and Spaniards) trading even after the ban of Christianity. The Spanish began visiting Japan from Manila on the island of Luzon, after having developed a Pacific route via the American continent. As Daimyos (Feudal/war lords) in the west of Japan gained more power through Nanban trading, the Edo government limited trading by opening only the two ports of Hirato and Nagasaki. In 1624, Spanish ships were banned, and in 1639 Portuguese ships were also banned completely. Before the seclusion policy was implemented, the Japanese had expanded remarkably overseas, with many Japanese towns founded throughout Southeast Asia. Once the national isolation policy was completed, it lasted for the next three hundred years. After closing the country, national policy focused exclusively on domestic affairs, and a domestically self-supported economy was formed. 13. Takase, Culture and Various Features, 4–5. 14. Takase, Culture and Various Features, 5. 15. Takase, Culture and Various Features, 8–10. 16. 徳富蘇峰『近世日本国民史:豊臣秀吉(二)』講談社、1981, 307. (Soho Tokutomi, Modern History of Japanese People: Hideyoshi Toyotomi (2) [Tokyo: Kodan-Sha, 1981], 307). 17. 松田毅一、川崎桃太訳『完訳フロイス日本史４』、中公文庫、2000, 2008. (Kiichi Matsuda and Momota Kawasaki, transl., Complete Translation of the History of Japan by Frois (Tokyo: Chuko-Bunko, 2000, 2008). 18. アルゼンチン日本人移民史』第一巻戦前編、在亜日系団体連合、 2002, 18. （ニッケイ新聞、2009．４．９．に引用）。(Argentine History of Japanese Migrants, Vol. 1. [Union of Japanese Argentina, 2002], 12.) Cited in Japanese Argentina Newspaper, September 4, 2008, さらに、『日本移民発祥の 地コルドバ』（副題「アルゼンチン・コルドバ州日本人百十年史」、大城 徹三、1997、以下『コルドバ』と略. In addition, according to Tetsuzo Oshiro (Córdoba, the Birth Place of Japanese Migrants: 100 years of Japanese History in Argentine [1997]), the Japanese young man filed a suit on April 3, 1957, claiming, “There is no reason for me to be sold as a slave. I demand my freedom.” Two years later, he won the suit and regained his freedom. The court ordered the slave merchant to return the 800 pesos to the priest who had given asylum to the young man. Oshiro refers to the young man as extremely healthy and talented. In comparison to other slaves, his price was as much as four times as high (16). It must have been quite unusual for a slave to even file a suit. It is in Córdoba that one finds the first

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official record of the Japanese in Argentina, and therefore it is claimed that Córdoba represents the original place of the Japanese in South America. The discovery of this 430-year-old incident goes back forty years. A group of college students, including second-generation Japanese Argentineans, discovered a certificate of slave trading in the Córdoba Museum of Ancient Documents. Subsequently, in 1965, the result of their research was published as Slave Trading in Cordova between 1588 and 1610. 19. 井沢実『大航海夜話』岩波書店、1977. (ニッケイ新聞、2009．４．10． に引用) (Minoru Izawa, Stories of the Great Sailing [Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten], 1977). Cited in a Japanese Argentine Newspaper, September 4, 2009. 20. 松田毅一、川崎桃太訳『完訳フロイス日本史』全12巻、講談社、2000. (Kiichi Matsuda and Momota Kawasaki, trans., Complete Translation of History of Japan by Lois Frois, 12 vols. [Tokyo: Kodan-Sha, 2000].) 21. 泉井久之助・長沢信寿・三谷昇二・角南一郎 共訳『デ・サンデ天正 遣欧使節記』（異国叢書＞雄松堂出版、1969;　サンデ『遣欧使節対話録』 天理大学図書館、1976（マカオ、1589 刊の複製 (Duarte de Sante, ed., Records of Tensho Delegates Sent to Europe, Hisanosuke Izumii, Nobuhisa Nagasawa, Shoji Mitani, Ichiro Kakunami, trans. (Yusho Do, 1589). A duplicate of this volume is found in the Library of Tenri University (1589). 22. 池本幸三・布留川正博・下山晃『近代世界と奴隷制』人文書院、1995, 98. (Kozo Ikemoto, Masahiro Furukawa, and Akira Shimoyama, Slavery System in Modern World [Tokyo: Jinbun Shoin, 1995], 98.) 23. Ikemoto, Furukawa, and Shimoyama, Slavery System, 99. 24. Ikemoto, Furukawa, and Shimoyama, Slavery System, 98. 25. Ward, Women Religious Leaders, 16 no. 44. She comments, The office of the visitor was the highest ranking missionary administrator answerable directly to the General of the Society of Jesus. As the visitor to the East Indies, Valignano ‘visited’ Japan three times over a few years (July 25, 1579–February 20, 1582: July 21, 1590–October 9, 1592; August 5, 1598–January 15, 1603). He always relied on interpreters (Primarily Frois) in his communication with the Japanese. 26. The original is kept at the Archives Library of the Jesuit Order in Rome. 松田毅一『天正遣欧使節』朝文社、1991、63–65 (Kiichi Matsuda, trans., Records of Young Boy Delegates to Europe [Chobun Sha, 1991], 63–65.) 27. Alessandro Valignano, “De Mission Legatorum Iaponensium ad Romanam curiam. . . . ,” (Macao Society of Jesus, 1950), Laures Rare Book Database Project & Virtual Library. 28. See more details in Matsuda, Records of Tensho Delegates Sent to Europe, 232–235. 29. Portuguese missionaries stationed in Japan were not in favor of the slave trading done by their compatriots and requested their government to control it. The King, Don Sebastian, issued a prohibition law on September 20 of 1570, but it had no effect. Another royal law was issued on March 12 of 1571 bearing heavy penalty regulations. 30. Ikemoto, Furukawa, and Shimoyama, Slavery System in Modern World, 158–159. 31. 牧英正「人身売買」岩波新書、1971，61–62．(Hidemasa Maki, Human Trafficking [Tokyo: Iwanami Shinsho, 1971], 61–62).

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32. 徳富蘇峰『近世日本国民史：豊臣秀吉(二)豊臣氏時代乙篇』講談社、 1981、320–321 に引用。日本語訳は、吉田小五郎訳『日本切支丹宗門史』岩 波文庫、1991. Cited in Toyotomi, Modern History of Japanese People, 320–321. The original is as follows: Leon Pages, Histoire de la Religion Chrétienne au Japon (Paris, 1869). The Japanese translation is as follows: Shogoro Yoshida, trans., History of Christian Religion in Japan (Tokyo: Iwanami Bunko, 1991). 33. 安野真幸『バテレン追放令: 16 世紀の日欧対決』日本エディタ ースクー ル出版部, 1989, 112–114. (Masayuki Anno, Deportation Order of Padres: Confrontation of Japan with Europe in the 16th Century [Tokyo: Publishing Section of Japanese Editors School, 1989], 112–114.) 34. Anno, Deportation Order, 125. Anno adds the following explanation regarding the Command. “It can be conceived,” he writes, “that the Command reflects Hideyoshi’s wondering mind about the Padres’ activities. Before he issued the Command, he made it clear that Padres have his permission on their mission work. But now, having given careful thought, he changed his mind to withdraw the permit and came to the conclusion to issue the Command . . . ” (125–126). 35. Matsuura Document, in Anno, Deportation Order, 124. See also Matsuda and Kawasaki, Complete Translation, vol. 2, chap. 97, 215–217. 松田毅一、川崎桃太訳『完訳フロイス日本史４』中公文庫 2000, 215–217 (Matsuda and Kawasaki, Complete Translation, vol. 4, 215–217). 36. Anno, Deportation Order, 129–130. 37. Matsuda and Kawasaki, Complete Translation, vol. 4, 207–209. 38. Matsuda and Kawasaki, Complete Translation, vol. 4, 209–211. 39. イエズス会日本年報　下』新異国叢書４、雄松堂 書店、1969.安野 『バテレン追放令』、 137 に引用. (Cited in Anno, Deportation Order, 137, from Annual Report of Jesuits in Japan, vol. 2 [Yushodo, 1969].) 40. Maki, Human Trafficking, 69. 41. Maki, Human Trafficking, 67–68. 42. Maki, Human Trafficking, 70–71. 43. Maki, Human Trafficking, 213–214. 44. Matsude and Kasawaki, Complete Translation, vol. 4, 38. On another occasion, he told priests of the Osaka church, “If you would not prohibit me to have many women, I think there is no hindrance for me to be a Christian.” Complete Translation, vol. 4, 110–111.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Anno, Masayuki. Deportation Order of Padres: Confrontation of Japan with Europe in the 16th Century. Tokyo: Publishing Section of Japanese Editors School, 1989. Argentine History of Japanese Migrants, Vol. 1. Union of Japanese Argentina, 2002. Boxer, C. R. The Christian Century in Japan, 1549–1660. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1951.

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Costelloe, M. Joseph, S.J., trans. The Letters and Instructions of Francis Xavier, with Introduction. Jesuit Primary Sources in English Translation 10. St. Louis, MO: The Institute of Jesuit Sources, 1992. de Sante, Duarte, ed. Records of Tensho Delegates Sent to Europe. Translated by Hisanosuke Izumii, Nobuhisa Nagasawa, Shoji Mitani, Ichiro Kakunami. Yusho Do, 1589. Ikemoto, Kozo, Masahiro Furukawa, and Akira Shimoyama. Slavery System in Modern World. Tokyo: Jinbun Shoin, 1995. Izawa, Minoru. Stories of the Great Sailing. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1977. Kishino, Hisashi. “San Francisco Xavier’s Plan for Missionary Work in East Asia.” Bulletin of Historiographical Institute, The University of Tokyo 11 (2001.3): 188–194. ———. “Francisco Xavier’s 1549 Order for the Dispatch of a Second Japanese Apostolate.” The Journal of History of Christianity 64 (2010): 63–85. Maki, Hidemasa. Human Trafficking. Tokyo: Iwanami Shinsho, 1971. Matsuda, Kiichi, trans. Records of Young Boy Delegates to Europe. Tokyo: Chobun Sha, 1991. Matsuda, Kiichi and Momota Kawasaki, trans. Complete Translation of the History of Japan by Frois. 12 vols. Tokyo: Chuko-Bunko, 2000–2008. Oshiro, Tetsuzo. Córdoba, the Birth Place of Japanese Migrants: 100 years of Japanese History in Argentine, 1997. Pages, Leon. Histoire de la Religion Chrétienne au Japon. Paris: Charles Douniol, 1869. Schurhammer, G. and J. Wicki, eds. Letters Written by Saint Francisco Xavier. Translated by Kawano, Suminori. Tokyo: Heibon-Sha, 1985. Takase, Koichiro. Culture and Various Features of the “Kirisitan” Centuries. Tokyo: Yagi Books, 2001. Tokutomi, Soho. Modern History of Japanese People: Hideyoshi Toyotomi (2). Tokyo: Kodan-Sha, 1981. Valignano, Alessandro. “De Mission Legatorum Iaponensium ad Romanam curiam. . . .” Macao Society of Jesus, 1950. Yoshida, Shogoro, trans. History of Christian Religion in Japan. Tokyo: Iwanami Bunko, 1991. Ward, Haruko Nawata. Women Religious Leaders in Japan’s Christian Century, 1549–1650. Women and Gender in the Early Modern World. Burlington, VT: Ashland Publishing Company, 2009.

Chapter 10

Evoking the Bible at a Funeral in an Indian-Christian Community J. Jayakiran Sebastian

INTRODUCTION: POINTS OF INTERVENTION It was the end of another long, tiring, hot, and humid day.1 I had now been the pastor of the rural Gauribidanur congregation of the Karnataka Central Diocese of the Church of South India2 for just a couple of weeks. Everything was still new and strange. Having left the seminary and plunged into my first pastorate—still an Exposure Candidate—on the way to ordained ministry had been an intense and enriching experience. Tentative steps had been taken. Conducting four services every Sunday— at 7:00, 9:00, and 11:30 in the morning, the first two in tiny church buildings where the only piece of furniture was a ramshackle table that served as the altar, and the third in the distant Boys’ Boarding Home and finally at 6:00 in the evening in a small so-called “untouchable” hamlet, twenty miles from the town—was quite something. At the end of the day, my white cassock would be coated with dust, after having cycled, taken a crowded country bus, and finally hitched a ride on a truck. Having to cover a large circuit was taking some getting used to. People would drop in at the small rented house that passed for a parsonage at all times of the day, and often late at night when they were going home from work. I had to collect water from a public “tap” or pump water from a hand-bore well on the side of the road. I would be out visiting people as they worked in the fields and had learnt the meaning of the hospitality of the poor. On this particular day, as I was looking forward to a quiet evening, suddenly there was a hubbub in front of my house. A gaggle of excited people, all speaking at the same time, informed me that a 90-year-old woman had died and that the burial was going to take place very soon. It was going to be my very first funeral service. I had hardly “settled down” to the regular routine of 187

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worship services on Sunday and the ongoing cycle of cottage prayer meetings during the week, and here I was confronted with something else. The prayers, the procedures, the things that were expected of me; the way rituals and ceremonies connected with death were carried out in the village—everything was new and would have to be learnt on the fly. As I walked down to the village with the group that had come to my house, I got an encapsulated history of the family to which the woman belonged. Snippets of mission history, fragments of family lore, highly colored versions of real and imagined slights that the family were perceived to have dealt other members of the village community, their high and low points—these were all communicated simultaneously in loud, confident voices. It was not easy disentangling the various strands and constructing a coherent narrative, but that was not necessary. We were walking past the cemetery, and people were already there in a particular patch of ground which seemed indistinguishable from other parts of the cemetery, in that there seemed to be no permanent markers on the crumbling graves scattered around, but which were confidently held to hold the remains of particular families. These people were getting ready with what seemed to be a minimal number of ramshackle digging implements to start digging the grave. I went on to the house, welcomed by very aggressive barking dogs, and, trusting in something that I had heard but really did not believe, that barking dogs do not bite, I went on to find the old lady laid out on the mud veranda outside her house, draped in a faded old sari. She looked peaceful, but who was I to judge, given the gossip about her and her family that I had heard on the way? It was already dusk, and I had a vague memory of certain legal requirements of not burying people after sundown. However, this was hardly the time or occasion to voice my misgivings, and I was caught up in what was happening. The decision had been taken not to wait, and, given the heat of the day and the total lack of any means of preserving the body, this was definitely a wise move, to proceed with the funeral immediately. A group of singers was already engaged in lustily singing funeral bhajans and lyrics without pausing between stanzas, and indeed without a breath between different songs, accompanied by a hand harmonium. There was no time to puzzle out the interconnections between the many people gathered there and to sort out their family connections. Sticks of firewood were now lit, and, given the fact that the house had no electric connection, this proved to be the only source of illumination, once darkness set in with its usual unexpected rapidity. There I was, scrambling to turn the pages of the Bible to what I hoped would be an appropriate passage and fumbling with the pages of the prayer book to turn to the funeral service, with its liltingly long, ponderous, and what seemed to be cumbersome phrases. The service of consolation that offered the hope of the resurrection seemed to be weighed down by a sense of trying

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to convey as much information as possible through the prayers and collection of Biblical verses. It was not of much help that I was trying to read all this while walking down the bumpy path, accompanied by the aggressive dogs, which darted away when someone shouted “Hie,” but quickly returned. I was holding my Bible, hymn book, and prayer book, and trying to keep up with whoever was my “illumine,” who in turn was trying not to get burnt by the embers from the blazing firewood. (Incidentally, I suddenly recollected this, except for the burning part, many years later in the large city of Bangalore, when I was one of the officiants at the funeral service of a prominent individual, where we conducted the funeral service with illumination provided by people using their mobile phones!) It was when I was standing at the edge of the open grave, with people shouting instructions and overriding these instructions, under what suddenly appeared to be a vast immensity of the heavenly dome, that I was filled with a sense of what my vocation as a pastor really meant. Amidst this group of people who had been Christian for over a hundred years, and burying a person whose life almost spanned the missionary era and the indigenous church, many questions flooded my mind, even as I continued with the burial service. There were questions of religious meaning and the role of religious rituals; questions regarding the interplay between the words in the Bible and the prayer book and the life of the person we were laying to rest; questions regarding the tangled nature of the history of the church, where my congregation members had had their lives impacted by the coming of the gospel and the choice of conversion; questions regarding how the missionaries had found a group of people who had moved to this area from the neighboring state during a time of drought and worked toward establishing a “Christian colony” with a cemetery, places for houses, and fields; questions regarding faithfulness, continuity, and change that crisscrossed the life of this community; questions regarding the valorization of death and the hope offered by baptism; questions that flitted through me even as I was reciting the words “dust to dust. . . .” TEXTUAL TRAJECTORIES AND INTERVENTIONS IN SUBALTERN SPACE Texts do travel and so do ideas—is there something “pure” or “residual” that can be extracted from within travelling texts and ideas, or does the process of emergence itself define the fluid nature of artifacts and imaginaries? In my mother tongue, Kannada, the word chosen by early translators to represent the books collected into the “Bible,” is “Satyaveda,” meaning the True Veda. In a context when texts compete, and in fact compete as an imperial artifact, within the dense brahmanical, sanskritized philosophical heritage of

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the Indian elite, this choice of nomenclature was certainly making a political, religious, imperial, and cultural statement: “You may have your vedas, but here we have the true veda.” The Concept of Bibliology When we examine this assertion within the actuality of subaltern space, experience, and embodiment, especially with regard to the textualization of religion, the concept of “bibliology” may open up useful avenues of exploration. Within the church, argues Telford Work, [b]ibliology can help explain, evaluate, and enrich the full range of the Church’s biblical practices, including its liturgical uses of the books themselves; the direct use of the Bible in evangelism and mission . . . ; the development of lectionaries and the recitation of Scripture during worship services; small-group Bible study by those with and without formal ecclesial training; . . . personal devotional and theological use of the Bible; Scripture in hymnody and prayer. . . . A systematic bibliology can critique problematic practices, appreciate constructive ones, and suggest promising new ones.3

Problematic Practices—Critique What are the “problematic practices” that can be critiqued? In the context that I have described, these would include: the kind of language, thought forms, literary cadences, imagery that were used in the translation of the Bible; the production of hymns and lyrics; the writing and transcreation of prayers, much of which, while lying within the language spectrum of the people of Gauribidanur in terms of their Kannada or Telugu language backgrounds, to a large extent did not form part of their experience of marginalization within not only society but also the literary production and use of the language by the dominant. Sugirtharajah’s comment that “the hermeneutical task is not only to embrace the richness and the ugliness of the indigenous tradition but also to interact with the potential proffered and the problems posed by metropolitan values”4 gains in this context added complexity, in that the indigenous traditions, even within the framework of an overall shared common indigenous language, do not “share” the way in which language is used and functions in everyday life. Since the dichotomy between the received “religious,” “spiritual,” liturgical language and the biblical language is, as I have pointed out, a reality, then the question arises as to how the religious imagination has been shaped down the years and how the marginalized have negotiated this shaping in living out their lives religiously and ritually.

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What does this mean in terms of structures of language being internalized, subverted, and, in a sense, subjugated, by those who were deemed not to have any role in the literary production and transmission, let alone translation and transcreation, of the artifacts of religion? Recognizing, as George Aichele puts it, that “[e]verything signifies, and therefore everything is a text,”5 have we recognized the constructive work of the subaltern signifiers and their signification of the text? To what extent have we been, in the words of Marcella Althaus-Reid, overwhelmed by and incorporated into “a touristic theological industry” something that has “created much confusion, in the sense that this industry became part of the theological imaginary”?6 Constructive Practices—Appreciation What are the “constructive practices” that can be appreciated? Y. T. Vinayaraj points out the importance of the “text and the reader” in postmodern biblical hermeneutics and goes on to state that in “postmodern Dalit biblical hermeneutics, Dalits draw on other hermeneutical elements such as inter-textuality (. . .), intra-textuality (. . .), and extra-textuality (. . .). For Dalit hermeneutics of deconstruction, Dalit stories, biographies, lyrics, songs, dance, festivals, cultural symbols, and even their bodies constitute their texts.”7 Given this evocative assertion, even as one recognizes and interrogates the historical conditioning of transmitted texts, including the translations of the Bible and liturgical, pedagogical, and ritualistic Christian material, what needs to be asked is the question regarding the willingness or otherwise of the guardians within the ecclesial and theological structures to not only recognize the bodily constitution and construction of texts, but also to valorize those bodies which for too long have been held by those guardians as bodies that must be excluded and guarded against. When language is recognized as inherently hierarchical, the constructive possibilities lie at two levels: first, the possibility of the excluded ones gaining structural authority within the framework of inherited organizations and making these their own, even when it means retaining certain inherited forms and restraining others; second, the possibility of a restructuring or even a replacing of those things that have come to be held dear because of the process of transmission, inheritance, internalization, and imaginative de-elitisization. New Practices—Promise What are the “promising new practices” that can be suggested? Resonating with Benny Liew’s question (“Instead of presuming that all hybrids are necessarily and equally liberating, do we not need to give greater specificity to our postcolonial theorizing of ‘hybridity’?”8), the unfettered flourishing of

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local and specific cultural manifestations of the living out of life in all its fullness should not depend on the affirmation of the dominant, nor on the wonder generated by those who would consider forms of such practices as exoticism, but on the recognition all around that the local is important, that it matters, and that the consequences are not just for the local but have an impact on the rich complexity of global Christianity. However, one should always be conscious of the all-too-real possibility of “sanctioned ignorance,” which Laura E. Donaldson describes—in terms of “scholarship on Native peoples or feminist responses to the quincentennial of Columbus’ voyage to America”—as follows: “sanctioned ignorance most often emerges through an inter-textual chain of information retrieval: those who have no firsthand knowledge cite highly touted sources—virtually all of them non-Native—to produce authoritative, but often highly inaccurate, accounts of indigenous experience.”9 Sanctioned ignorance is not only a textual matter, but also a matter that comes to the fore in unpacking experience. When experience is conditioned by realities of class, caste, cultural upbringing, social status, economic privilege, educational distinctions, and religious beliefs, how can the act of full disclosure serve to defer the absolutizing of attribution of meaning to situations described and behavior perceived? How “full” is full? Identifying Points of Intervention The questions that so engaged me and weighed on me at the funeral in the Indian-Christian congregation in Gauribinadur are questions that continue to enliven my theological thinking, as I seek to put such events in perspective, including wrestling with the question as to how an imperial colonial “artifact” gained emancipatory and liberative potential in the lives of those who live in India’s villages. In so doing, I am mindful on Sugirtharajah’s plaintive complaint that “[i]nstead of being a new agent in the ongoing work of God, liberation hermeneutics has ended up reflecting on the theme of biblical liberation rather than being a liberative hermeneutics.”10 Hence, we need to ask in the context of that funeral service and all the events surrounding it questions such as the following: How is it that the Bible—that religious artifact which had been an alien object not too long ago—had become central to all that was going on—in songs, in prayers, in readings, and in direct quotations, not to say anything of the religious imagination of the people? How is it that the artifact had become their own, had been made their own—something to be cherished, something to be used, something that offered meaning, something that was central and indispensable not only in matters of life and death but also in terms of understanding life beyond death?

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Confronted as I was with the abrupt finality of death, and yet conscious of my role in continuing to shape and maybe nourish the religious and social life of the people, was I reinforcing a colonial mentality of dependence on the artifact, or was it possible for me to enter partially at least into the experiences of those coming from the most disadvantaged sections of Indian society, who had made the artifact so central to their lives? Do I exaggerate here? Was I overwhelmed by the moment? I do not think so, for in writing about the methodology of Dalit theology, one of the points that I made was that the traditional understanding/s of religion, religious practices, the “why” of conversion, religious “objects,” the instrumentality of worship and the liturgy, the importance given to the mediation of priests and those believed to have access to the numinous, have to be investigated using methodological tools that recognize that so-called academic “respectable” modes of inquiry not only have serious in-built shortcomings and overt and covert “prejudices,” but that such modes of inquiry are deliberately skewed against the knowledge-praxis of the modes of inquiry of those marginalized communities, whose very marginalization was actively promoted by such “scholarship.”11

Acting on Points of Intervention I am conscious of the fact that those I am seeking to represent not only found biblical texts important and central at crucial points in their lives but also sought to bring their own lived realities of being marginalized and dehumanized into interplay with these texts. Am I falling into the trap of romanticizing these experiences and falling into the trap that Amartya Sen warned us against, “the miniaturization of human beings”?12 In his analysis of Tamil Christianity, Thomas Thangaraj spoke about the recognition of “the historical in the process of hermeneutics.”13 Given this, how can we be sensitive to local histories and feet-on-the ground ways of negotiating the role of the Bible and biblical texts, recognizing the reality that such negotiations involve “the dayto-day messy activities which affect people’s lives”?14 IMPULSES TOWARD FURTHER CONVERSATION As we continue to scrutinize and discuss how the biblical texts have been invoked in the context of imperial-colonial frameworks and, in conclusion, as impulses toward what I hope will be a stimulating and ongoing conversation, I want to offer for further consideration and exploration four points emerging out of this chapter.

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First, how have biblical texts (either directly or in terms of allusions in hymns, songs, lyrics, and bhajans, as well as in prayers and preaching) offered overarching meaning and undergirding support for those ­communities who have been discriminated against in terms of providing a sense of worth and value? To what extent are these Jesus-centric texts, and how have texts been used in and out of context? How can one creatively respond to Sugirtharajah’s challenge that the “new task that awaits Asian biblical interpreters is to engage with multiple forms of reference so that our anxiety over the West is allayed, and productive work can florish”?15 Second, recognizing that Biblical texts are not the only source of valorization, how have they been brought into interaction and intervention with other means of gaining dignity, including the cooption of symbols and rituals usually associated with dominant communities—the very communities that were responsible for the marginalization of the disadvantaged? How do we work with Segovia’s analysis of the “postcolonial optic in biblical studies,” where, in talking about “the ideal of a cosmopolitics,” he points out that such an endeavor “takes as its reading lens the geopolitical relationship between center and periphery, the imperial and the colonial, not only at the level of the text but also at the level of interpretation, of readings and readers of the text”?16 Third, what are the ways in which those traditionally considered “impure” and “outcaste” subverted the imperial nature of a colonial artifact and, in response to Homi Bhabha’s seemingly dismissive query (“And what is the significance of the Bible? Who knows?”17), respond, “We know”? Lastly, “[W]e need to learn not to repeat the mistake of an imperialist knowledge paradigm that maps an abstract and universal theoretical framework onto the earth. Third-world cultural studies, actively confronting the phenomena and problems of lived reality, can be more powerful and more liberating, if, in our analysis, we can identify and act on points of intervention.”18 That is to say, we need not repeat a dominant knowledge paradigm but rather ask what if the Bible was not used either as an imperial-colonial tool or as a means of resistance, but simply as an artifact that brought a modicum of meaning to the life and death of these subaltern people, recognizing that “the margins rise at last / over their brims / and flood the text.”19 NOTES 1. The original version of this essay was first presented at the American Academy of Religion meeting at Atlanta, Georgia, at the “Bible in Racial, Ethnic, and Indigenous Communities Group—Bible and Colonization: Asia/Oceania” on 1st November

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2010. A shorter version of this essay has been published under the same title in Asia Journal of Theology 26, no. 1 (April 2012): 124–130. 2. I have written on various aspects of my experiences with this community in several articles: J. Jayakiran Sebastian, “Jud(as)signing Blame,” in Still at the Margins: Biblical Scholarship Fifteen Years after the “Voices from the Margin,” ed. R. S. Sugirtharajah (London: T & T Clark, 2008), 98–103; “Interrogating Christian Practices: Popular Religiosity Across the Ocean,” in Baptism Today: Understanding, Practice, Ecumenical Implications, ed. Thomas F. Best (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press/Geneva: World Council of Churches Publications, 2008), 255–266; and “On Walking Through the Cemetery: Continuity and Transformation in Reading Death in an Indian-Christian Community,” in Postcolonial Interventions: Essays in Honor of R. S. Sugirtharajah, ed. Tat-siong Benny Liew (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009), 178–189. 3. Telford Work, Living and Active: Scripture in the Economy of Salvation (Grand Rapids, MI-Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2002), 326. 4. R. S. Sugirtharajah, Exploring Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: History, Method, Practice (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 185. 5. George Aichele, The Control of Biblical Meaning: Canon as Semiotic Mechanism (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2001), 132. Here Aichele is referencing Jacques Derrida’s Of Grammatology (see 132, n. 3). 6. Marcella María Althaus-Reid, “Gustavo Gutiérrez Goes to Disneyland: Theme Park Theologies and the Diaspora of the Discourse of the Popular Theologian in Liberation Theology,” in Interpreting Beyond Borders, ed. Fernando F. Segovia (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 36–58, 44. 7. Y. T. Vinayaraj, “Envisioning a Postmodern Method of Doing Dalit Theology,” in Dalit Theology in the Twenty-first Century: Discordant Voices, Discerning Pathways, ed. Sathianathan Clarke, Deenabandhu Manchala, and Philip Vinod Peacock (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2010), 93–103, 99. 8. Tat-siong Benny Liew, “The Gospel of Mark’” in A Postcolonial Commentary on the New Testament Writings, ed. Fernando F. Segovia and R. S. Sugirtharajah (London and New York: T & T Clark, 2007), 105–132, 131. 9. Laura E. Donaldson, “The Breasts of Columbus: A Political Anatomy of Postcolonialism and Feminist Religious Discourse,” in Postcolonialism, Feminism, and Religious Discourse, ed. Laura E. Donaldson and Kwok Pui-lan (New York-London: Routledge, 2002), 41–61, 45. 10. R. S. Sugirtharajah, The Bible and the Third World: Precolonial, Colonial and Postcolonial Encounters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 243. 11. See J. Jayakiran Sebastian, “‘Can We Now Bypass That Truth?’—Interrogating the Methodology of Dalit Theology,” Transformation: An International Journal of Holistic Mission Studies, special issue on “Methodologies,” 25, no. 2–3 (April/July 2008): 80–91, 88. [This essay has also been published in James Massey and Indukur John Mohan Razu, eds., Revisiting and Resignifying Methodology for Dalit Theology (New Delhi: Centre for Dalit/Subaltern Studies and Bangalore: United Theological College, 2008), 93–115; Dharma Deepika: A South Asian Journal of Missiological Research, Issue 29, 13, no. 1 (January–June 2009): 75–83; and David Emmanuel

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Singh and Bernard C. Farr, eds., Christianity and Education: Shaping Christian Thinking in Context, Regnum Studies in Global Christianity (Oxford: Regnum International, 2011), 263–275.] 12. See his Identity and Violence: The Illusion of Destiny (London: Allen Lane, 2006), 185. 13. M. Thomas Thangaraj, “The Bible as Veda: Biblical Hermeneutics in Tamil Christianity,” in Vernacular Hermeneutics, ed. R. S. Sugirtahrajah (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 132–143, 143. 14. R. S. Sugirtharajah, “Postcolonial and Biblical Interpretation: The Next Phase,” in A Postcolonial Commentary on New Testament Writings, ed. Fernando F. Segovia and R. S. Sugirtharajah (London-New York: T & T Clark, 2007), 455–466. In this the concluding chapter he writes: “The creative and productive future of postcolonial biblical criticism depends on its ability to reinvent itself and enlarge its scope. It should continue to expose the power-knowledge axis but at the same time move beyond abstract theorization and get involved in the day-to-day messy activities that affect people’s lives” (465). 15. R. S. Sugirtharajah, The Bible and Asia: From the Pre-Christian Era to the Postcolonial Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013), 263. 16. Fernando F. Segovia, Decolonizing Biblical Studies: A View from the Margins (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2000), 140. 17. In his chapter, “Signs Taken for Wonders: Questions of ambivalence and authority under a tree outside Delhi, May 1817” in The Location of Culture (London and New York: Routledge, 1994), 102–122, 121. 18. Kuan-Hsing Chen, Asia as Method: Toward Deimperiatlization (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2010), 64. 19. Tomas Tranströmer, from his poem “The Gallery,” in The Great Enigma: New Collected Poems, trans. Robin Fulton (New York: A New Directions Book, 2006), 154. Tranströmer won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2011.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Aichele, George. The Control of Biblical Meaning: Canon as Semiotic Mechanism. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2001. Althaus-Reid, Marcella María. “Gustavo Gutiérrez Goes to Disneyland: Theme Park Theologies and the Diaspora of the Discourse of the Popular Theologian in Liberation Theology.” In Interpreting Beyond Borders. Edited by Fernando F. Segovia, 36–58. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000. Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. London and New York: Routledge, 1994. Chen, Kuan-Hsing. Asia as Method: Toward Deimperiatlization. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2010. Donaldson, Laura E. “The Breasts of Columbus: A Political Anatomy of Postcolonialism and Feminist Religious Discourse.” In Postcolonialism, Feminism, and Religious Discourse. Edited by Laura E. Donaldson and Kwok Pui-lan, 41–61. New York-London: Routledge, 2002.

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Liew, Tat-siong Benny. “The Gospel of Mark.” In A Postcolonial Commentary on the New Testament Writings. Edited by Fernando F. Segovia and R. S. Sugirtharajah, 105–132. London and New York: T & T Clark, 2007. Sebastian, J. Jayakiran. “Interrogating Christian Practices: Popular Religiosity Across the Ocean.” In Baptism Today: Understanding, Practice, Ecumenical Implications. Edited by Thomas F. Best, 255–266. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press/Geneva: World Council of Churches Publications, 2008. ———. “‘Can We Now Bypass That Truth?’—Interrogating the Methodology of Dalit Theology.” Transformation: An International Journal of Holistic Mission Studies, special issue on “Methodologies.” 25, no. 2–3 (April/July 2008): 80–91. ———. “Jud(as)signing Blame.” In Still at the Margins: Biblical Scholarship Fifteen Years after the “Voices from the Margin.” Edited by R. S. Sugirtharajah, 98–103. London: T & T Clark, 2008. ———. “On Walking Through the Cemetery: Continuity and Transformation in Reading Death in an Indian-Christian Community.” in Postcolonial Interventions: Essays in Honor of R. S. Sugirtharajah. Edited by Tat-siong Benny Liew, 178–189. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009. Segovia, Fernando F. Decolonizing Biblical Studies: A View from the Margins. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Sen, Amartya. Identity and Violence: The Illusion of Destiny. London: Allen Lane, 2006. Sugirtharajah, R. S. The Bible and the Third World: Precolonial, Colonial and Postcolonial Encounters. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. ———. “Postcolonial and Biblical Interpretation: The Next Phase.” In A Postcolonial Commentary on New Testament Writings. Edited by Fernando F. Segovia and R. S. Sugirtharajah, 455–466. London-New York: T & T Clark, 2007. ———. Exploring Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: History, Method, Practice. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012. ———. The Bible and Asia: From the Pre-Christian Era to the Postcolonial Age. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013. Thangaraj, M. Thomas. “The Bible as Veda: Biblical Hermeneutics in Tamil Christianity.” In Vernacular Hermeneutics. Edited by R. S. Sugirtahrajah, 132–143. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999. Transtroemer, Tomas. “The Gallery.” Selected Poems, 1954–1986. Edited by Robert Hass. Translated by Sam Charters, 149. New York: Ecco Press, 1987. Vinayaraj, Y. T. “Envisioning a Postmodern Method of Doing Dalit Theology.” In Dalit Theology in the Twenty-first Century: Discordant Voices, Discerning Pathways. Edited by Sathianathan Clarke, Deenabandhu Manchala, and Philip Vinod Peacock, 93–103. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2010. Work, Telford. Living and Active: Scripture in the Economy of Salvation. Grand Rapids, MI-Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2002.

Chapter 11

Bible and Colonization Aotearoa New Zealand Jenny Te Paa Daniel

When I pause to consider the extent to which biblical texts continue to be so consistently monolingually and monoculturally interpreted, exegeted, and proclaimed in both the public sphere and in the ecclesial contexts of postcolonial Aotearoa New Zealand, it is not difficult for me to understand why virtually all contemporary indigenous Christian academic theologians from this part of God’s bountiful global vineyard hold quite unapologetically to a critically pessimistic view of the theological academy of the twenty-first century. After all, the theological academy is the accredited site responsible for “authorizing” public expertise in matters of theological knowledge, including that of the Bible. Yet, after all the years since indigenous peoples have accepted, loved, studied, and used the Bible, globally as well as in Aotearoa New Zealand, there are still fewer than a handful of indigenous theologians “authorized” as Bible scholars by the theological academy. This measured caution if not outright mistrust of the theological academy has its historic roots firmly in the colonial era. It is, therefore, as a 21st-century post-colonial indigenous woman theologian that I share with many of my professional peers from around the Asia Oceania region a deeply conflicted view of the missionary “legacy.” For it was missionaries who came among our ancesters with the Bible in one hand and a surveying kit in the other, wearing climatically contraindicated cassocks and with undoubtedly pious hearts upon which were emblazoned the understanding that “patriarchy” rules! It was after all those same ancestors who, to the largest extent, so generously and hospitably welcomed those who came with missionary zeal and self-proclaimed goodwill in the early 19th century. Alas, hospitable reciprocity was never an integral feature of colonization anywhere in the 19th century world. 199

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While not a “qualified” biblical scholar in the purely academic sense, I am nonetheless well “qualified” personally, politically, and professionally to contribute to an academic volume on the topic of the Bible and colonisation. Firstly, “colonized” I most certainly have been, albeit indirectly, that is to say, as an indigenous descendant of those who long ago were first to offer shelter, hospitality, and protection to the early missionaries and colonisers to Aotearoa New Zealand. Secondly, as a lifelong Christian activist for justice for “all people that on earth do dwell,” I am intimately acquainted with the operating principles of colonization—those legendary and tiresome sinful derivatives of imperialism, sexism, classism, racism, and clericalism. Third, I hold an earned Ph.D. degree from the Graduate Theological Union of Berkeley, California, with a dissertation on Race Politics and Theological Education. I have taught and written extensively on the ravages of colonization upon indigenous peoples, particularly upon Maori. Further, I have drawn attention to the historic role of the churches and their role in facilitating colonization. Finally, I have spoken at length about the role of the early missionaries and of their successors, Priests and theological educators, all of whom have taught Maori about the Bible in the English language and from a thoroughly westernized, Anglo-centric perspective. Even a cursory traverse of history from early colonial times through to the current period will reveal only too readily just how all of the “isms” previously mentioned evolved and have been determinedly, stubbornly, and often cruelly maintained. To this day, it is not difficult to identify those who still belligerently refuse, resist, reject any suggestion of engaging a contemporary contextualized hermeneutics. This is so because post-colonial biblical scholarship globally has evolved to such an extent that it is, as it should be, almost impossible to uphold a predominantly Eurocentric understanding, let alone reading, of the Bible itself. As a pioneering indigenous academic leader in theological education, I have long been drawn to the post-colonial project, redemptively intended, which sees contextualisation as prerequisite to ensuring indigenous ways of knowing are appropriately included and valued in the intellectual work of doing theology, including “doing” biblical scholarship. This is by no means an easy project, and certainly there is no immediate end in sight, for such is the well-established dominance of white Western intellectual capital throughout the global theological educational sphere. Nowhere has this been more readily professionally apparent than at the thoroughly elitist national Anglican theological college where I have worked as a teacher and a Principal for the past 23 years. This deeply embedded, hegemonically grounded, and academically enshrined cultural bias can also be readily evidenced in institutionally based Anglican theological education in many other post-colonial nations, especially those where colonisers and missionaries worked hand-to-hand to gain both spiritual and economic ascendancy over the indigenous first peoples. The historical establishment of

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such profoundly affective intellectual injustice has its ideological roots in the always-oppressive dominating intent of colonization. THE MAORI NARRATIVE OF COLONIZATION The narrative pertaining to Maori experience is similar in so many ways to that of the First Nations peoples of Canada and the United States, to that of Hawaiian peoples, and indeed to that of the Aboriginal peoples of Australia. Maori are a minority in the only land we will ever call “home.” We are currently around 15% of the total population of around 4.1 million people. Our experience of colonization began in the early to mid-1800s. It was swift, devastating, and destructive of much of my forebears’ language, traditions, art, and aspirations. It was decisive and utterly dishonest in its removal of the title and ownership of millions of acres of our land. It was catalytic in sharpening the intellect (especially among those chosen to lead the inevitable resistance movements). It was singularly responsible for raising extraordinary levels of moral and political outrage among those victimised. There were wars and diseases; there was death; and there was greatly irreversibly changed life.1 In the midst of, and occasionally complicit in, the social, political, and cultural chaos of colonization were the missionaries. It was to be the Church Missionary Society (hereafter, CMS), operating under the aegis of the “Church of England,” that exacted the first and most enduring ecclesial franchise over Maori souls. The CMS legacy of a somewhat conservative, evangelical, social reformist theology is thus what has tended to inform and influence Maori Christian self-understanding, activism, and leadership, right from the time of colonization through until the present day. In an always absurdly mysterious way, Maori have remained deeply faithful to the mainstream churches. They have done so both in spite of and doubtless because of the socio-political, spiritual, and economic devastation wrought by the original colonisers and subsequently upheld and maintained by their direct descendants. In a perfectly exemplary faith-filled way, Maori remained prolific readers of the Bible and proponents of the faith they subsequently derived from their understandings of the texts. The ecclesial institution today known more popularly as the Anglican Church continues to be the most numerically significant of the “mainstream” institutional churches in Aotearoa New Zealand, and it is arguably probably still the one to which the majority of practicing Maori Christians belong. While so often far from “spotless” in its dealings with Maori since colonial times, the 21st-century Anglican Church began, however, to its credit, in the early 1980’s to work purposively and prayerfully to redeem its past unflattering record of cultural and ecclesial imperialism.2 The catalyst for transformative action was external radical secular activism.

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Although deeply unpopular and often publicly vilified, a small but determined group of young Maori had earlier begun to organize a sustained and ultimately incredibly effective protest movement intended to once again restore Maori sovereignty over land and resources illegally confiscated or acquired. Their second objective was to establish treaty-based partnership relationships, across all sites nationally and locally, of political power and decision-making.3 It was, therefore, the extraordinarily prophetic and courageous public witness of young secular Maori activists which motivated key leaders within the Anglican Church to examine its less than commendable colonial past, particularly its consistent systemic marginalization of Maori Anglican leaders. And so it was around 1984 that a formal commitment to transform the irrefutably unjust governance and decision-making structures of the Anglican Church in Aotearoa New Zealand was publicly declared. Culminating in 1992, with a globally unprecedented Constitutional Revision, indigenous Maori Anglicans in New Zealand were thus in theory at least, “constitutionally” freed from the multiple historically embedded structural tyrannies that inevitably accrue for those with minority status. No longer were there majority and minority stakeholders; rather, there were now mutually interdependent partners equally committed to one another’s interests and well-being.4 Accordingly, this meant that those still numerically dominant within the Church were now obliged to share power on all governance and decisionmaking bodies, regardless of the numerical imbalance. Consensus between the partners, in accord with globally established Treaty-making methodologies, became the new operating principle, completely displacing the traditional practice of majority rules. Again, theoretically at least, this extraordinary paradigm shift for the locus of institutional power was widely promoted and perceived as being redemptively intended. Although ideologically grounded primarily within the prevailing identity politics of its time, the 1992 Constitutional Revision was nonetheless unequivocal in its structurally transformative outworkings, which did genuinely and dramatically structurally disrupt established power relations. Subsequent analysis, however cursory, of both the official rhetoric accompanying the revision process and the qualitative outcomes for Maori after some years certainly reveal a somewhat less than heartening rate of progress toward the intended redemptive objective. THEOLOGICAL EDUCATION FOR MAORI: CRITICAL PESSIMISM AND CREATIVE IMAGINING Certainly one of the key sites where genuine and sustainable progress toward redemptive justice for Maori has been observably and most frustratingly systematically thwarted has been that of higher level theological education,

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specifically within the national Provincial Theological College. In spite of being constitutionally charged in 1992 with also protecting, promulgating, and promoting indigenous theological beliefs and intellectual contributions (alongside those of the dominant Pakeha majority), St John’s College has proven itself instead to be determinedly resistant to the bicultural challenge implicit in the Constitutional Revision. Thus, sadly, in spite of the radically redemptive opportunity which the 1992 Revision created, the outcome has been more reflective of the legendary French saying, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose” (“The more things change, the more they stay the same”). Without the majority will and capacity to profoundly, radically disrupt and transform the deeply historically embedded injustices in the curriculum, in teaching pedagogy, in the assessments processes, and in the entire teaching and learning environment at the College, things remained almost unchanged. In effect, Maori language, culture, epistemology remained firmly on the periphery of the curriculum, of worship, of community life. The priority redemptive project of identifying, mentoring, educating, and then appointing highly qualified Maori faculty across the diversity of theology related disciplines was given scant regard, if not ignored. This scenario has been virtually replicated, albeit to varying degrees, across all denominational theological colleges and across the secular universities, where certainly in Aotearoa New Zealand much academic theology, including biblical studies, is now taught. Little wonder, therefore, that there are still distressingly few highly qualified and internationally recognized indigenous theologians, let alone indigenous biblical scholars, either in Aotearoa New Zealand or beyond, among those post-colonial indigenous peoples where colonization and “missionisation” went hand in hand almost two hundred years ago. Little wonder, therefore, that the critical pessimism earlier mentioned is so pervasive among those few indigenous theologians who have somehow managed on their personal and professional journeys as Christian leaders to transcend those oppressive and often soul-destroying structural and attitudinal ism’s so characteristic of the post-colonial era. None of this, however, is to concede defeat; in fact, far from it. Critical pessimism for people of faith is also always an extraordinarily potent beginning point for creative imagining, for seeking for ways to lift the burdens of injustice and for “letting captives go free.” One of the most freeing realisations for indigenous Christians is that traditional theological colleges are no longer the preeminent, and thus elitist, teaching and learning institutions they once were. Instead, teaching and learning theology is now becoming far more credibly and usefully contextually based. Theology is thus rightly also to be found in the secular university in conversation with all other academic disciplines, and it is to be found as well in community church-based programs accessible to all and not just the clerical elite.

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Globally, indigenous Christians have found that the best theological educational strategy requires highly qualified teachers with proven cultural competency to teach in more than one language, to see and feel, to hear and to speak, with deep empathy toward indigenous history and aspiration. It requires, therefore, a teaching cohort, a curriculum, teaching pedagogy, assessments practice, and a teaching-learning environment entirely conducive with indigenous epistemology, presence and practice. In the past, one of the almost debilitating professional realities for the few indigenous theologians there are in Aotearoa New Zealand was the almost complete lack of professional peers and thus the absence of culturally attuned intellectual and theological solidarity. Denominationalism also served to keep indigenous professionals artificially and unhelpfully separated from one another. However, over the last two decades there has been renewed commitment to what is always the first strategy for overcoming structural injustice, that of gaining strength in numbers. So it has been that indigenous theologians locally and globally have more recently committed to forming key alliances with one another across denominational differences and with those non-indigenous theologians whose academic and political interests in post-colonial theology are in clear alignment. Post-colonial Theology networks of professional academic and political solidarity are now critically active across Christian denominations and within. Many in these same networks have also been initiators and leaders of interfaith dialogues and cooperative action. There is much sharing and production of resources, such as the volume to which this essay is a contribution. Resources such as this volume are especially invaluable for those of us who are abundantly blessed by both the costliness and the richness of our cultural and spiritual grounding as indigenous peoples and by our cultural and spiritual grounding as self-respecting globally competent Western educated theologians. There is, therefore, a uniqueness to our contributions borne out of suffering and yet deeply grounded in the ever-present challenge to all Christian people, which is to nonetheless live our lives as beacons of hope, as witnesses to Christ’s unconditional love for all. While the theological views, perspectives, and understandings of indigenous theologians are still to the largest extent influenced by and informed from the underside of the post-colonial societies and communities within which most have been raised, there is an increasingly shared sense that ours is nonetheless the generation of bridge builders, reconcilers, and peacemakers. Ours is the generation with the capacity and the responsibility to articulate the seismic shifts which have already occurred and those still begging to occur in the movement from the colonial experience to contemporary post-colonial reality. Ours, therefore, is the generation to articulate the complexities and the challenges of moving with courage, grace, and decency in the 21st century

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as Christian witnesses and activists for the pursuit and implementation of the common good, the birthright of all. BIBLICAL HERMENEUTICS: TOWARD AN ALTERNATIVE MODEL As a firm believer in the adage of Mahatma Gandhi that we need ourselves to be the change we wish to see in the world, my own life’s work continues to be devoted to imagining and, where possible, implementing transformative change within theological education. One of the most significant intellectual challenges which has arisen in the academy in the last decade has had to do with biblical hermeneutics. The challenges have arisen as a result of ongoing global struggles among and between Christian leaders to theologically reconcile their personal attitudes toward human sexuality. While arguments to and fro are often couched in the restrictive language and sentiments of doctrine, at the heart of the controversy lies the as yet hugely under-explored academic realm of biblical hermeneutics. Thus, even as biblical hermeneutics has become one of the most highly contested and often unhelpfully politicized intellectual sites within theological education, I consider it to be a site among many others in the theology curriculum, open to being radically disrupted and thus also potentially enriched by the abundant and precious wisdom and insights of those traditionally either overlooked, disregarded, or mostly just considered incapable of undertaking “authoritative” hermeneutical work. An unexpected opportunity to test my assertion arose a few years back. What follows is a summative report of the experience of being involved first-hand in a very specific project to enable hermeneutical differences to be freely expressed, respectfully examined, and if, at all possible, theologically and politically reconciled. I was a member of an executive team responsible for developing, delivering, and monitoring a project designed to enable deep and decent hermeneutical conversation among and between diverse individuals and “interest-based” groups of Aotearoa New Zealand Anglicans over a three-year period from 2007 until 2010. The context for our work was the Anglican Church in Aotearoa New Zealand and Polynesia. The participants were a select group of church leaders, both ecclesiastical and academic. The project was to discern how best post-colonial Anglicans, those denominationally dominant in Aotearoa New Zealand, might establish a hermeneutical blueprint (ultimately for justly and compassionately understanding human sexuality) characterized not by “isms” but by “chrisms” of blessing for all in the region and beyond into the global village!

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We began our work together by inviting representatives of the three primary ethnically determined groups which together formally constitute the Anglican Church in Aotearoa New Zealand and Polynesia. Thus, equal numbers of Maori, Pakeha (all non-Maori New Zealanders), and Polynesian Anglicans were invited to position themselves as contemporary Anglicans within and against the specific historic contexts out of which they had come to experience the Bible. At the first national gathering, my invitation was to speak as an indigenous laywoman academic theologian on my personal experience of the Bible. In what follows I reproduce an extract from my remarks on that occasion. In them I use personal experience to point the way toward an alternative approach to biblical hermeneutics. Address on Biblical Hermeneutics for the 21st Century “I am happy to first locate the source of my own formative understandings of the Bible within the context of colonial and post-colonial Anglicanism and to reflect therefore something of the subjectivity out of which my contribution comes. I am a life-long Anglican, born, baptized, and raised through the 1950s and 1960s, at a time in the life of the Anglican Church in Aotearoa New Zealand when Maori women and lay people knew our place in the Church, and it wasn’t in the pulpit or the sanctuary unless you were the cleaner or the florist. While our fathers or our grandfathers would be permitted and possibly encouraged to read the Bible in the privacy of our homes, the highly specialized, powerfully sacralized responsibility of interpreting the Bible was the exclusive and mystery-laden preserve of the colonial clergy and the Bishops. I was raised therefore, according to Borg, as a “natural literalist.” I heard the Bible spoken of as “the word of God,” and so it was obvious that I ought always to believe all that was said both by the text and about the text without question. In Sunday School I memorized, among many other things, the Ten Commandments. I understood that they were important because they were in the Bible and were thus God’s laws. I sang “Jesus Loves Me, This I know, because of course, ‘the Bible told me so.’” And so it was as a child and right through until probably only the last twenty or so years that I have understood the Bible as sola scriptura, the sole and infallible authority for faith and morals. Having since, however, also had the benefit of an extraordinarily privileged academic career primarily in the broad fields of theology and identity politics and in theological education, I still consider the Bible to be utterly authoritative and irrefutably central to my faith, even as I now also recognize it to

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contain errors of history and of science and, moreover, to contain much that is contradictory in matters of belief and morality. I also recognize the tremendous disadvantage accruing to indigenous peoples as a result of the burden of monolingual and monocultural interpretation and teaching over the centuries. What remains unchanged, however, is my ongoing deeply held desire to work now together with other Anglicans, indeed with other Christians, to examine afresh our practice of reading, understanding, and teaching the Bible in order to discover what it tells us about the fundamental nature of Christian identity itself. Christian identity as it ought to be rather than as it has been so humanly perverted in the past by the politics at least of race, gender, class, and now human sexuality. For there is nothing I yearn for more than to belong to and to flourish as an indigenous woman within a Christian community, where in the words of 1 John, “The Word of Life [that] we have seen and heard we declare [to you], so that you and we together may share in a common life, that life which we share with the Father and his Son Jesus Christ.” In focusing selectively upon the text and the authorship of 1 John, I am in agreement with Bill Loader in seeing the entire text as “affirming eternal life not as something which implies denying our humanity and Christ’s, but as something which affirms and expresses itself in and through our humanity. The issue is not a piece of dogmatism of no import, but whether our faith is holistic or not. That has enormous consequences, not only for what we say about Jesus, but also for what we say and do to each other. That is a constant theme in 1 John. The ending of this book reasserts values which see human beings able to stand in confidence before God, able to be heard and taken seriously. The ‘life’ and ‘eternal’ life which is the author’s chief theme echoing the prologue in 1John 1–3 is not life in heaven, or life within or through mysticism, or life in elation through spiritual gifts and experiences, but life lived out in human and divine relationships of love.” For it is this commitment to life lived out in human and divine relationships of love that I do genuinely believe must also be at the heart of all hermeneutical work. As I reflected afresh on the contemporary controversy affecting the global Anglican Communion and as I thought more about my gay and lesbian sisters and brothers being scapegoated by the distressingly ugly ecclesial politics of the moment, I could and can still see clear parallels to the unjust brutalizing, marginalizing, delegitimising experiences of indigenous peoples and of women. And so it has been that, as an indigenous laywoman without ecclesiastical power but with boundless and abundant God given agency, I have felt it to be my Christian duty to act with boldness and fearlessness in solidarity with those now being targeted for exclusion by those with the Bible in one hand,

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a surveying kit in the other, and that especially nasty looking cassock now emblazoned with the words “homophobic patriarchy now rules”! This is why I now suggest that, instead of focusing upon and in the process often unduly valorizing the culturally based identity differences we postcolonials have grown habituated into doing, we must find within ourselves something of that Pauline impulse for identity transcendence. In this way we might then begin anew to firstly see ourselves as utterly dependent upon the quality of our relationships in Christ with one another. It is in this way that we need to see ourselves as utterly dependent upon the strength of our commitment to being deeply, intimately, inextricably connected to each other in spite of and because of the arbitrarily humanly determined “differences” which can be and have been used to create and then entrench unbearable distance between ourselves as God’s people and thus between ourselves and God. I can think of no better way of beginning such an ultimately reconciling project than by exploring together the tension ever present at the interface between the witness of Scripture and the social and political contexts within which all of human life in its complexity, its delights and its suffering occurs? Might we then be enabled to be more honest with one another as we pray together for the courage to identify and to talk about all of those tensions and of the grave injustices which underpinned them all. For here again, at the intersection of human encounter and storytelling, are those “isms”—those enduring, systemically pervasive, humanly, spiritually, destructive sinful things—which have in so many ways rendered the pathway toward the elusive common ground too painful to remember, too overwhelming to even imagine, too politically fraught to even propose. Regardless of our hesitancy and awkwardness, I want to urge us at least to commit to talking with one another, speaking to one another, laughing with and about one another, crying if need be and being silent when silence is needed, and to undertaking to do all of these things always patiently and always in the spirit of gentle and respectful enquiry. If indeed each of us is called and enabled to read the Bible and to apply its teachings and urgings and cautions within our own cultural contexts, then we too from the underside communities must also be open to the fact that others can and will and must be free to do so as well with equal freedom and legitimacy. The challenge always before us is how do we share our individual discernments with others without being overwhelmed or silenced, without feeling or risking a 21st-century experience of a complete loss of legitimacy? It is this process of exploring the possibilities of “rich mutual accountability” regardless of our particular social locations that I believe continues to challenges us all in the theological academy. How well do we as teachers

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relate with sensitivity and credibility into our diverse classrooms? How effectively are we enabling the voices and perspectives of those traditionally marginalized, excluded, and diminished by the academy? As academic theologians, as teachers, we have, I believe, both the responsibility and the privilege for modeling in our being and for revealing in our classrooms just how we see, experience, and celebrate the incalculable richness of relational possibilities. I do not believe, and have never believed, that there are any human issues of such insurmountable magnitude as to make mutually compassionate conversations among any and all of God’s people impossible. In closing, then, might I add that, while I acknowledge that a range of humanly constructed precipices have been created in our post-colonial times, these I believe should be naturally and properly avoided, for it is instead the horizon of blessed eternity which should bring us back time and again to conversation with each other as sisters and brothers, as Christians, who speak always in love and with infinite respect. And so it is that I say that if we are to find a unity of purpose in the myriad and complex and controversial hermeneutical tasks now set before us as 21stcentury Christians, then the basis of that unity must surely be first established by deep prayer—prayer that is always open to exploring the quality of our love for one another. For as Legaux properly reminds us, ‘We cannot unite ourselves in truth, unless we accept the differences of each other as an enrichment of ourselves. Unity is the fruit of prayer and must be lived out in love.’ Amen.”5 CONCLUSION Today in Aotearoa New Zealand, Maori co-exist with not only the descendants of the original British colonizers but also with our near sisters and brothers drawn from throughout the South Pacific Islands—Tonga, Fiji, Samoa, Cook Islands, Niue, Tokelau and Tahiti—together with an increasingly diverse population of new migrants and refugees drawn from across the reaches of the globe. Our historic experience of determined, costly, and lengthy struggle against colonial domination and oppression has taught us to maintain very high levels of political activism in order to avoid ever again being set aside as irrelevant relics of a bygone era. Our status as tangata whenua or people of the land is one we cherish dearly and will relinquish never. Our faith commitments have endured and will continue to do so, only now from a position of solidarity with those post-colonial theologians and sisters and brothers in Christ who share with us in seeking for ways of enabling the unimagined hermeneutical and theological riches which might yet be

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brought into the mutually healing and empowering sunlight of a transformed, ­genuinely welcoming and confidently inclusive theological academy. The Bible as a sacred text for all Christians thus now awaits and surely deserves the most just, most loving and most proudly post-colonial reading. NOTES 1. See Jamie Belich, The New Zealand Wars and the Victorian Interpretation of Racial Conflict (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1986); Michael King, New Zealanders at War (Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann, 1981); Alan Ward, An Unsettled History: Treaty Claims in New Zealand Today (Wellington, NZ: Bridget Williams Books, 1981). 2. See Te Kaupapa Tikanga Rua 1984, General Synod of the Anglican Church in Aotearoa New Zealand, for an in-depth historical traverse of the history, context, and hoped-for outcomes of the Constitutional Revisionists. 3. See http://www.teara.govt.nz/en/nga-ropu-maori-organisations/page-3 for information on the Waitangi Action Committee, Nga Tamatoa, Te Roopu Matekite, and other notable protest groups. 4. See “Revised Constitution of the Church in Aotearoa New Zealand and Polynesia, General Synod Report 1992.” 5. Quote from my unpublished keynote address, “Anglicans and the Bible,” presented at General Synod Hermeneutics Hui held at St Pauls Cathedral, Wellington, New Zealand, 28–30 August 2007.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Belich, Jamie. The New Zealand Wars and the Victorian Interpretation of Racial Conflict. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1986. Coogan, Michael David, Marc Zvi Brettler, Carol A. Newsom, and Pheme Perkins. 2010. The New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocrypha: An Ecumenical Study Bible, New Revised Standard Version. New York: Oxford University Press. King, Michael. New Zealanders at War. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann, 1981. “Revised Constitution of the Church in Aotearoa New Zealand and Polynesia, General Synod Report 1992.” Anglican Church In Aotearoa, New Zealand, and Polynesia, 1992. “Story: Nga ropu—Maori Organizations.” TE ARA: The Encyclopedia of New Zealand. https://teara.govt.nz/en/nga-ropu-maori-organisations/page-3 Te Kaupapa Tikanga Rua. General Synod of the Anglican Church in Aotearoa New Zealand, 1984. Ward, Alan. An Unsettled History: Treaty Claims in New Zealand Today. Wellington, NZ: Bridget Williams Books, 1981.

Part III

LATIN AMERICA AND THE CARIBBEAN

Chapter 12

The Most Burning of Lavas The Bible in Latin America Nancy Elizabeth Bedford

The Bible in any of its Jewish or Christian variants is an ambiguous book—or collection of books—whether one rejects it or loves it, whether it is read in Latin America or elsewhere. To read it, to quote it, or to use it to justify one’s actions is no guarantee of goodness or justice, as its own sayings and stories clearly illustrate, perhaps most memorably in the narratives of the temptation of Jesus, where the Bible is manipulated to great effect by none other than Satan himself (Mark 1:13). As Shakespeare ably put it in The Merchant of Venice: The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness is like a villain with a smiling cheek, a goodly apple rotten at the heart.1

It is a relatively simple yet significant step in a liberating direction to recognize that the Bible can be used for unjust purposes as well as for good ones, and to get away from a simplistic approach to the Bible as simply “good”— or, for that matter, as simply “bad.” Heitor Frisotti, reading Scripture from an Afro-Brazilian perspective, provides vivid examples of how to articulate that ambiguity. He describes the Bible as a wound, a full plate, and a source for Black folk in Brazil. It is a wound because historically it has often been used to hurt and bind Afrodescendant people: it became the manacles and the iron that bound them. It was the face of the slave owner and of the boss, of the unjust judge, of the white man, of the patriarchal tyrant. If we open the Bible, we therefore need to do so with the full memory and awareness of how it has been used to wound people of color in Latin America—and how it has the potential to 213

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continue to do so. Nonetheless, Frisotti adds that the Bible is also a full plate because Black people have found in it food for life. They have found in it none other than the Black, maternal face of God. Finally, for good or for ill, the Bible is a source: one that sometimes still tastes bitter and is still misused, that is not by any means the only source for faith, and yet that is a living source. In order for the Bible to become truly a life-giving source, however, it needs to die and be buried on Latin American soil, coming back to life as a seed that germinates and grows there, watered with its water, in order to create a new tradition and new fruit (John 12:24).2 Along with the recognition of the Bible’s ambiguity and complexity come complications: How shall we read it and what shall we do with it? These are questions that have as many answers as there are communities of interpretation, but it is precisely attention to the concrete trajectories of interpretation rooted in specific communities that can shed light on the Bible both as an instrument of death and of life. I shall therefore first mention two possibilities that have been rehearsed in Latin America informed by the Amerindian experience of this ambiguity, namely, an outright rejection of the book and the possibility of using it subversively. Taking into account the lessons I have learned from the first two approaches, I will then lay out some of my own approach to the Bible as a Protestant, feminist Latin American theologian. It was forged in the context of a particular, ecclesial community of interpretation, and constantly cycles back through the hermeneutical spiral, in dialogue and in tension with my theological convictions, deeply affected by the contexts in which I find myself. I will argue, finally, that poetic reason, which I link to the work of the Spirit, is a key in allowing Scripture to give “more of itself” in fertile and life-giving ways.

AMERINDIAN APPROACHES TO THE BIBLE IN LATIN AMERICA Returning It with a Twist That the Bible can be used to further colonialism and neo-colonialism has been amply discussed and illustrated; it seems almost trite to repeat it, but it is no less true for being a truism. To deny that it can be used as a symbol and as instrument of oppression, and that it has been used as such in Latin America, would be cynical. The well-known story of representatives from the Aymara and Quechua indigenous communities returning the Bible symbolically to Pope John Paul II during his visit to Peru in 1985 is one of the most vivid illustrations of a clear-minded rejection of the Bible that I know.

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In their open letter to the Pope, they state their position quite clearly: “Please take your Bible and give it back to our oppressors, because they need their moral precepts more than we do.” The leaders add that the Bible was the “ideological arm” of a “colonialist assault” (asalto colonialista) that imposed a culture, language, religion, and values that belonged to Europeans on the Amerindians. They link the Bible to the sword that killed indigenous bodies and the cross that attacked indigenous souls.3 The gesture and the open letter are powerful precisely because they treat the Bible as a symbol of a whole economy of colonialism, displacement, and despoilment in the name of so-called Christian civilization. The Amerindians who wrote the open letter did not say they were returning the Virgin, the saints, or even Jesus. They wanted to return the Bible as an ideological weapon. Yet, even by doing so they were simultaneously using the Bible positively to convey an ethical challenge to their oppressors: “They need their moral precepts more than we do.” In other words, even as they reject the Bible, they are paying it a backhand compliment: If our oppressors actually put into practice the moral precepts in the Bible, it would be good for them and for us. This is a piece of complex theologizing, by which the nature of the Bible as a two-edged sword (as in Hebrews 4:12) is set out for us with precision and grace: you have used it to bludgeon us, but why do you not use its blade as a mirror in which to see yourself? One of the clearest points emerging from their statement is the danger to the integrity of Scripture when it is used as a weapon of conquest, or in conjunction with weapons of conquest. In other words, the unholy alliance of cross and sword taints the Bible so badly that it becomes almost impossible to retrieve any liberating message from it. The wedding of Scripture with colonialism, imperialism, or any other system of control over others is a form of idolatry that poisons the surplus of meaning that the Bible can offer its interpreters. This path of “power over” others is, arguably, exactly what Jesus rejects in his dialogue with the Tempter in the stories of his testing in Matthew and Luke. In the third temptation as depicted by Matthew, Jesus is offered “all the kingdoms of the world and their glory” (Matt. 4:8), if he simply caves in to the gesture of worshipping what is other than God. In Luke, the offer to receive the glory and the power of “all the kingdoms of the earth” is placed in the center of the sequence, as the second temptation (Luke 4:5–6). It is suggestive to note that, in both versions of the story, the devil does not quote Scripture to justify the imperial gaze, though he does quote the Bible to buttress the other two temptations. Jesus, however, deploys Deut. 6:13 (honor, serve and follow only YHWH, not lesser gods) to unmask the fact that the exercise of “power over” others is by definition idolatrous. Instrumental reason, capable of utilizing the Christian religion and its Scripture in order to

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exploit a continent, as Latin American history after 1492 illustrates, is—in the precise sense of the story of the temptations—diabolical. Nonetheless, as powerful as the gesture of returning the Bible to the Pope was and is, the reality is that the Bible cannot really be returned to its European senders. For one thing, it is not really theirs in the first place: it is not a “European” book, as influential as it was in the shaping of the culture of European Christendom. Nor does the gesture of the Aymara and Quechua leaders necessarily reflect the sentiments of all or even of most indigenous people in Latin America; many consider themselves Christian. Even if one rejects the book, its influence remains and therefore requires attention. Deploying the Bible in Self-Defense Long before the emergence of the Latin American liberation theology of the twentieth century, revolutionary leaders with indigenous roots were using the Bible and theology to resist the colonizers. One of the paradigmatic figures in that struggle was José Gabriel Condorcanqui, known as Túpac Amaru II (1742–1781), who took advantage of his Jesuit education and of his social location as a mestizo to argue cogently in the name of “God the All-Powerful” against the mistreatment of Amerindians and the heavy tributes paid to Spain with the complicity of the Catholic Church.4 He fomented the largest organized and armed rebellion against the Spaniards up to that point, making explicit parallels between the Amerindians and the children of Israel suffering slavery in Egypt and exile in Babylon. Along with his wife and all but one of his children, he was condemned to death by the Spaniards, who dismembered him by quartering. His story illustrates how dangerous it was in colonial Latin America for a “Christian” to oppose “Christendom,” yet how powerful the gesture was, for his rebellion inspired countless other revolts all across the subcontinent, and continues to do so.5 Creative resistance against assimilation that deploys biblical themes can also be gentle, yet no less effective. Anthropologist Alejandra Navarro Smith tells of a conversation with jtatik Mariano in the Tzeltzal region of Mexico.6 As a formally educated, middle-class investigator, she tries to find out from Mariano, who is a deacon in his church as well as a leader in his community, the meaning of the fiesta de la cruz (the feast of the cross), a ritual related to planting corn that asks God for a good harvest. He converses with her as he weeds his corn patch. He tries to explain that he has placed a cross amidst the corn as an oblation. She does not understand what he means by “oblation,” and he finds it amusing that she, as an educated woman, does not know that it is an offering, similar to those in the Bible. His Spanish, though it is somewhat broken because it is not his native language, is still clear enough to convey a sophisticated hermeneutic by which indigenous customs are

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linked to the ecological practices of Ancient Israel.7 Navarro Smith uses the story to illustrate the limits of her own urban cosmology for interpreting what Mariano’s gesture means, and how that affects her ethnographic method of participant-observation. As a theologian, I’m further struck by the way jtatik Mariano’s biblical hermeneutic subverts an instrumental understanding of the land only as something to be “used,” and rediscovers the ecological dimensions of the Hebrew Bible. Pablo Richard, as a fruit of many workshops on biblical interpretation carried out among Amerindian communities, has articulated three central hermeneutical principles emerging from Latin American biblical interpretation in the context of indigenous-majority communities. The first principle centers on “cosmos, culture and indigenous religion,” which together make up a “Book of Life” to be read and interpreted. The Bible becomes an instrument for reading that Book of Life and discerning its revelation, while it in turn sheds light on the Bible. The second hermeneutical principle is therefore to take seriously the “mutual interaction between indigenous tradition and biblical tradition,” which can only function in a context of mutuality, not of power asymmetries between the two traditions. The third hermeneutical principle, building on the other two, is that of “mutual reconstruction.” Richard posits that “all religious traditions, whether Christian or indigenous, were destroyed by colonial conquest.”8 Contact and mutuality with indigenous traditions actually allow Christian traditions to be reconstituted or recreated in the wake of the terrible experience of having been distorted for the purposes of conquest and domination. For Richard, this hermeneutical process is profoundly imbued with the Spirit, to the point that he gives primacy to the “spiritual sense” of Scripture, by which he does not mean a neglect of the “historical” and “literal” dimensions of the biblical text, but rather a spiritual (or what I would call a pneumatic) reading of the text. This allows the Bible to be read and discovered as “word of God,” but also allows that word to be found in the Book of Life. God reveals Godself in the Book of Life, in Scripture, and in history. In this process, the text of both “books” becomes part of the interpreters’ lives, and vice versa.9 Richard also mentions the increasing importance of Amerindian women as agents or subjects of interpretation. Indigenous women in Latin America are not naïve about the way in which the Bible has been used against them. I have often heard them repeat the old saying about first having the land and no Bible, yet, when they closed their eyes to pray, they opened them to find that they had the Bible and no land. Such is the situation in which many of them still find themselves today. There is no “going back” to some sort of prehispanic paradise; how then to make do, resist and move to flourishing in the time and place in which they find themselves? One gesture of self-defense is

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to use the Bible, along with legal tools and elements of indigenous tradition, to imagine and to demand new possibilities for justice. To cite a contemporary example, an anthropological study of ten indigenous communities in the Chimborazo area of Ecuador found that young people and women, especially those who had access to formal education, were deploying the Bible in the area of conflict resolution, especially in situations of gender asymmetry and injustice, arguing against beatings and corporal punishment.10 The contrast between this gendered Amerindian interpretation with the history of using Scripture to justify corporal punishment in the United States (“spare the rod and spoil the child”) is striking. Clearly, the Bible can be approached hermeneutically in more than one way, and the dimension of gender is an important factor in any interpretation. In order for women to be able to deploy the Bible positively, its interpretation cannot be understood as “closed” but rather as open to negotiation and the pneumatic imagination. This amplitude in interpretation is at the heart of the insistence on the part of many Latin American biblical scholars that their task cannot be limited to a somehow “scientific” exegesis, but must be explicitly hermeneutical in its reach. This requires a close link between biblical scholarship and theological reasoning: the oft-heard refrain on the part of Christian biblical scholars from the global north to the effect that they are not “theologians” makes no sense if biblical interpretation has to make hermeneutical—and, therefore, theological—choices.

A PERSONAL APPROACH TO THE BIBLE: PROTESTANT, FEMINIST, LATIN AMERICAN THEOLOGIAN One dimension of the matter of the Bible in Latin America that has complicated the history of its reception has been the shifting attitude toward the Bible of the Roman Catholic Church, historically the dominant Christian confession on the subcontinent. For many years, the so-called “prohibition” was in place. It did not allow the Catholic faithful to possess any version of the Bible except for the Latin Vulgate, unless they had written ecclesiastical permission. Suspicion of vernacular versions of the Bible ebbed and flowed through the centuries, but in nineteenth-century Latin America the bull of Pope Gregory XVI (1826) condemning Protestant Bible Societies as well as the reading of the Bible in the vernacular was fresh on people’s minds. Protestant subjectivity in Latin America was forged largely in opposition to this prohibition. Protestants saw themselves as people of the Book, which they read in Spanish (Reina Valeria version) or Portuguese (Almeida version). “Protestant” Bibles were burned, even while liberal, secularizing politicians

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(along with a good number of well-educated Catholic priests) sympathized with the Protestant defense of the “Bible for all.”11 By the mid-twentieth century, the Roman Catholic approach to Scripture had changed significantly. Serious exegetical study of the Bible began to be encouraged by the hierarchy, as seen for instance in Pope Pius XII’s encyclical Divino Afflante Spiritu (1943). Vatican II deepened the trend and opened the doors for access to the Bible in the vernacular for all Catholic believers. Base ecclesial communities in Latin America took the challenge to heart, realizing its liberating potential, and developed the method of lectura popular de la Biblia: the “popular” (as in belonging to the people, to the pueblo) reading of the Bible.12 As the child of Baptist pastors, I was raised mostly in the province of Córdoba, in the interior of Argentina, traditionally a very conservative Roman Catholic area. In the early 1970s the possibility of reading and interpreting the Bible in Spanish still had a whiff of the forbidden, though the Catholic bishops by then were encouraging people to read Scripture. Along with a number of neighbors from our small tourist town in the mountains, we met Sunday afternoons on our back patio, in a casual setting surrounded by plants that included people of various ages and backgrounds as well as the family dog. We read passages from the gospels in the Dios Llega al Hombre version of the New Testament (which had the bishops’ imprimatur) and then discussed them and connected them to our reality. Only much later did I realize that what we were doing had some close resemblances to the work of lectura popular in Catholic base communities. Out of that group and out of that ethos of community hermeneutic a Baptist congregation was eventually born. It would have not seen itself at all as in continuity with liberation theology, and in fact probably imagined itself as “apolitical.” In practice, however, it embodied a mode of interpretation that became (at least for me) a school of resistance to the perverse logic of the dictatorship that began soon afterwards in 1976, and was responsible for 30,000 disappearances along with the wreckage of the hopes of a generation. A Community Biblical Hermeneutic: Characteristics This particular community biblical hermeneutic had several characteristics: (1) approaching the Bible as an accessible text; (2) viewing the Bible as conveying an counter-hegemonic way of life; (3) interpreting the Bible pneumatically; and (4) regarding the Bible as shedding light on reality and vice versa. Approaching the Bible as Accessible The Bible was understood as an accessible text. Study was seen as useful, and what I later recognized as the historical critical method gave aid, most

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often in the form of commentaries or in some of my father’s asides (he had been trained as a New Testament scholar). However, the Scripture was in no way a hermetic text or a secret code to be deciphered only by experts, and everyone (including the children) was considered capable of contributing to its interpretation. In this sense, the way we read Scripture was profoundly in continuity with the Reformation, as well as with the Augustine of De Doctrina Christiana, who wrote out his guidelines of biblical interpretation for anybody “with the will and the wit to learn.”13 Obscure passages took second place to clear passages. I don’t remember anyone in our group who did not know how to read; the Argentine public school system was still quite strong at the time and basic literacy was a given. Nevertheless, for some it was a slow and painstaking process to read a Bible verse aloud. The group listened with little fidgeting and encouraged both the reading and the reflection on what had been read. People who had formerly been silent began to find an interpretive voice. I was witnessing the synergy between literacy, interpretation of a text, and the capacity to articulate one’s thoughts with increasing confidence, all of which served as a kind of school of empowerment, especially for those for whom dominant society had a distinct sense of scorn. Viewing the Bible as Counter-hegemonic The Bible instructed us about a counter-hegemonic way of life. This meant that reading it trained us in a hermeneutic of suspicion about the “way of the world,” including racist, classist, sexist, and capitalist notions of the good. The congregation that emerged from this was more diverse in terms of race, class, and ethnicity than other groups I associated with in my town. Because of my light skin and of the highly educated status of my parents, I was “coded” as belonging to the privileged sector of our town. I was often asked by well-established people, whose skin tended to be lighter and whose pocketbooks tended to be fatter than those of the persons to which they referred: “Why do you spend time with those people?” They considered it bad form and quite inexplicable. Yet, I learned early on that precisely “those people” were central to our community of faith and to my life (as indeed the gospel itself stated repeatedly) as well as to understanding what the message of the Bible was about at its core. Many years later, when I encountered the notion of God’s “option for the poor,” as articulated especially in the work of Ignacio Ellacuría and Jon Sobrino, I immediately connected it to my early experiences in church, and it made sense to me. Though I was not myself poor, I did not feel excluded or shunned by God’s option: I understood that without getting my own priorities in line with God’s commitment to the most vulnerable, I would exile myself from the heart of life itself.

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Interpreting the Bible Pneumatically The Bible was to be read pneumatically. In other words, the Holy Spirit was understood as the one making Scripture relevant by showing us the contours of the way of Jesus in the present. Expressed in theological terms, pneumatological christology was an interpretive key that “opened up” the text. This took precedent over past contextual solutions, even if they were enshrined in Scripture. For instance, if Paul (or one of his followers) was understood as having said in a particular time and place that women should be quiet in church, such was clearly no longer the case in our own situation, nor did it seem in accordance with the way of Jesus to try to impose silence, covering of the head, or submission to husbands. Such texts were quietly left on the hermeneutical periphery. If people who joined the community after having previously attended other churches came with the idea that women were to be silenced, they were gently reminded that such texts did not drive our ministry today. The same occurred with divorced and remarried couples at a time when divorce was not legal in the country. Though the gospels mentioned divorce disapprovingly, it was clear that there should be no barriers to the full communion of couples who were not (and could not be) legally married. In the face of the complications of life, a kind of hermeneutical agility was called for that only the Spirit could provide. A pneumatic reading allowed the principle of sola Scriptura, which was sometimes bandied about in the simplistic form of “our only creed is the Bible,” to escape rigidity or legalism. Just as Jesus had taken Scripture seriously but also interpreted it freely, so too were we to do in our context. In our community of interpretation I encountered many strange—even bizarre— ideas about how to understand the text, and a good bit of freedom in expressing such ideas. Even when the notions expressed were quite outlandish they tended to be seen as irritating or lovable expressions of human particularity: not suppressed (since the Spirit might be making a point through them), but not necessarily central to the meaning of the text, either. One man, for instance, had a penchant for Jacob, the Old Testament patriarch. If anybody ever criticized Jacob, he became quite agitated and even stopped attending church for a period, after which he would inevitably return. He believed that Jacob (or Israel) was the key to the Scriptures, in ways that overshadowed even Jesus. The congregation listened to him but did not feel obligated to adopt his “Jacobite” hermeneutic. The consensus seemed to be that perhaps there was indeed something to be learned from him, but also that it would not do to confuse anybody’s particular convictions (or even those that found consensus in the group) with “truth” itself, which could not be fully grasped. The same was the case with the dispensationalist eschatology that came from people in the group influenced by Darbyism or the Scofield

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Bible: the ideas were pondered and put through the sieve of the Spirit, which allowed some nuggets to be kept and other elements to dissipate. The trap of fundamentalism, which takes its own penultimate interpretation to be ultimate truth, was thereby avoided thanks to an implicitly pneumatological hermeneutic. Regarding the Bible as Shedding Light on Reality and Vice versa The Bible shed light on our reality, and our reality shed light on the Bible. I slowly learned to read the texts of our Latin American reality (human and historical) in new ways—ways that were not taught in the curriculum of our public schools, under the strict ideological control of the dictatorship. Such readings uncovered the workings of coloniality new and old, alongside many other structural problems. These experiences did not make the Bible unambiguous and unproblematic for me, and they are not meant to be representative. Many other people in Latin America from similar “evangelical” ecclesial traditions have told me about their diametrically opposed and very negative experiences of biblical interpretation. The Bible continues to be a two-edged sword that can do harm when deployed destructively, in my life as in any other. Yet, when I got to seminary and began to learn critical exegetical methods and to be immersed in the interpretive traditions of the Germanic and Anglo-American contexts, I understood them through the lens of reading Scripture in Latin America as part of a community hermeneutic. I continued to take into account the perspective of those who had not written the textbooks we used, but who nonetheless embodied powerful trajectories of biblical interpretation. That helped empower me to become a theologian and a preacher, confident that there was good news to be found in the gospel stories, though not on the basis of too literalistic or simplistic a reading of Scripture. The Hermeneutical Spiral: A Dynamic Interpretation of Scripture In time, I realized that what I was pursuing on the basis both of my schooling and of my community hermeneutic was an understanding of social reality and theology that demanded a dynamic interpretation of Scripture, and that Latin American theologians such as Juan Luis Segundo had a name for it: the hermeneutical circle or spiral. Segundo took some of this method from European scholars such as Rudolf Bultmann, but adapted it to Latin American reality. He understands the hermeneutical circle as “the continuing change in our interpretation of the Bible, which is dictated by the continuing changes in our present-day reality, both individual and societal.”14 What I deeply appreciate

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about this way of framing the interpretive task is that it links the Bible and theology (two of my great loves) in a dynamic way that is as deeply committed to the reality and history of humans and of the earth as God has shown Godself to be in the incarnation and in the creative inhabitation of all things by the Spirit. Segundo wisely makes the point that there are two “preconditions” that need to be present if the hermeneutical circle or spiral is to be fruitful theologically. First, the questions that arise from our experience of our time and place have to be “rich enough, general enough and basic enough to force us to change our customary conceptions of life, death, knowledge, society, politics and the world in general.”15 In other words, we need to engage in a thoroughgoing “hermeneutics of suspicion” that comes from engaging deeply in the life of the world. The second precondition is for us to be willing to let our interpretation of Scripture shift “along with the problems” so that we do not simply repeat “old, conservative, unserviceable answers.”16 If that shift does not happen, what theology “retrieves” from Scripture is lifeless and unrelated to the problems that emerge from the “here and now” situations that we confront. In his extensive work on the Bible, José Severino Croatto (as a biblical scholar) gives the kind of circular hermeneutic described by Segundo (as a systematic theologian) even greater clarity. As he points out, when the Bible is approached in Latin America within “the overall setting of a liberating practice of faith,” its use becomes “significant and remarkable” and allows for “fresh, creative, ecclesial and committed” readings. For this to happen, several distinctive elements need to be in place. To begin with, the Bible has to be approached and “re-read” from the perspective of the vulnerable, not from the perspective of those who tend to monopolize power and resources. This entrance into the Bible from the place of the everyday reality of the most vulnerable, replete with its conflicts, allows a re-reading of the text that helps make sense of reality and “gives rise to a profound liberating spirituality.” The process of reading Scripture begins explicitly “not in books but in life” and allows the Bible to unlock its surplus of meaning. In turn, socioanalytical reading (political, economic, social and ideological) sheds light on Scripture and the contexts in which it was produced. Sometimes there are parallels—a kind of affinity—between the situations in which Scripture was written and present-day conditions on ground: in particular the Exodus, the prophetic books of the Old Testament, the narratives about Jesus, and apocalyptic literature seem to shed light on Latin American realities and lend themselves to liberative readings. This method of reading Scripture keeps giving “more of itself” as Afrodescendant, Amerindian, feminist, and queer hermeneutics bring new questions and insights to the table, not as anecdotal or marginal perspectives, but

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as vital components of a way of reading Scripture that also takes into account the “traditions and sacred texts of the native peoples”—Pablo Richard’s “Book of Life.”17 For example, Irene Foulkes and Cora Ferro Calabrese provide a way to re-read Scripture (relectura bíblica) from the perspective of gender. First, they explain, we must “decolonize our mind” and learn to see how the androcentrism (i.e., taking the human heterosexual male ideal as the measure and center of all things) of society affects our interpretation of Scripture, the way our churches function and the way we do theology. This requires giving value to the identities and life experiences of women. Second, they point out the need to develop analytical categories to use in the work of re-reading the Bible, such as gender, race/ethnicity and class. In other words, even though they are primarily speaking of a feminist reading of the Bible, they never neglect intersectionality and the way various structural injustices collide and reinforce each other. Third, they propose analyzing the exclusion, minimizing, or silencing of women in androcentric texts. Fourth, they try to reconstruct the presence of women in the texts, using information about the social, economic, political, and cultural reality of women and men at the time the biblical texts were written. Fifth, they encourage dialogue between the biblical text and our own contexts.18 The steps Foulkes and Ferro Calabrese describe are not identical to the ones Segundo and Croatto propose, but the way of thinking—the method and the epistemology—is very similar. Variations on the hermeneutical circle or spiral as it is practiced in Latin America lend themselves to all kinds of interplay between the Bible and contextual demands. Nidia Fonseca Rivera, for example, describes a “therapeutic Biblical re-reading” (relectura bíblica terapéutica) that focuses particularly on contextual community pastoral accompaniment, and privileges psychological, and sociological insights as critical tools used by the community of faith in its hermeneutical work. Using this approach, the interpretive community is, for example, able to focus on explicit and implicit social interactions within the biblical text itself, look at the conflicts within Scripture and how (or whether) they are resolved, and link present-day situations to the situations referred to in the text, with the purpose of opening up possibilities for change and flourishing.19 What this approach shares with all the other variants of the hermeneutical circle I have described is a double confidence: that the Bible is worth wrestling with, and that the community of interpretation plays an indispensable role in working out the significance of Scripture for its time and place. When I first started teaching seminary in the United States in the mid2000s, one of the things I noticed about the students was how different the place is from which most of them enter into the reading of the Bible as

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compared to my students in Latin America. With the significant exception of most of those who belong to minoritized groups, I find that it tends to be difficult for many of the students to approach Scripture with the confidence that it has much to say to them or to the situations they face in their daily life. It is not at all obvious to them that the biblical text is “liberating”; many of them, in fact, see it as almost too toxic to be retrieved. They seem surprised that I expect them to show up to theology class with a Bible and that I want them to find some sort of surplus of liberating meaning in it. However, when I tell them about the hermeneutical circle as it is used in Latin America, they seem to find it helpful. We often discuss standpoint epistemology: what we “see” from the place in which society puts us, but also what our blind spots are and how we need to learn from each other as we struggle with our interpretation of reality and of the biblical text. The “shift” of interpretation in accordance with problems that emerge, described by Segundo and worked out so beautifully in the exegetical and teaching work of many practitioners all across Latin America, allows theology to be resilient and mobile. It is profoundly pneumatological for theology to be confident in its assertions but aware that they are always provisional and penultimate, able to read Scripture dynamically and to rediscover its deep wells of meaning. The Spirit “drives” a life-giving interpretation of Scripture, and drives it sometimes in very unexpected directions. From a strictly hermeneutical point of view, this is made possible by the multivalence of the text through time: what José Severino Croatto describes as el carácter polisémico of the text, which allows great freedom of interpretation in new contexts.20 From the perspective of a Christian systematic theology (which is admittedly not the only perspective from which Scripture can or should be read), a pneumatological practice of biblical hermeneutics connects our reading of Scripture back to Jesus and his preaching of the reign of God (thus stirring up and revitalizing christology, ecclesiology, and eschatology) as well as to the life that the Spirit creates and sustains on this earth (which is vitally linked to the doctrine of creation, theological anthropology, and generally to the “greening” of theology). For Latin American Protestants in particular, embedded as we are in the heritage of sola Scriptura and also for many of us (though not as much for Anglicans, Lutherans and some Methodists as for the “low ecclesiologies” traversed by Calvinism, Zwinglianism, nonConformisms, and Pentecostalisms) in an iconoclastic tradition that does away with crucifixes, saints, and icons of many sorts, to find our way to a pneumatic hermeneutics that can open up beauty, ecological sensibility, and the subversive wedge of Scripture seems literally a matter of life and death for our traditions. If we do not have Mary, the saints, the crucifix, the smells of incense, and candles and the callused feet of pilgrims on procession save

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through the stories in Scripture, unless the Spirit can open up Scripture for us and connect to the “Book of Life,” we will have nothing substantive to offer our societies. We need continually to rehearse imaginative, lively forms of listening to the Bible and to each other. APPROACHING THE BIBLE FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF POETIC REASON As I hinted above, the trajectory of liberating approaches to the Bible, including the lectura popular de la Biblia, has been central to some of the most life-giving approaches to Scripture in the context of continued coloniality in Latin America. Perhaps the main thing that we have learned in that trajectory is that for the Bible to be liberating, the Bible itself has to be liberated through interpretation by a plurality of subjects. Such liberating reading requires listening. I would argue that one aspect of that listening is the capacity to hear the voices of Latin American poets who have engaged the Bible and its symbols deeply and creatively. Spanish philosopher María Zambrano coined the expression razón poética (“poetic reason”) to convey the notion that poetry allows human beings to have insights that function “by grace” and go beyond linear rational discourse.21 It seems to me that poetry is one venue that God’s Spirit uses to enliven Scripture and to bring it to fruition in new ways rooted in Latin American soil. Poetic reason can move in a plane that intersects transversally the patterns of rejection, subversion, or acceptance by way of a community hermeneutic that I described above. In other words, poetry is sometimes able to use biblical language in a manner that seems to do all three at once—and yet at the same time do none of them, because it is not oriented directly toward the interpretation of Scripture. Poetry has the pneumatic capacity to uncover meaning and simultaneously to veil it, hovering lightly between the apophatic and the kataphatic dimensions of speech about transcendence and meaning in a way that has much to teach theology. As Diego Bentivegna reminds us, every critical moment of Latin American history from the time of conquest and colonization onward is permeated with the poetic re-reading of biblical texts, most notably of the book of Revelation.22 With the arrival of the Bible in Latin America, its figurative force multiplied, because it was seen to refer not only to the history of Israel and of the primitive church, but was also read as a prefiguration of what was and would be. Much of this re-reading has millennial or apocalyptic undertones. In the twentieth century, poets on the left of the political spectrum, such as César Vallejo (Peru, 1892–1938), Ernesto Cardenal (Nicaragua, b. 1925), and Raúl Zurita (Chile, b. 1950) often use biblical images and themes to read the past

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history and suffering of Latin America in conjunction with hope in a utopian future of social justice and solidarity.23 In poems such as Vallejo’s “Los heraldos negros” (“The Black Heralds”), which references the horsemen of the Apocalypse, the reader is led to the horror and sadness of apocalyptic nightmare and of God’s absence, infusing images from the book of Revelation with a Latin American immediacy: Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes . . . Yo no sé. Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos, la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma . . . Yo no sé. Son pocos; pero son . . . Abren zanjas oscuras en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte. Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros atilas; o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte.24

Vallejo’s poetic voice and syntax are notoriously difficult to translate, but the meaning of the text is something like the following: There are blows in life, so strong . . . I don’t know. Blows as of God’s hate; as if before them, the undertow of all suffering were pooled in the soul . . . I don’t know. They are few; but they happen . . . They open up dark ditches in the fiercest face and in the strongest back. Perhaps they are the colts of barbarous destroyers; or the black heralds sent to us by Death.

The vivid metaphors would be unthinkable without their biblical resonances, but at the same time they have the capacity to send the reader back to the Bible with a new sense of its meaning. Vallejo’s poetry makes it difficult to be facile about interpretation or ever to forget the theodicy question. Other poets address the influence of the Bible on their work and lives more directly. One of my favorites is a fragment of the poem “My books” by the Chilean Poet and Nobel Laureate Gabriela Mistral (1889–1957): ¡Biblia, mi noble Biblia, panorama estupendo, en donde se quedaron mis ojos largamente, tienes sobre los Salmos las lavas más ardientes y en su río de fuego mi corazón enciendo! Sustentaste a mis gentes con tu robusto vino y los erguiste recios en medio de los hombres, y a mí me yergue de ímpetu solo el decir tu nombre; porque yo de ti vengo, he quebrado al destino.25

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An English approximation would be: Bible, my noble Bible, magnificent panorama, where my eyes lingered for a long time, you have in the Psalms the most burning of lavas and in their river of fire I light my heart! You sustained my people with your strong wine and you made them stand strong among men Just saying your name gives me strength: because I come from you I have broken with fate.

Even in translation it is clear that Mistral is able to find a sustenance in the Bible that, on the one hand, is both structural and deep (“you sustained my people”) and, on the other hand, is also deeply personal (“saying your name gives me strength” and “because I come from you” I was able to break free from my fate). Though she dearly loves the Bible with its metaphors and its stories, Mistral makes clear, by describing Scripture as “the most burning of lavas” and as a “river of fire,” that the Bible can do harm as well as good. The best way to love and appreciate the Bible’s liberating potential is always to remember that, as the “most burning of lavas,” it can burn and destroy as well as help in ushering in new life by the grace of the Spirit. It has given many of us in Latin America an ethical lens and a set of stories that help us make sense of our world—not just to understand it, but also to change it. May we light our hearts in its river of fire. NOTES 1. William Shakespeare, “The Merchant of Venice,” Act I, Scene III, The Works of William Shakespeare, Complete (Roslyn, NY: Black’s Readers Service, 1972), 222. 2. Heitor Frisotti, “Pueblo negro y Biblia: Reconquista histórica,” RIBLA 19 (1994): 47–62. 3. The open letter was signed by the following three representatives of indigenous communities: Máximo Flores (Movimiento Indio de Kollasuyo, aymara); Emmo Valeriano (Partido Indio, aymara); and Ramiro Reynaga (Movimiento Indio Tupac Katari, keshwa). The text may be found at: http://usuaris.tinet.cat/fqi_sp02/ sermo_montes_sp.htm (accessed April 21, 2014). 4. See his Proclamas of November 17, 1780 and of March 19, 1781 in Boleslao Lewin, La rebelión de Túpac Amaru y los orígenes de la emancipación americana (Buenos Aires: Hachette, 1957), 415–423. 5. See the section “Rebeliones del ‘pueblo cristiano’ contra la cristiandad” in Enrique D. Dussel et al., Historia General de la Iglesia en América Latina I/1, Introducción general (Salamanca: Sígueme, 1983), 268–280.

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6. The term Jtatik or tatic is a title of respect and means “elder” and sometimes “father” or “lord” in the Mayan languages of the Chiapas region of Mexico. 7. Alejandra Navarro Smith, “Conflicto y distancia: Notas críticas de lectura y trabajo de campo antropológico,” Latin American Research Review 47, no. 3 (2012): 3–21, esp. 16. 8. Pablo Richard, “Interpreting and Teaching the Bible in Latin America,” Interpretation 56, no. 4 (2002): 387–397, esp. 382 9. Richard, “Interpreting and Teaching,” 384. 10. Andrea Pequeño, “Violencia de género y mecanismos de resolución comunitaria en comunidades indígenas de la sierra ecuatoriana,” in: Memoria. Encuentro Internacional: Mujeres indígenas y justicia ancestral (20–24 de octubre, 2008), 72–77. 11. See René Krüger, “La Biblia en los procesos recientes de América Latina,” Cuadernos de Teología 13, no. 1 (1993): 75–92. 12. René Krüger, “La Biblia en los procesos recientes,” 81–82. See the brief sketch of the history of the popular reading of the Bible in Néstor Míguez, “Latin American Reading of the Bible. Experiences, Challenges and its Practice,” in JOLAH 1 (2004): 1–13. 13. Saint Augustine, On Christian Teaching, trans. R. P. H. Green (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 3. 14. Juan Luis Segundo, Liberation of Theology, trans. John Drury (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1976), 8. 15. Segundo, Liberation of Theology, 8–9. 16. Segundo, Liberation of Theology, 9. 17. See J. Severino Croatto, “Bible: Latin America,” in Dictionary of Third World Theologies, ed. Virginia Fabella and R. S. Sugirtharajah (Maryknoll: Orbis, 2000), 25–26. 18. Irene Foulkes and Cora Ferro Calabrese, Iniciando caminos. Primeros pasos en teoría sexo-género (Quito: Ediciones CLAI, 1997). 19. Nidia Fonseca Rivera, “La relectura bíblica terapéutica en el acompañamiento pastoral contextual y comunitario,” in Pensar, crear, actuar. Metodologías para una teología contextual, ed. José Enrique Ramírez-Kidd et al (San José, CR: SEBILA, 2013), 51–92. 20. José Severino Croatto, Hermenéutica Bíblica (Buenos Aires: Aurora, 1983). 21. María Zambrano, Filosofía y poesía (Morelia: Publicaciones de la Universidad Michoacana, 1939), 11–12. See also my essay “La razón poética en movimiento. Reflexiones sobre poesía y teología en clave feminista latinoamericana,” in Pasión, crítica y esperanza, ed. Jonathan Pimentel (San José, CR: Editorial Sebila, 2010), 81–109. 22. Diego Bentivegna, “Mesianismo, escatología y resurrección: algunos tonos apocalípticos en la poesía latinoamericana,” in Boca de sapo. Revista de arte, literatura y pensamiento, Segunda época 10, no. 4 (2009): 38–49. This is available at: http://issuu.com/bocadesapo/docs/boca_de_sapo_n_4/41?e=0 (accessed May 2, 2014). 23. See Bentivegna, “Mesianismo, escatología y resurrección,” 40–41.

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24. The poem appeared in a book of the same title, Mis libros (1918); it is in the common domain and can be found at http://www.literatura.us/vallejo/negros.html (accessed May 2, 2014). 25. The poem originally appeared in Desolación (1922). It is in the common domain and can be found at http://www.los-poetas.com/e/mist1.htm#MIS%20 LIBROS (accessed April 18, 2014).

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bedford, Nancy Elizabeth. “La razón poética en movimiento. Reflexiones sobre poesía y teología en clave feminista latinoamericana.” In Pasión, crítica y esperanza. Edited by Jonathan Pimentel, 81–109. San José, CR: Editorial Sebila, 2010. Bentivegna, Diego. “Mesianismo, escatología y resurrección: algunos tonos apocalípticos en la poesía latinoamericana.” Boca de sapo. Revista de arte, literatura y pensamiento, Segunda época 10, no. 4 (2009): 38–49. http://issuu.com/bocadesapo/ docs/boca_de_sapo_n_4/41?e=0 Croatto, José Severino. “Bible: Latin America.” In Dictionary of Third World Theologies. Edited by Virginia Fabella and R. S. Sugirtharajah, 25–27. Maryknoll: Orbis, 2000. ———. Hermenéutica Bíblica. Buenos Aires: Aurora, 1983. Dussel, Enrique D. et al., Historia General de la Iglesia en América Latina I/1, Introducción general. Salamanca: Sígueme, 1983. Flores, Máximo, Emmo Valeriano, and Ramiro Reynaga, “Carta abierta,” Teología indígena at http://usuaris.tinet.cat/fqi_sp02/sermo_montes_sp.htm (accessed April 21, 2014). Foulkes, Irene and Cora Ferro Calabrese. Iniciando caminos. Primeros pasos en teoría sexo-género. Quito: Ediciones CLAI, 1997. Frisotti, Heitor. “Pueblo negro y Biblia: Reconquista histórica.” RIBLA 19 (1994): 47–62. Krüger, René. “La Biblia en los procesos recientes de América Latina.” Cuadernos de Teología 13, no. 1 (1993): 75–92. Lewin, Boleslao. La rebelión de Túpac Amaru y los orígenes de la emancipación americana. Buenos Aires: Hachette, 1957. Míguez, Néstor. “Latin American Reading of the Bible. Experiences, Challenges and its Practice.” JOLAH 1 (2004): 1–13. Mistral, Gabriela. “Mis libros.” Desolación (1922). http://www.los-poetas.com/e/ mist1.htm#MIS%20LIBROS Pequeño, Andrea. “Violencia de género y mecanismos de resolución comunitaria en comunidades indígenas de la sierra ecuatoriana.” Memoria. Encuentro Internacional: Mujeres indígenas y justicia ancestral (20–24 de octubre, 2008). Richard, Pablo. “Interpreting and Teaching the Bible in Latin America.” Interpretation 56, no. 4 (2002): 387–397. Rivera, Nidia Fonseca. “La relectura bíblica terapéutica en el acompañamiento pastoral contextual y comunitario.” In Pensar, crear, actuar. Metodologías para una

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teología contextual. Edited by José Enrique Ramírez-Kidd et al., 51–92. San José, CR: SEBILA, 2013. Saint Augustine. On Christian Teaching. Translated by R. P. H. Green. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. Segundo, Juan Luis. Liberation of Theology. Translated by John Drury. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1976. Shakespeare, William. “The Merchant of Venice,” Act I, Scene III, The Works of William Shakespeare. Complete. Roslyn, NY: Black’s Readers Service, 1972. Smith, Alejandra Navarro. “Conflicto y distancia: Notas críticas de lectura y trabajo de campo antropológico.” Latin American Research Review 47, no. 3 (2012): 3–21. Vallejo, César. “Los heraldos negros.” Mis libros (1918). http://www.literatura.us/ vallejo/negros.html Zambrano, María. Filosofía y poesía. Morelia: Publicaciones de la Universidad Michoacana, 1939.

Chapter 13

La biblia, la mar y el Caribe/The Bible, the Sea, and the Caribbean Late 19th to Early 21st Century Carlos F. Cardoza Orlandi I am a historian of the movement of the Christian religion, particularly in Latin America and the Caribbean. Moreover, my scholarly interests focus on the people’s reception and appropriation of the Christian faith rather than on the intellectual history of Christianity in these regions. I am not a biblical scholar, therefore. However, as an evangélico caribeño, a “Caribbean evangelical,” I can say that the Bible has been an inspiring and guiding religious resource in my family and personal life.1 Such has been the case for evangélicos in the Latin/Spanish-speaking Caribbean throughout their historical trajectory, from their early days in the late 19th century to their present situation in the early 21st century. What I should like to do in this chapter is to examine this tradition of people’s interpretation among evangelicals in the Caribbean, keeping in mind throughout the imperial and colonial contexts in question. I begin by presenting a variety of multilayered interpretations of the Bible from the Caribbean Basin, with a particular focus on the islands of Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Dominican Republic. These interpretations, which I offer as cases or examples, reveal a broad range of application: from biblical references that grounded revolutionary and anti-empire activity to metaphorical imagery from biblical stories and discourse that illustrate the complex process of biblical contextualization in mostly Protestant Caribbean Christian communities. In addition, I offer examples of the use of such imagery beyond the walls of these communities, by way of literature and popular music. In both regards, I show how people’s interpretations of the Bible have demonstrated, and continue to demonstrate, the rich social, economic, and political fabric of the Caribbean. These interpretations, I would note, do not subscribe to any particular ideological proposal; rather, they seek identity for survival in situations of uncertainty. I conclude with a reflection on the character of people’s interpretation in the Latin/Spanish-speaking Caribbean, and hence 233

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on the relationship between the Bible and the Caribbean. This tradition of interpretation I see as akin to people’s interpretation of the Caribbean Sea itself, la mar. THE BIBLE IN CUBA AND PUERTO RICO: GENERAL OBSERVATIONS The poetic phrase “Puerto Rico y Cuba, de un pájaro las dos alas” is usually attributed to the Cuban poet José Martí, although others often attribute it as well to Puerto Rican poet Julia de Burgos. Actually, however, the phrase is part of a poem by the Puerto Rican poet Lola Rodríguez de Tió.2 For those who have visited both islands, there is a sentiment, un sentimiento, of being close to home. I have visited Cuba a number of times and, as I return to the United States, I want to stay in Cuba, just as I want to stay in Puerto Rico every time I return to the United States from my home island. In South America the name Diego Thompson is known for his distribution of Bibles, sponsored by the British and Foreign Bible Society. In Cuba and in Puerto Rico, on the other hand, Protestant pirates were the first to distribute Bibles. Later in Cuba, the Protestant leader Pedro Duarte decided that distributing Bibles was not enough. In 1884 he established a Protestant congregation, which he named Fieles a Jesús (“Faithful to Jesus”). The Episcopal Church of the United States sent missionaries to support and extend the work of Duarte, including the distribution of Bibles. In Puerto Rico, US missionaries continued to distribute Bibles and tratados (also known as “tracts,” but not to be confused with those used in the 16th-century Protestant Reformations), and in many regions the Bible became a resource for learning how to read and write. For example, US missionaries and national leaders of the Disciples of Christ evangelized the rural areas by using the simple tratados, which were based on biblical verses and related the Bible to daily life. Historian Samuel Silva Gotay quotes the following account from a missionary document: “y se visitaba casa por casa, repartiendo tratados (pequeñas reflexiones en torno a citas bíblicas con relatos y anécdotas en lenguaje sencillo).”3 From inception, Protestant missionary efforts, whether by foreigners or nationals, included the distribution of the Bible and the intention to connect the daily life experiences of Cubans and Puerto Ricans with biblical truth. Moreover, the society’s reference to evangélicos as those who left Roman Catholicism to embrace the new fe evangélica (“the Protestant faith”) clearly shows the implicit connection between el evangelio (“the gospel”), the Bible, and la identidad evangélica (“evangelical identity”): those who follow the gospel have the Bible. In fact, carrying the Bible became a symbolic action of a shift in religious alliance—from Catholic to evangélico. Hence, beyond

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the application of its verses to everyday life, the Bible—the material book— became a symbol of a new way of ordering personal and social life. The examples from Cuba and Puerto Rico below demonstrate two characteristics: they witness to resistance to colonial ideologies in both capitalist and Marxist political structures, and they embody ambiguity. On the one hand, these examples dan testimonio (“offer testimony”) to resistance and tenacity in the face of oppressive colonial power; on the other hand, they find voice and grounding within colonial structures. THE BIBLE IN CUBA: EXAMPLES ¡Los misioneros patriotas! (Cuban Missionary Patriots!) Cuba had three wars of independence: the Ten Years’ War (1868–1878), the Little War (1879–1880), and the War of Independence of 1895–1898, which escalated into the Spanish-American War. Some Protestant leaders, widely known among Caribbean historians, used the Bible to inspire and ground revolutionary activity against the Spanish Empire. One of the unique characteristics of Cuban Protestantism is that it began with missionary work from Cuban exiles. These cubanos evangélicos (“Cuban evangelicals”) preached sermons supporting revolutionary actions against the Spanish Crown and colonial hegemony and established Protestant Christian communities when they returned from their exile. A recent book edited by Carlos R. Molina Rodriguez, Protestantismo en Cuba: Recuento histórico y perspectivas desde sus orígenes hasta principios del siglo XXI,4 provides a fresh perspective on the exegetical and preaching ministry of these cubanos evangélicos who supported and fought in the different Cuban insurgencies against Spanish colonial rule. Among them are: Joaquín de Palma, an Episcopalian, known as “the Revolutionary Preacher”; and Enrique Belisario Someillán Rueda, a Methodist. Joaquín de Palma is best known for his incisive sermon commemorating the assassination of eight young medical students from the University of Havana on November 27, 1871. In his now famous revolutionary words, de Palma weaves biblical metaphors with revolutionary ideology against the Crown of Spain. Juxtaposing the death of the eight medical students with the death of Christ, de Palma reminds his audience of Christ’s words, “Do not weep for me, weep for yourselves and for your children.” He cynically cries, Walk with serenity, children of Cuba, in us the principle of error and tyranny attempts to destroy the new life of the spirit, the aspirations for freedom and conscience. In us they want to sacrifice our people and take revenge against our race. The final and fatal discharge has sound: eight bloody corpses lie with

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their faces to heaven. Fools! In the time of your imagined triumph you can hear in eternity the hour of your fall and your punishment. Children of our Patria, participants in the passion of Christ, just as our names are written in the book of life, so you will live forever in the heart and memory of the last Cuban!5

His radical biblical interpretation, with its connection between the medical students, Christ, and the Cuban people, was an invitation to revolutionary action. Someillán Rueda became the pastor of the Cuban Methodist Mission in Key West, Florida (1877). In the words of Cuban Protestant historian Rafael Cepeda and his colleague Carlos Molina Rodríguez, his sermons “were overwhelmed with biblical citations appealing for donations from Cubans in the United States to support the independence war in Cuba.” Consequently, “his church was full of Cuban immigrants.” In 1879 he returns to Cuba and begins his missionary work, characterized by a passion for una identidad evangélica y cubana (a Cuban Protestant identity).6 Someillán’s Cuban Protestant identity will carry on to the early 20th century and serve as a stepping stone for further theological reflection on mission, Caribbean identity, and church life. The Congress on Christian Work (La Habana 1929), Elite Protestant Reflection, and the Emergence of Protestant Christian Identity This anti-colonial legacy among evangélicos cubanos continues into the 20th century. In 1929 Havana served as the site of the Third Congress on Christian Work, sponsored by the Committee on Cooperation in Latin America. The Havana Congress revealed the increasing participation and sense of ownership of Latin Americans Protestants, particularly Cubans and Puerto Ricans, in these Christian Work Congresses.7 The Havana Report, written by Mexican Gonzalo Báez-Camargo, discusses the religious and social context of Latin America and identifies the Cuban context as critical for the Congress’ achievements. Evidently, the spirit of the Caribbean nation, particularly its history of Protestantism and United States intervention, contributed to the precision with which the Latin Americans presented and argued their position. Regarding the Bible, the Congress’ use of scripture is not explicit but rather implicit. For example, Báez-Camargo uses the biblical image of the Kingdom of God to ground the shift needed to make Protestantism truly Latin American. He states, que esta latinidad del Congreso no fué [sic] el resultado de una conspiración secreta ni de una rebelión violenta. Fue mas bien el resultado de una profunda conciencia y un profundo convencimiento, tanto en misioneros como en latinoamericanos, de que el reino de Dios progresará más rápidamente si los segundos

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vienen al frente como directores y responsables de la obra, en tanto los primeros ocupan el puesto de consejeros y auxiliares; fue el resultado de un convenio llevado a cabo sobre lineamientos enteramente amistosos.8

Moreover, using biblical references and imagery, the Report recommends that relationships between nationals and missionaries should require “a greater identification of the foreign element with the national element just as a program of constant justice and equity.”9 Finally, with multiple references to the history of Latin American countries, in particular Cuba, and to biblical imagery, the Report referred to nationalism in terms of the three self-principles in Christian mission: self-sustaining, self-governing, and selfpropagating. The report also discussed the commitment and strategies that Protestants needed to develop to face the social, political, and economic challenges of the time period. The Havana Congress proved to be a location where Latin American identity was reaffirmed regarding the economic and social problems of the continent. Without dismissing the imperial and interventionist policies of the United States government in Latin America, the recommendations of the Congress, inspired by both history and biblical imagery, pushed the churches to an active participation in the social issues of each country. In 1949, Rafael Cepeda, a distinguished historian and ordained minister of the Reformed Presbyterian Church of Cuba, wrote an essay on the use of the Bible in Christian Education.10 After developing a critique of the functional use of the Bible for the transmission of knowledge,11 he describes how the Bible should be used in Christian communities. He declares, La Biblia viene a ser realmente la Palabra escrita de Dios cuando se halla en relación funcional con nuestra experiencia como miembros de la comunidad cristiana en este mundo. La Biblia no llenará su función cuando se limite a ser una masa inerte de conocimientos, sino cuando venga a ser para el cristiano una fuente inagotable de experiencias reproducibles. Y esta reproducción histórica no se refiere al hecho histórico en sí, sino a los valores espirituales inbíbitos en cada experiencia.12

The essay, concise and to the point, suggests that the Bible was a book of knowledge to be learned, not to be related to experience. Cepeda alerts the Spanish-speaking Caribbean (and Latin America) to recover the relevance of the Bible to human experience rather than as a source of dogmatic, perhaps literal, interpretations. The Bible in Cuban Poetry: Dulce María Loynaz The Cuban Revolution (1959 to the present) steadily grew impatient with religion. Once the leaders of the revolution declared a socialist/communist

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revolution with ties to the USSR, the religious situation in Cuba changed dramatically. Bibles became increasingly scarce, and church attendance and participation steadily declined. With time these factors generated a radical Communist ideology that emphasized, at best, indifference to Christianity, and persecution of Christians in its worst manifestation. Ironically, during this period when Christian communities lose their religious influence, the Bible continues to permeate secular, elite, and literary circles. One example of the use of biblical imagery and references during this period of antagonism toward churches is provided by the Cuban poet Dulce María Loynaz. Her work represents what I call a decolonizing and non-church interpretation of the Bible. Loynaz was born in Havana in 1902. She died in 1997 after a successful career as a writer and poet of Cuba. She received a doctorate in law, collaborated with some of the most distinguished publishers of Cuba, and traveled throughout Europe, Asia, and the Americas. Her feminine and feminist poetry is colored by an impressionist style with a touch of deep intimacy achieved by very few Caribbean poets. In 1986, she was awarded the National Literature Award; in 1991 she received the Premio de la Crítica; and in 1992 she was awarded the Cervantes Award, which led to her appointment to the prestigious position of director of the Cuban Academy of Language. Today, young Cuban Christian leaders and theologians are rediscovering Loynaz’ poetry. In his Master of Theology thesis, for example, Cándido Quelvys Fernández Valentín provides a theological interpretation of Loynaz’ use of the Christian Bible. Fernández Valentín discovers a fresh interpretation for growing Cuban Protestant churches seeking to ground their faith in Cuban roots. His interpretative work of Loynaz’ poetry, and particularly her poetry inspired and guided by the Bible, becomes a source for a Cuban, post período especial liturgical and homiletical practices and Cuban feminist biblical interpretation. In her poem “La oración de la rosa,” scholars see in Loynaz’ work her struggle with the news that she cannot bear children. She provides a Cuban/ feminist interpretation of the Lord’s Prayer inserting brief commentaries after the traditional prayer. For example, when praying “forgive our debts as we forgive our debtors,” she prays and states: “Forgive our debts . . . of our thorns, of the one who has the weakest smell, of the one whose honey was not enough to quench the thirst of the bees; Just as we forgive of debtors . . . our debtors, men, who cut us, sell us and take us to their deadly lies, to their stupid and tasteless parties.”13 A further example that challenges traditional biblical interpretation and offers a Cuban feminist interpretation of the creation story is Loynaz’ poem “El canto a la mujer estéril” (“A Song to the Sterile Woman”). Here Loynaz confronts the norm that children define a true woman. With powerful imagery and an acute knowledge of how certain expressions of Iberian Roman

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Catholic Christianity has framed women’s identity on their reproductive system, she turns upside down that imagery and re-defines the identity of women. Her last strophes deeply moves the reader to re-discover in Eve the true identity of women. She states: “May God rot the tongue of whoever takes it against you . . . ; They do not know that you hold the key of life; they do not know that you are the shaken mother of a son who calls you from the sun.14 The Bible in Theological Formation and in the Bible Commission of the Ecumenical Council of Churches After 1989, Cuba undergoes what is known as el período especial (“the special period”).15 This is a time characterized by the rapid and permanent removal of economic aid from the collapsing USSR. The Cuban government faced severe shortages of resources like food and electricity. Such a devastating shift pushed the Cuban government to adopt a flexible policy toward the role of churches in society. Consequently, with limited resources, Christian communities began to help meet people’s basic needs. In a unique way, the churches gained political and social space by offering limited resources to the most marginalized in a deteriorating economy and providing an ethical and religious voice facing the threat of nihilism. The Cuban churches contributed, with other Cuban secular organizations, to a societal commitment to solidarity and justice. With these changes, new opportunities emerged in different Protestant and ecumenical circles. For example, the Seminario Evangélico de Teología in Matanzas partnered with the Ecumenical Council of Cuba to provide lay workshops focusing on interpretative methods and skills for reading and teaching the Bible. For these workshops, faculty from the Seminario shared the Latin American hermeneutical circle method of ver, juzgar y actuar (see, judge, and act). As an observer of some of these workshops, I saw Rafael Cepeda’s proposal in action. Leaders related biblical narratives to their personal experiences, but their interpretations did not stop there. They related the Bible to their social context, developing Christian ethics to help them alleviate suffering and pain in their communities. Given the reality of Cuba as a socialist/communist country that prohibits political dissent, I did not see any prophetic challenge of the socio-political reality. Rather, the prophetic voice continues to challenge oppressive structures in the church and to call for unity and for the church to be relevant to the changing of Cuban society, particularly those related to gender, sexual orientation, immigration, family structures, inter-religious dialogue, and youth and children. One such Protestant Christian project is the Kairos Center, located in the First Baptist Church of Matanzas. Established in 1994, the mission of the

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center is “to offer liturgical training to Cuban churches and partnerships that encourage a discipleship of service and human solidarity, integrating art and social work in a renewed fashion that keeps with the spirit and teachings of Jesus of Nazareth.”16 In an interview with Wanda Hernández, general coordinator of the Kairos Center, it became evident that the use of the Bible is secondary in the center’s mission and ministry. Hernández stated, “The Bible is an inspiration for liturgical renewal, art, and our social mission.” When asked about any particular framework of interpretation, she responded, “We seek in the Bible the inspiration for our people to discover their humanity and creativity. The Bible is a first step in our mission, but it is not a straitjacket or a source of rigid knowledge and doctrines.”17 In these workshops on biblical interpretation, I also observed a scarcity of Bibles for church leaders, particularly in the rural areas. In the small group discussions, biblical narratives had been printed out and copied. Prior to 1992, the Cuban constitution declared Cuba an atheist state. As discussed above, this decision resulted in tensions and hostility between religions and the state. The período especial created new conditions, and in 1992 the Cuban constitution was amended to declare Cuba a secular, rather than atheist, state. This change prompted the Cuban Ecumenical Council to be intentional about the production and distribution of Bibles on the island. In a presentation, Rev. Alain Montero, Executive Secretary of the Bible Commission of the Ecumenical Council of Cuba, stated, “If you take a box of Bibles out to the corner, in a matter of minutes the box will be empty. Cubans are hungry for the Bible, and after many years of work our commission, with the Bible Society, is providing and distributing the Bible to the Cuban churches and to the people.”18 In this presentation, Rev. Montero showed the different types of Bibles available, with more than 17 bible products now accessible to Cuban society and photos of church celebrations during the Bible distributions on the island. It was evident that Christian communities— Catholic, Protestant, and Pentecostal—were excited. Rev. Montero shared that the Cuban people are creating una hermeneútica de lo inmediato (“a hermeneutic of the immediate”). He gave the example of the parable of the prodigal son and named multiple themes that emerged from this narrative, such as family relations in the Cuban culture, the complexities of big extended families living in households where personal boundaries are unclear, and, of particular interest, family members who emigrate seeking better conditions but for multiple reasons (separation from a partner in the new context, divorce, lack of cultural cohesion, etc.) return to Cuba and the family.19 He also raised questions regarding this method, when, for instance, “a person reads Psalm 23:1, ‘El Señor es mi pastor y nada me faltará’ (‘The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want’), and there is no food in the refrigerator.”

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THE BIBLE IN PUERTO RICO: EXAMPLES The Bible in Music In the 1930s, the grassroots Disciples of Christ in Puerto Rico—from then on the Discípulos de Cristo—experienced a revival during the Great Depression and after one of the most devastating hurricanes in Puerto Rico’s history, San Ciprián (1932). Under dire social conditions, Puerto Rican Discípulos de Cristo discovered the power of prayer and experienced a pouring down of the Holy Spirit. Challenging missionaries and their imposition of liturgical patterns from predominantly midwestern Disciples of Christ in the United States, new biblically based hymns with peasant musical rhythms entered the worship life of congregations and continued to spread throughout the Discípulos de Cristo on the island. The lyrics of this new hymnody are very evangélicas—biblically based to the point of immediate recognition of the biblical text with the pedagogical purpose of teaching the Bible, a practice that is in fact very Wesleyan in its pedagogical approach toward the laity. Two characteristics show the resistance of the Discípulos to the missionary/colonial ideology and theology of the US Disciples of Christ. First, the rhythms broke with the use of piano and organ and incorporated the guitar, the cuatro, a string instrument used in música jíbara (“peasant music”) in Puerto Rico, and simple percussion instruments such as the bongos and the güiro. Second, the use of Scripture in the lyrics broke with the colonial theology of Iberian Roman Catholicism, re-shaping the religious imaginary from a collective religious and national identity to a personal and modern religious and national identity proposal—from we are all Roman Catholic to salvation is personal. Hence, the use of Scripture in hymn lyrics offered possible discontinuities with traditional sources of identity, opened the door for new ways of being Puerto Rican and Christian, and generated new religious space for diverse Puerto Rican religious experiences. Ironically, the emergence of this new hymnody was contested by missionaries. They locked the doors of the church buildings. They preferred to stop the growth and vitality of the Discípulos’ rediscovery of biblical narratives through song and new rhythms. Yet, the national leadership of the Discípulos pursued its process of decolonization using US courts and claiming freedom of religion. The same judges who consolidated the power of the empire in legal jurisprudence contributed to the early steps of the decolonizing theology and practice of worship of the Discípulos. The colonial legal authorities provided just the leverage needed for a decolonizing process.20 A good example of this hymnody comes from after the first decade of the revival. It was written by Ramona Álamo, a poor peasant woman from Dorado, Puerto Rico. Its lyrics are as follows:

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To begin anew our journey in Christ Oh merciful Christ, guide us with your light. Give us new strength to follow you. Let your grace overwhelm us!       Chorus: To begin, to begin, to begin anew again       Brethren in Christ, to begin anew again! God calls the church to begin anew. Our minds to heaven should always be, Always trusting and in fellowship. We will receive greater blessing!       Chorus: To begin, to begin, to begin anew again       Brethren in Christ, to begin anew again! Let us begin by searching in our souls The great sacrifice of Christ in the cross. His blessed blood, shed it was. Let us all seek to be faithful to Him.21

The lyrics are simple and include multiple biblical references, a characteristic of the hymnody of the Puerto Rican Discípulos de Cristo. The lyrics of this hymn do not articulate an anti-imperial ideological position. Yet, by using biblical references, personal conversion experiences, and breaking with US worship styles and theology, Puerto Ricans Discípulos called for a new beginning, which represented a discontinuity with transmitted theology and the emergence of a Puerto Rican evangélico/a identity. THE MAGAZINE EL DISCÍPULO The magazine El Discípulo is a Sunday school resource published by the Iglesia Cristiana (Discípulos de Cristo) en Puerto Rico. For more than twenty-five years, El Discípulo has provided local congregations in Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, some regions in Cuba, other countries in Latin America, and US Latino/a Christian communities with Sunday school lessons. Written by mostly Puerto Rican Christian leaders, the lessons follow the International School Lessons format and philosophy,22 yet seek to provide “autochthonous Christian formation to our Christian communities.”23 Most contributors to El Discípulo are Christian leaders strongly grounded in church life. The general editor of the Sunday school journal stated: “los escritores conocen la iglesia. . . . Escriben conociendo la iglesia y siguen una hermeneútica ecclesial.”24 Among the writers are faculty from the Seminario Evangélico de Puerto Rico, distinguished local pastors and church leaders with graduate theological credentials, and some international Protestant figures from the United States and Latin America.

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In El Discípulo, one can find many multilayered interpretations of the Bible. The lessons use biblical narratives to interpret the contextual situation of a colonized people without subscribing to any particular ideological proposal. In general, writers interpret biblical narratives to ground Christian ethical values in contexts of corruption, challenge patterns of violence, particularly domestic violence, and promote a spirituality that is non-dualistic and demands social engagement, ultimately offering a gospel of salvation and hope. Explicitly, the biblical interpretation of El Discípulo affirms the role and mission of the church without dismissing God’s activity in the world. For the editor and writers of El Discípulo, the church continues to be the center of God’s activity and the main protagonist in God’s mission. Despite its subtle ecclesiocentric theology, the journal publishes a contextual, particularly Puerto Rican, interpretation of biblical texts. Hence, different lessons may include both anti-colonial and pro-colonial sentiments. Although there is no clear ideological discourse, except that ecclesiocentric emphasis, the journal seeks to address social, cultural, and political problems that affect the well-being of Puerto Ricans. However, there is one exception. During the struggle to remove the US Navy from the island municipality of Vieques in the early 2000s, the Ecumenical Coalition of Churches for Vieques was created.25 The Discípulos de Cristo actively participated in the Coalition. There were publications in El Discípulo which provided biblical interpretations that supported nonviolent participation by churches. The General Pastor of the Discípulos de Cristo stated that “as we faced the death of David Sanes, the church woke up and became sensitive.”26 From that point on, the Discípulos de Cristo prepared educational material based on the Bible to ground the denomination’s participation in the Coalition. Biblical themes such as nonviolent action, the dignity of human beings, civil disobedience (desobediencia evangélica civil), and the protection of the environment were published under the umbrella of extracurricular material from El Discípulo. Moreover, during this time the Discípulos de Cristo used a weekly television program to promote these “biblical ideals” to all of the community.27 THE BIBLE IN THE DOMINICAN REPUBLIC Juan Luis Guerra: The Bible Goes Public Merengue and bachata are two unmistakably Dominican musical genres. Juan Luis Guerra Seijas, also known as Juan Luis Guerra, is a Dominican singer, songwriter, and producer who has sold over 30 million records. He has been awarded 18 Latin Grammy Awards, two Grammy Awards,

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and two Latin Billboard Music Awards. Most recently, Guerra won three Latin Grammy Awards in 2010, including Album of the Year, and the Latin Grammy Award for Producer of the Year in 2012. In a blog post by Héctor Avilés on Juan Luis Guerra’s “Todo tiene su hora” (2014) album, Avilés notes, under the heading “Christianity Smuggled”: I mean “smuggled” in a good way, in that you can enjoy the album even if you’re not a fan of gospel music. “Todo Tiene Su Hora” will sure [sic] bring more Grammy Awards to Dominican star Juan Luis Guerra. “El Capitan” is the one cut with a clear religious theme, where Christ is clearly referenced as being the captain of our boat, in a nicely done life metaphor. However, there are subtle religious reference [sic] in a couple of other songs. The one on the top of my mind is in “Todo Tiene su Hora,” where toward the end he mentions that the love that has been the center theme of the song is a gift from God (“si [sic] es un regalo del Señor”). But only towards the very end of the song is where this is snugged in.28

Guerra includes Christian themes with literal biblical references in many of his songs. For example, “Para Ti”29 makes references to miracles in the Bible, from the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament, as a testimony of faith. Just as in the tratados, this song connects daily life challenges with literal promises found in the Bible. Many of Guerra’s lyrics are literal readings/interpretations of the Bible connected to the personal life of the listener. The lyrics closely follow a testimonial format typical of Pentecostal and Charismatic churches. Guerra’s “El Capitán,”30 is based on Mark 4:35–41. The song says that Jesus is the captain of the boat, so there is nothing to fear. However, aware and critical of the colonial past and present of the Caribbean, Guerra uses imagery that may point to anti-colonial sentiments. Guerra may be following other Caribbean artists like Rubén Blades, who in his song “Tiburón”31 uses the image of a shark to represent US interventionist policies. In Guerra’s last verse, he suggests, Y de pronto vino un tiburón Con cara de pillo y de ladrón Tú lo que quieres que yo busque a mi capitán32

Imagery and metaphors in music are intended for open interpretation. Though Guerra never names the shark as a symbol for United States, following the history of the merengue and salsa genres of the Caribbean, it is very possible that Guerra alludes to the United States as the dangerous shark who is out to steal. What I find interesting about Guerra’s Christian and biblical lyrics is that he creates a communicative vehicle for references that connect literal

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interpretations of the Bible with people’s life. It is like un tratado musical (“a musical tract”), presenting biblical imagery of hope, healing, and salvation. CONCLUSIONS: THE BIBLE AND THE SEA My uncle, who was a fisherman in Boquerón, Puerto Rico, referred to his relation to the sea as one of “mutual respect.” He used to say: “Always respect the sea. Never take for granted her fury and her provisions. Never take for granted her mysterious awe and beauty. She will be your companion. She can be your assassin.” My family has always used the feminine pronoun to refer to the sea. I have noticed that older fisherman refer to the sea as feminine. It is like a love affair, a special kinship. Even the women in my family refer to the sea in this way. I never raised a question about the language to refer to the sea. In The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway—an American in love with the Caribbean—explains the old man’s use of la mar in the following way: “He [the old man] always thought of the sea as la mar which is what people call her in Spanish when they love her. Sometimes those who love her say bad things of her but they are always said as though she were a woman. Some of the younger fishermen . . . spoke of her as a contestant or a place or even an enemy. But the old man always thought of her as feminine.”33 In the novel, the sea becomes the source of life and a criterion to judge the “state of being” of the old fisherman. The old man goes eighty-four days without catching fish, making him salao, the worst kind of unlucky. Yet, he constantly returns to the sea, for the sea is not only the provider of food and sustenance but also the context where the old man’s fate and dignity are decided. Interpretations of the Bible in the Spanish-speaking Caribbean are, as I have shown above, multilayered and complex. Like the ebb and flow of the sea, they move constantly. The vitality of the Bible is thus to be found in its unrestricted appropriations—whether for good or for evil. Thus, in círculos evangélicos (“Protestant circles”), the broad variety of interpretations illustrate the multiple and contested uses of this religious book. NOTES 1. Carlos F. Cardoza Orlandi, “‘Lámpara es a mis pies tu palabra’”: Biblical Authority at the Crossroads,” in Engaging Biblical Authority: Perspectives on the Bible as Scripture, ed. William P. Brown (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007), 27–35.

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2. English translation: “Puerto Rico and Cuba, two wings of the same bird.” This is a very common phrase among Puerto Ricans and Cubans when they meet each other. It is a literary link between two peoples. Yet, the phrase is a strophe from a poem authored by Lola Rodriguez de Tió (1843–1924) in her book Mi libro de Cuba (La Habana: Imprenta La Moderna, 1893). The strophe clearly refers to the colonial legacy of both islands, “Cuba y Puerto Rico son / De un pájaro las dos alas / Reciben flores y balas / sobre el mismo corazón.” 3. English translation: “And [we would make] house-to-house visits, distributing tratados (short reflections around a biblical text with stories and anecdotes in simple language). See Samuel Silva Gotay, Protestantismo y política en Puerto Rico, 1898–1930 (San Juan: Editorial de la Universidad de Puerto Rico, 1997), 173. 4. The material in this section is based on multiple sources by Cuban historians. Molina Rodriguez’s book constitutes the most recent history of such figures and their roles in the wars of independence. This is the first volume in a trilogy of historical sources recovering the history of Protestantism in Cuba. See Protestantismo en Cuba: Recuento histórico y perspectivas desde sus or[igenes hasta principios del siglo XXI (La Habana: Seminario Evangélico de Teología, Editorial Caminos: 2011). 5. Molina Rodriguez, Protestantismo en Cuba, 13–15. 6. Molina Rodriguez, Protestantismo en Cuba, 13–15. 7. Samuel G. Inman, Evangelicals at Havana (New York: Committee on Cooperation in Latin America, 1929), 118–134. 8. Gonzalo Báez-Camargo, Hacia la renovación religiosa en Hispanoamérica (Méjico: Casa Unida de Publicaciones, 1930), 137. English translation: “that this latinity of the Congress was not the result of a secret conspiracy or of a violent revolution. It was more the result of a profound awareness and profound conviction, as much in missionaries as in Latin Americans, that the Kingdom [sic] of God will progress more rapidly if the latter came to the front as directors and agents for the work [task, mission, ministry], and the former occupied the positions of counselors and helpers; this was the result of an agreement developed entirely along friendly lines” (Translation is mine). 9. Báez-Camargo, Hacia la renovación religiosa, 167. 10. Rafael Cepeda, “El lugar de la Biblia en la Educación Cristiana,” El Heraldo Cristiano (La Habana) XVI.10 (diciembre 1949): 6–7. 11. Cepeda, “El lugar de la Biblia,” 6. 12. Cepeda, “El lugar de la Biblia,” 7. English translation: “The Bible becomes the written Word of God when it is in a relational function with our experiences as members of the Christian community around the world. The Bible will not fulfill its function when limited to an inert mass of knowledge, but rather when it becomes to the Christian an inexhaustible fountain of reproduced experiences. And this reproduction does not refer to the historical event per se, but rather to the spiritual values intrinsic to each experience” (Translation mine). 13. Dulce María Loynaz, “El Padre Nuestro,” quoted in Cándido Quelvys Fernández, “Dulce María Loynaz, su poesía y la teología,” Tesis de Maestría, Seminario Evangélico de Teología, Matanzas, Cuba, 2013, páginas sueltas.For a complete version of the poem “La oración de la rosa,” see the following link: http://bib.cervantesvirtual.com/bib_autor/Loynaz/oracion.shtml. Also, the reader can find the poem in

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the following book, En torno al Padre Nuestro, Cuadernos Narcea, Madrid: Narcea SA Ediciones, 77–78. 14. For a performance of the poem follow the following link: https://www.palabravirtual.com/index.php?ir=ver_video.php&wid=300&t=Canto+a+la+mujer+est%E9 ril&p=Dulce+Mar%EDa+Loynaz&o=Carme+Feito+Maeso. This poem is also analyzed in Quelvys Fernández, “Dulce María Loynaz, su poesía y la teología,” páginas sueltas. 15. Some argue that this período especial has not ended but has taken different forms of economic dependency, the most recent one a significant dependency on Venezuela. Also, this período especial has witnessed the normalizing of diplomatic relations between Cuba and the United States, although the recent US elections have put some positive developments under the Obama administration on hold. 16. Kairos brochure, May 24, 2017, Matanzas Cuba. See also Kairos Facebook page, https://www.facebook.com/Centro-Kairós-para-las-Artes-la-Liturgia-y-el-ServicioSocial-300609440594/ 17. Interview Wanda Hernández, general coordinator of the leaders of the Kairos Center, First Baptist Church of Matanzas, May 24, 2017. 18. Rev. Alain Montero, Executive Secretary for the Bible Commission, Ecumenical Council of Cuba, interview/presentation, Havana, May 29, 2017. (Translation mine). 19. Rev. Alain Montero, Executive Secretary for the Bible Commission, Ecumenical Council of Cuba, interview/presentation, Havana, May 29, 2017. (Translation mine). 20. One example of such hymns is “Seguiremos en las huellas del maestro,” (“We Shall Follow in the Footsteps of the Teacher”), which is a narrative of the death of Jesus with an evangelistic and discipleship call. To get an idea of the singing and rhythm of the hymn, see, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZZYKLC6NSs 21. Ramona Álamo, A Empezar de Nuevo (Bayamón: Iglesia Cristiana (Discípulos de Cristo) en Puerto Rico; tranlation is mine. 22. “The Uniform Series is a six-year plan for reading and studying the Bible. By participating in the Uniform Series, a believer will be given help in knowing the content of the Bible, understanding its message, and responding to that message by living a life of faith and love. The Bible is, of course, central to this plan. An effort is made to take at least one lesson or daily Bible reading from each book of the Bible over a six-year span. Naturally, some parts of the Bible are more “teachable” than others, and these sections get more attention in the series.” (http://www.standardlesson.com/ international-sunday-school-lessons-issluniform-series/) 23. Rev. Eliezer Álvarez, Associate Pastor for Christian Education, Iglesia Cristiana (Discípulos de Cristo) en Puerto Rico, interview, December 17, 2015. 24. English translation: “The writers know the church . . . they write knowing the church and follow an ecclesial hermeneutic” (Translation is mine). 25. For a detailed history of the Coalition, see Lester McGrath-Andino, “Intifada: Church and State Conflict in Vieques, Puerto Rico,” in Latino Religion and Civic Activism in the United States (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 263–78.

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26. Rev. Esteban González-Doble, Pastor General, Iglesia Cristiana (Discípulos de Cristo) en Puerto Rico, interview, October 2015. 27. Rev. Esteban González-Doble, Pastor General, Iglesia Cristiana (Discípulos de Cristo) en Puerto Rico, interview, October 2015. The program Juntos a la Mesa dedicated time to biblically ground the actions to be taken by the Coalition. 28. Héctor Avilés, “Latino Music Café,” http://www.latinomusiccafe. com/2015/03/20/juan-luis-guerra-in-the-zone-with-todo-tiene-su-hora/ 29. Juan Luis Guerra, “Para Ti,” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8q2YocNDZo 30. Juan Luis Guerra, “El Capitán,” https://sonichits.com/video/Juan_Luis_Guerra/ El_Capitán 31. Rubén Blades, “Tiburón,” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACzYb_y38pM 32. Lyrics are readily available online. What follows is a very free translation of my own:And suddenly I saw a sharkWith the face of a thiefWhat you want is for me to get my captain 33. Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1952), 26–27.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Álamo, Ramona. A Empezar de Nuevo. Bayamón: Iglesia Cristiana [Discípulos de Cristo] en Puerto Rico. Álvarez, Eliezer. Iglesia Cristiana (Discípulos de Cristo) en Puerto Rico. Interview. December 17, 2015. Avilés, Héctor. “Latino Music Café.” http://www.latinomusiccafe.com/2015/03/20/ juan-luis-guerra-in-the-zone-with-todo-tiene-su-hora/ Báez-Camargo, Gonzalo. Hacia la renovación religiosa en Hispanoamérica. Méjico: Casa Unida de Publicaciones, 1930. Blades, Rubén. “Tiburón.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACzYb_y38pM Cardoza Orlandi, Carlos F. “‘Lámpara es a mis pies tu palabra’: Biblical Authority at the Crossroads.” In Engaging Biblical Authority: Perspectives on the Bible as Scripture. Edited by William P. Brown, 27–35. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007. “Centro Kairós para las Artes, la Liturgia y el Servicio Social.” Facebook. https:// www.facebook.com/Centro-Kairós-para-las-Artes-la-Liturgia-y-el-Servicio-Social-300609440594/ Cepeda, Rafael. “El lugar de la Biblia en la Educación Cristiana.” El Heraldo Cristiano (La Habana) XVI, no. 10 (diciembre 1949): 6–7. De Tió, Lola Rodriguez. Mi libro de Cuba. La Habana: Imprenta La Moderna, 1893. En torno al Padre Nuestro. Cuadernos Narcea, Madrid: Narcea SA Ediciones, 77–78. Fernández, Cándido Quelvys. “Dulce María Loynaz, su poesía y la teología.” Tesis de Maestría, Seminario Evangélico de Teología. Matanzas, Cuba, 2013. páginas sueltas. González-Doble, Esteban. Iglesia Cristiana (Discípulos de Cristo) en Puerto Rico. Interview. October 2015.

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Gotay, Samuel Silva. Protestantismo y política en Puerto Rico, 1898–1930. San Juan: Editorial de la Universidad de Puerto Rico, 1997. Guerra, Juan Luis. “El Capitán.” https://sonichits.com/video/Juan_Luis_Guerra/ El_Capitán Guerra, Juan Luis. “Para Ti.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8q2YocNDZo Hemingway, Ernest. The Old Man and the Sea. London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1952. Hernández, Wanda. First Baptist Church of Matanzas. Interview. May 24, 2017. Inman, Samuel G. Evangelicals at Havana. New York: Committee on Cooperation in Latin America, 1929. McGrath-Andino, Lester. “Intifada: Church and State Conflict in Vieques, Puerto Rico.” In Latino Religion and Civic Activism in the United States. Edited by Gastón Espinosa, Virgilio Elizondo, and Jesse Miranda, 263–78. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Montero, Alain. Ecumenical Council of Cuba, Havana. Interview/presentation. May 29, 2017. Rodríguez, Molina. Protestantismo en Cuba: Recuento histórico y perspectivas desde sus or[igenes hasta principios del siglo XXI. La Habana: Seminario Evangélico de Teología, Editorial Caminos: 2011.

Chapter 14

Without the Bible A New Liberation Theology Ivan Petrella

Thomas Jefferson, main author of the Declaration of Independence and third President of the United States, once picked up a penknife and cut up his Bible to remove all descriptions of miracles and anything that smacked of superstition, keeping only what did not contradict the use of his reason. So committed was Jefferson to the priority of human reason that he went as far as to remove Christ’s resurrection. The end result was a volume which he titled The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth, otherwise known as the “Jefferson Bible.” At the time, taking a penknife—literal or figurative—to the Bible was a radical move. Indeed, political opponents accused Jefferson of being a “howling atheist.”1 In this chapter, however, I will propose that liberation theologians should risk the same accusation and take Jefferson’s example a step further by abandoning the Bible as a basis for theology. To develop this argument, I will draw from scholarship in biblical studies, religion and violence, and Latin American Liberation Theology. The chapter develops in three parts. First, I briefly outline the context within which liberation theologians today work. Recognizing this context is necessary to understanding why the Bible no longer can serve as a foundation for theological work in the liberationist vein. Second, I will argue that progressive religious movements, whether liberation theology or other variants, cannot escape intellectual dishonesty as long as they continue to rely on the Bible as a foundation for their arguments. Third, I will show that liberation theology itself, at times, has raised doubts as to whether the Bible plays any useful function for the practitioner. Finally, I hint at an alternative vision, another possible future, for liberation theology.

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CONTEXT OF LIBERATION THEOLOGY TODAY In the 1990’s the fall of socialism marked the broad intellectual context within which many Latin American liberation theologians worked. This was the event that set the terms for rethinking liberation theology.2 Much has happened since 1989, and the fall of socialism no longer can stand as a single defining event. Nobel Prize winning economist Joseph Stiglitz provides an alternative. He nicely frames the context as the fall of two walls: “In this sense, the fall of Wall Street is for market fundamentalism what the fall of the Berlin Wall was for communism—it tells the world that this way of economic organization turns out not to be sustainable. In the end, everyone says, that model doesn’t work. This moment is a marker that the claims of financial market liberalization were bogus. . . . Everyone in the world will say now that this is the end of market fundamentalism.”3 The past two decades, therefore, witnessed the demise of a fundamentalism of the left and the state and a fundamentalism of the right and the market. While appealing because of its almost intuitive simplicity, a liberation theologian must reject this option for a least two reasons. In the first place, Stiglitz’s framing of our contemporary situation is eurocentric or what could be called “first-world centric.” For him, the events that mark our intellectual framework are taking place or took place in Europe and the United States— events internal to those regions expanded to affect the entire globe. They remain, at least tacitly, the regions of world-historical significance. Second, Stiglitz has nothing to say about religion and its role in the contemporary world. In both instances he retains the biases and blind-spots that have marked the history of Western thought.4 I want to propose an alternative framework. It also sees two collapses as marking the framework within which liberation theologians need to think. However, these collapses did not occur twenty years apart, but happened in the same year and scarcely a few months from each other. The world which liberation theology must deal with is framed as follows: on the one hand, by the collapse of the Twin Towers in Manhattan on September 11, 2001; on the other hand, by the collapse of Argentina’s economy in December of that same year. The first takes place on American soil but is generated elsewhere, beyond the confines of Europe and the United States. The second takes place in Latin America, in a developing country, and proved consequential not just for the region but also for the first world. Both, moreover, reveal the limitations the Bible poses for theological work today.

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LIMITATIONS OF THE BIBLE AS FOUNDATION FOR PROGRESSIVE RELIGIOUS MOVEMENTS First Collapse and Consequences: New York The attack on New York’s World Trade Center should have made vivid the dangers posed by the reliance on sacred texts and the promotion of a culture where those texts retain undue influence. That is, as long books such as the Bible remain central to argumentation, extremist religious violence is a possibility. For this reason it is unacceptable to retain a simplistic reading of the Bible as inherently liberationist or to just gloss over problematic passages. Take, for example, the exodus narrative so close to the heart of liberation theologians.5 In his classic A Theology of Liberation, Gustavo Gutiérrez describes its significance in the following manner: “The liberation of Israel is a political action. It is the breaking away from a situation of despoliation and misery and the beginning of the construction of a just and fraternal society. . . . And this fact is a political liberation through which Yahweh expresses his love for his people and the gift of total liberation received.”6 Gutiérrez follows the traditional and typical reading of the text, inherited from Judaism, where the exodus is a story of human freedom through divine deliverance. The evil oppressor is defeated; the oppressed are freed. Exodus, therefore, is a central and enduring feature within Judaism and Christianity in general as well as for liberation theologians in particular. “The Exodus,” Gutiérrez writes “is the long march towards the promised land in which Israel can establish a society free from misery and alienation.”7 In Is Religion Killing Us? Violence in the Bible and the Quran, however, Jack Nelson-Pallmeyer develops a devastating critique of this kind of reading of the exodus story in particular and the Bible in general. For him, instead, the most generous interpretation of exodus is as a story about God’s violence. Exodus shows that “God’s violence and human violence done in God’s name are the legitimate and preferred means to justice.”8 The violence justified, moreover, is terrifying. God murders every firstborn in Egypt, hardens the heart of the Egyptians, and kills the pharaoh’s entire army.9 Exodus, moreover, cannot be read in isolation. How is the society “free from misery and alienation” to which Gutiérrez refers to be established?10 The book of Deuteronomy states: When the Lord your God brings you into the land that you are about to enter and occupy, and he clears away many nations before you . . . seven nations mightier and more numerous than you—and when the Lord your God gives them over to you and you defeat them, then you must utterly destroy them. Make no covenant

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with them and show them no mercy. . . . But this is how you must deal with them: break down their altars, smash their pillars, hew down their sacred poles, and burn their idols with fire. For you are a people holy to the Lord your God; the Lord your God has chosen you out of all the peoples on earth to be his people, his treasured possession. (Deut 7:1–2, 5–6)11

Nelson-Pallmeyer explains: God, according to the Hebrew Scriptures, is a determined and powerful land thief who steals from others in order to give to the chosen people: “To your descendants I give this land, from the river of Egypt to the great river, the river Euphrates, the land of the Kenites, the Kenizzites, the Kadmonites, the Hittites, the Perizzites, the Rephaim, the Amorites, the Canaanites, the Girgashites, and the Jebusites” (Gen 15:18–21). God ordained land thievery is accompanied by divinely sanctioned genocide. After taking the land you must utterly destroy them . . . show them no mercy. (Deut 7:2)12

The most important part of Nelson-Pallmeyer’s argument is not, however, the identification of violent passages in the Bible.13 His main contribution is the claim that there are narrative structures—the exodus, the exile, and apocalypticism—that sow the potential for violence. The problem, therefore, runs deeper and cannot be solved by merely eradicating problematic passages in the text. We have already touched upon the first narrative structure. As we saw, reading beyond the particular passages in the Exodus story, what emerges is a narrative that legitimizes God’s violence and violence done in God’s name. In this case, it is a violence designed to liberate the chosen people—whoever in history they might be. The second story line, the exile, reverses the direction of violence. Historically, it emerges from the Israelite exile in Babylon after the destruction of the first temple in Jerusalem. How was this tragic event to be explained? Simply, put, God was punishing the chosen people for their sins. So, while exodus reveals God’s violence in the service of the chosen people, exile displays God’s violence against that same people’s disobedience. Exile, therefore, is punishing violence as displayed in this terrifying passage, from the book of Leviticus: But if you will not listen to me . . . then I will do this to you: I will bring on you sudden terror, wasting diseases and fever that will destroy your sight and sap your strength. You will plant seed in vain, because your enemies will eat it. I will set my face against you so that you will be defeated by your enemies; those who hate you will rule over you, and you will flee even when no one is pursuing you. . . . If in spite of this you still do not listen to me but continue to be hostile toward me, then in my anger I will be hostile toward you, and I

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myself will punish you for your sins seven times over. You will eat the flesh of your sons and the flesh of your daughters. I will scatter you among the nations and will draw out my sword and pursue you. As for those of you who are left, I will make their hearts so fearful in the lands of their enemies that the sound of a windblown leaf will put them to flight. They will run as though fleeing from the sword, and they will fall, even though no one is pursuing them. (Lev 26:14, 16–17, 27–30, 33, 36–37)

As Nelson-Pallmeyer points out, the Bible is predicated upon a simple scheme: if you obey God, you prosper; if you disobey, you suffer. In the first instance, God will destroy your enemies; in the second, God might very well destroy you. Either way, violence is central to the message conveyed.14 Finally, apocalypticism, the third narrative structure, radicalizes this violence by placing it in the context of an ultimate and all defining battle between good and evil.15 Anyone with a measure of biblical literacy knows that the Bible is a complex text—compiled over centuries and including many traditions—that has been used to justify a variety of positions on the same topic. It has justified slavery and argued for its abolishment, oppressed women or emancipated them, persecuted homosexuals and empowered them. It is precisely for this reason that it is unacceptable for liberation theologians to operate methodologically in the same way as the religious right does in the United States— picking and choosing the parts that serve an argument while discarding the rest. That is, the traditional response to problematic passages in the Bible by progressive religious thinkers, which includes liberation theologians, has been to ignore them. In this aspect, liberation theologians and other religious leftists reveal themselves as methodologically conservative as the Christian right. This approach suffers from at least two flaws. In the first instance, it is intellectually dishonest and fails to face head-on the problematic structures and mindsets—exodus, exile, and apocalypticism—that feed the religious fundamentalisms that today beset the globe. The logic of the exodus narrative, for example, is a mainstay of Jewish settlers in the occupied territories. For them, every grain of sand of the biblical Israel was given to the Jewish people, via Abraham, by God. Given that it is God’s imperative that the Jews colonize these territories, any and all violence against Palestinians and others is legitimate.16 Similarly, the logic of the exile narrative is central to the mindset of Islamic fundamentalists. For them, the decline of Islamic nations and their oppression by the “West” stems from having allowed development and innovation that depart from the supposedly original teachings of the Qur’an. Decline, in this view, is a result of God punishing the faithful for having abandoned true Islam. One must, therefore, return to the practices and teachings of the early 7th century, turning back the

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clock on a host of conquests for women and other traditionally disadvantage groups.17 The logic of apocalypticism, finally, is a key part of the narrative by which the Christian right unconditionally supports not only the State of Israel but also the settlement of the occupied territories. For them, Jesus Christ will return when all biblical Israel is controlled by the Jewish people. In this way the theology of the Christian right reinforces the theology of the settlers and vice versa.18 In the second instance, the focus on the Bible is an obstacle to the increasing plurality of beliefs that is an encouraging characteristic of our modern world, precisely because it stands in opposition to fundamentalism. As Peter Berger and Anton Zijderveld have argued, modernity’s distinguishing trait is not secularity but plurality—a situation where people with different values peacefully interact and coexist.19 Increasingly, people live in cities where they inevitably rub elbows with others with different customs. Internets, radio, television, movies, more immigration, are all elements that also force a myriad of viewpoints upon people. The end result is what Berger and Zijderveld, following the sociology of knowledge, call “cognitive contamination.” In a nutshell: when you start to meet face to face and enter into dialogue with those who have different values and worldviews, it becomes harder to see them as perverse. Their views might even have some truth. As an example, they turn to a fascinating experiment organized by two psychologists, Kurt Lewin and Milton Rokeach, called the “Three Christs of Ypsilanti,” after a psychiatric hospital in Michigan where three different patients claimed to be Jesus Christ.20 The experiment consisted, basically, of bringing them together and observing their interaction. The psychologists describe how two of the patients managed to reconcile their christological claims with the other by constructing an ecumenical theology that took them both into account. This process, Berger and Zijderveld argue, also happens at the level of communities, leading to a shift in our values and culture: the accident of your context of birth matters less and free election matters more. Increasingly, religious identity is chosen rather than inherited, and so it is not surprising that the language of consumer culture has found its way into religion; many speak of religious “preference.” One can choose to be Catholic or Buddhist or Muslim. All the religions become a live possibility. The cultivation of plurality and cognitive contamination must be encouraged as an alternative to religious fundamentalism. Gandhi, in fact, can be understood as espousing this understanding of religion. Gandhi argued that, as an Indian, he stood in a special relationship with Hinduism but that, as a human being, all religions were his as well. As a part of the collective inheritance of humankind, they belong to us all.21 Taken to its extreme, cognitive contamination would lead to the development of multi-religious individuals. Today, models of religious pluralism stop at multi-religious nations; nations

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where many religions peacefully co-exist. Religions, however, are still watertight compartments where people are not allowed to belong to more than one or to borrow the ideas and practices of another, without feeling like they are traitors to their faith. To build a life with elements from different religions, on the other hand, is to tear down the walls between faiths that makes fundamentalism possible.22 It is also a response to what John Dewey saw as the most important problem with religious truth—not this or that article of faith, but rather the method of imparting that truth, by authority, top down, incompatible with a democratic society.23 Meeting the challenge posed by fundamentalism, therefore, requires a radical reassessment of the role played by the Bible within liberation theology. This reassessment is demanded by intellectual honesty and the increasingly plural nature of the modern world. Overcoming “bibliolatry” is an overdue task that must wait no more.24 To do so, theologians in general, as well as liberation theologians in particular, need to play a role in revising the role of the Bible and other sacred texts play in their work. Second Collapse and Consequences: Buenos Aires The second collapse that frames the context of liberation theology context is the crash of Argentina’s economy at the end of 2001. Modernity is not just pluralist; Argentina’s collapse reveals, or reminds us, that modernity is also idolatrous. Here I am referring to a classic liberationist theme: the mark of an idolatrous logic is that it requires human sacrifices—an abstract ideal takes priority over human life. The claim is that the modern world is governed by ways of thinking that literally justify suffering and even taking life.25 The collapse of the Argentine economy is central for four reasons that I can here only deal with briefly. First, the crisis in Europe and the financial collapse in the United States were all, to some degree, replays of Argentina’s collapse of 2001. Second, the popular resistance to measures dealing with that crisis—the marches and burnings in London or Athens; the occupy movements—were anticipated in and adopted from Argentina. Third, Argentina provides several warnings: avoid the siren call of populism, facile statements about “the collapse of capitalism,” and simplistic divisions between right and left—all of which impede solutions. These are ways to evade the hard work of truly examining the causes of crises and the differences in the ways that countries navigated them as well as the development of historical projects that could serve better in the future. Finally, Argentina and the subsequent crises in the United States and Europe teach that idolatry is not grand but small, not general but particular. Idolatry is not a comprehensive and monolithic system. Rather, it is grounded in particular decisions, sets of rules, and legal

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regimes, as well as in the collusion between interests and plain old-fashioned dishonesty.26 LIBERATION THEOLOGY: DOUBTS ABOUT THE BIBLE AS USEFUL TOOL The question, at this point, is whether the Bible is a useful tool to deal with idolatry—the specific oppressions that stem from class, race, gender, and sexual deprivation. Indeed, Jung Mo Sung and Marcella Althaus-Reid are two figures that have at times recognized that the Bible might very well be useless, or maybe even an obstacle, yet have seemingly been unwilling to follow through on this insight, backpedaling from the full implications of the realization. I review their arguments in what follows. Jung Mo Sung Sung has argued, perhaps not fully aware of the radical implications of his argument, that the Bible adds nothing to liberation theology. He develops this point against Clodovis Boff’s canonical summary of liberation theology’s methodology.27 To show how Sung reaches this conclusion, we must first review Boff’s approach. For Boff, liberation theology is composed of four elements, one preliminary move followed by three steps. The preliminary move, faith commitment displayed as participation in the struggles of the oppressed, is deemed pre-theological: “Before we do theology we have to do liberation.”28 Theology, therefore, is a later moment that emerges from action. The first specific step, the socioanalytical mediation or “seeing,” involves turning to the social sciences as a tool for understanding the roots of oppression. Here Boff describes three explanations for the fact of socioeconomic poverty. First, the empiricist explanation views poverty as a vice and sees laziness, ignorance, or malice as its root cause. For him, this explanation blames the victim by failing to recognize the structural element of the problem. Second, the functionalist explanation views poverty as backwardness. Poverty in this case reveals that an economy and a society have yet to become fully modern and developed. Here economic development through foreign investment and technology can gradually eliminate poverty. The functionalist, unlike the empiricist, recognizes the structural and collective nature of poverty. Yet, both fail to see that poverty ultimately has a class foundation, that there is a conflictive element to society that makes poverty “not a passing phase . . . instead it is the product of economic, social, and political structures, with the result that the rich get richer at the expense of the poor, who get even poorer.”29 Development, therefore, could never be a neutral proposition that

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would lift all boats: it requires breaking with the exploitation of one class over another, and thus would inevitably unsettle the structures of privilege. The third explanation is the dialectical view of poverty as oppression, which he embraces. In this case, poverty is the byproduct of a system that necessarily excludes or exploits the great majority of people. It is the byproduct of capitalism itself, so development is an impossible goal and only revolution will do. The second step, the hermeneutic mediation or “judging,” is when the theologian asks “what does the word of God say about this situation.”30 To answer this question, the theologian rereads the Bible through a hermeneutic of liberation so as to see “the process of oppression/liberation in the light of faith.”31 Boff recognizes that, while the entire Bible is important, a liberation theologian focuses primarily on the exodus, the books of the Prophets, the Gospels, the Acts of the Apostles, and the Book of Revelation. While it is not our concern at this point, Boff clearly does not evade the critique developed in the previous section. We know that turning to the Bible is inherently problematic. The final step is the practical mediation or “acting.” Liberation theology, as we have seen, starts with action, so too it must end with action: “From an analysis of reality of the oppressed, it moves through the word of God, finally to arrive at concrete practice. Back to Action is the motto of this theology.”32 The development of specific plans varies according to one’s role as a professional, pastoral, or popular theologian, from broader overarching visions to specific interventions in particular communities. Boff summarizes the entire process as follows: “The socioanalytic mediation contemplates the world of the oppressed. The hermeneutic mediation contemplates the word of God. It attempts to see what the divine plan is with regard to the poor. Finally, the practical mediation contemplates the aspect of activity and seeks to discover the appropriate lines of operation for overcoming oppression in conformity with God’s plan.”33 Sung’s critique, in a nutshell, is that the hermeneutical mediation is unnecessary. For him, the turn to the Bible adds nothing to what is already developed by the social sciences in the socioanalytical mediation. He uses Boff’s example of how to develop a theology of the land to make his point. The table below places Boff and Sung’s revised schemes side by side.34 Sung’s argues, correctly I believe, that the hermeneutic mediation (step 2 in Boff’s scheme) plays no concrete role. That is, this mediation could only interpret reality as Boff hopes if there were no difference between the Bible and our historical context. This is obviously not the case. The analysis of the land question in relation to the Bible contributes little, if anything, to understanding and resolving current land problems. Reality, moreover, is already interpreted in the previous socioanalytic mediation. Here one should

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Table 14.1 Boff and Sung Compared Boff’s Methodological Scheme

Sung’s Revised Version

Step Zero: Participation in the Struggle

Step Zero: Participation in the Struggle

Step One: Socioanalytical Mediation (seeing)

Step One: Socioanalytical Mediation (seeing)

• analyze the land situation for the nation or a particular region • encourage workers to stand up for themselves • see how individuals experience their problems and how they resist oppression or organize their resistance to it

• analyze the land situation for the nation or a particular region • encourage workers to stand up for themselves • see how individuals experience their problems and how they resist oppression or organize their resistance to it

Step Two: Hermeneutical Mediation (judging)

Step Two (three): Practical Mediation (acting)

• evaluating how the populace faces • stressing the value of worker unity and organization: unions, cooperatives or other up to the land question on the basis movements of its religion and faith • publicizing the need for agrarian reform to • evaluating how the Bible views be brought about by those who work the land land • determining how theological tradition, especially church fathers, • making a choice of particular banners under which to fight, linking with see the question of land other forces, forecasting consequences, allocation of tasks, etc. Step Three: Practical Mediation (acting) • stressing the value of worker unity and organization: unions, cooperatives or other movements • publicizing the need for agrarian reform to be brought about by those who work the land • making a choice of particular banners under which to fight, linking with other forces, forecasting consequences, allocation of tasks, etc.

remember that Boff subscribes to a dialectical understanding of poverty, so that the social sciences he brings to bear upon the question already carry a set of diagnosis and values that supposes the negation of the current land tenure system for one that distributes property in a more egalitarian fashion. In his diagram Sung shows that it is possible to eliminate the hermeneutical mediation without any loss to the argument. If we assume, as Boff does,

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that Christians are already participating in the struggle (step zero), then we can safely suppose that they have already judged reality in light of their faith. Why would they be participating otherwise? If they are involved even before the turn to the Bible, then such a turn was not necessary for them to see the need for change. We also saw that the choice of a dialectical social theory presupposes a judgment on current reality. What role, then, does the hermeneutical stage actually play? The systematization of the Bible and Church tradition seems merely to serve the function of justifying an already existent Christian participation in the struggle. For the actual pursuit of liberation, the turn to the Bible is useless. At best, it serves the merely apologetic task of lending a gloss of theological respectability to liberation theology—respectability, of course, as measured by the very orthodoxy that liberation theology once tried to overcome. Marcella Althaus-Reid Althaus-Reid is the theologian who has developed the most radical critique of the role played by the Bible within liberation theology. Unfortunately, for those who were fortunate enough to know her, either personally or through her writings, her premature death kept her from fully developing her provocative insights. I will read her as taking Sung’s concern about the turn to the Bible a decisive step further. For Sung, the turn to the Bible only serves to justify an already pre-existing participation in popular struggles. For Althaus-Reid, however, the problem runs deeper. The focus on the Bible is, in fact, an obstacle to the struggle for liberation. Given this claim, AlthausReid’s insights take us beyond liberation theology as currently constituted into “the beginning of a theology outside origins without firm final destinations.”35 Small wonder that she needed a new name to describe what she envisioned—indecent theology. At the core of her indecent theology lies a critique of the need to ground liberative practice on the Bible. For her, these attempts at what could be called biblical foundationalism flounder because of their nostalgic and relative nature. Thus, she writes: “Liberation theology was originally a modern theology and although it evolved mainly through the influence of postcolonial theory, it is still a nostalgic theology. The nostalgia is for the utopian Kingdom or, to put it another way, for the consummation of the Christian agency in processes of social transformations.”36 This is exactly what Boff seems to be grasping at with his hermeneutical step within the methodology of liberation theology. He needs to find not just agency, but Christian agency, in popular struggles. Otherwise, it seems, those struggles lack ultimate justification. These attempts are nostalgic because they inevitable push the theologian’s attention toward the past in an attempt to either find Christian justification for fighting injustice or explain away Christian contribution to injustice itself. In

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both cases liberation theology becomes backward-looking and apologetic in nature. While this chapter has focused on Latin American liberation theology, nostalgia is a problem that afflicts other liberation theologies as well. Take, for example, James Cone’s most recent book, The Cross and the Lynching Tree, where he writes “This work is a continuation and culmination of all my previous books, each of them, in different ways, motivated by a central question: how to reconcile the gospel message of liberation with the reality of black oppression.”37 Cone, essentially, is trying to rescue Christianity, trying to answer the question of whether “God is a white racist?”38 As such, his focus, as well that of any liberation theology that looks back at the Christian tradition to find instances of liberative practice, is inevitably the past. The nostalgic focus on the past limits the pursuit of liberation by forcing contemporary struggles to fit into frameworks set two millennia ago. For her, not just the Bible, even Jesus has limited value today: Christianity . . . needs to present itself as the first and best of the human rights struggles. If women claim their human rights, the same as gays, lesbians or transvestites, we need to find these struggles first of all represented by Christianity, and this cannot be the case. Even the historical Jesus had a limited historical consciousness; he was not outside the context of his time, language and culture. He may have been advanced for his time, but not necessarily for ours.39

This statement highlighting the contextual and relative nature of Jesus, which should be an obvious fact to anyone raised on the historicist turn in philosophy, is a brutally honest critique of biblical foundationalism and liberationist nostalgia. It raises questions and challenges that no one has been willing to address and can be applied to issues of class as well as race, gender and sexuality. Althaus-Reid chooses the latter two: To begin from the bodies of poor women is to recognize in Christology a sexed discourse, a discourse already made from the body of a young man like Jesus and of his experiences of pain and pleasure, of love and dissatisfaction and also of his ignorance of the feminine beyond the cultural constructions of gender of his time and society. The body of Jesus is the body of a man crossed by a divine madness and a sense of mission. . . . But it is also the body of a sexed messiah who interpreted the world from a phallocentric perspective, who did not experience the objectified lives of the women of his era.40

Jesus, Althaus-Reid claims, cannot escape the limitations of his time. The end result of this line of reasoning is that to seek guidance for 21st century struggles in texts composed in the 1st century, that describe the travails of a 1st

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century Jew, makes little sense: “for the women who today ask Jesus, ‘Who do you think we are?,’ as yet there is no reply because Jesus was not completely conscientized, except that as God/man he was subjected to cultural and epochal elements which he did not succeed totally in transcending.”41 For her, today is a different time, and so different approaches are called for. It is not enough to simply adapt or reinterpret traditional Christian patriarchal structures. Doing so was “cosmetic surgery . . . putting new patches on old wineskins.”42 What role the Bible can play in this task, if any, is an open question. CONCLUSION: ALTERNATIVE VISION FOR LIBERATION THEOLOGY Liberation theology was born with the intent of reforming theology as a whole: it carried the promise of changing not just the content of the discipline but also the questions asked. The very shape and method of theology was to be made into something new.43 That promise has faded as liberation theology abandoned its initial revolutionary impulse and settled into its currently comfortable role as a niche project, one among many, within a wider theological arena.44 One way to resurrect that initial ambition is to follow the path initiated in this chapter and question the role the Bible need play in liberation theology. The reflections presented here could be extended in at least two directions. In the first instance, detaching from the Bible would make room for developing a truly inter-religious theology that takes to heart the plural nature of modernity. Taken to the hilt, this would mean placing the Bible at the same level of other sacred texts as well as contemporary science, art, and other developments.45 Instead of focusing on “progressive religion,” the focus would fall on being progressive about religion, which necessarily involves questioning the shape and influence of religion in the world today.46 While these points correspond with the “New York” axis of this chapter, the following connects with “Buenos Aires” and its focus on idolatry. From the position developed here, the most dangerous idolatries are not found within the Bible or the traditional religious sphere. The Bible, moreover, is not a useful tool to combat idolatries that need to be tackled within economics, political science, medicine, sociology, and other disciplines. To do so, therefore, requires training in those disciplines. That training, however, is hard to come by within seminaries and theology departments precisely because they continue to hold on to the explicit or implicit view that the core of what happens in theology revolves around the Bible and the religious reflections that uses it as inspiration.47

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I would note that in all of the above detaching from the Bible would mean forcing liberation theology to be absolutely future-oriented. The focus would be on present issues and future development, whether social, political, or religious. No longer would effort be spent on, as Marcella Althaus-Reid put it, removing “Christian passivity and attitudes of resignation which were precisely brought to our people’s lives by centuries of Christian theology.”48 The need for apologetics would be felt no more. Rethinking theology along these lines will inevitably leave us with something different from what we now know and call theology. The question is whether we are willing to leave behind the past and walk toward an unknown future. NOTES 1. For a very quick overview with images of the cut-and-pasted-back together Bible, see: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/How-Thomas-JeffersonCreated-His-Own-Bible.html# 2. According to Joseph Ratzinger, later Pope Benedict XVI, “The fall of the European governmental systems based on Marxism turned out to be a kind of twilight of the gods for that theology.” Joseph Ratzinger, “Relación sobre la situación actual de la fe y la teología,” in Fe y Teología En América Latina (Santa Fe de Bogotá, Colombia: CELAM, 1997), 14. While his position is clearly extreme, it is undeniable that the fall of socialism had disconcerted many liberation theologians. For two brief examples of this situation from within liberation theology, see: Leonardo Boff, “A implosão da socialismo autoritario e a teología da libertação,” Revista Eclesiastica Brasileira 50, no. 197 (March 1990): 76–92; and Frei Betto, “A teología da libertação: Ruiu com o muro de Berlim?,” Revista Eclesiastica Brasileira 50, no. 200 (1990): 922–999. 3. See: “Stiglitz: The Fall of Wall Street Is to Market Fundamentalism What the Fall of the Berlin Wall Was to Communism,” The Huffington Post, http://www. huffingtonpost.com/nathan-gardels/stiglitz-the-fall-of-wall_b_126911.html (accessed April 29, 2013). See, among his numerous recent works, The Price of Inequality: How Today’s Divided Society Endangers Our Future (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2012); Freefall: America, Free Markets, and the Sinking of the World Economy (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2010); Making Globalization Work (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2007); Globalization and Its Discontents (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2003). 4. See, for example, Max Weber when he writes that “A product of modern European Civilization studying any problem of universal history, is bound to ask himself to what combination of circumstances the fact should be attributed that in Western civilization, and in Western civilization only, cultural phenomena have appeared which (as we like to think) line in line of development of having universal significance and value.” Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism (New YorkLondon: Allen & Unwin, Scribner, 1930), 13. For a contemporary philosopher who

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falls in the same trap, see Jürgen Habermas, The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity: Twelve Lectures, Studies in Contemporary German Social Thought (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1987). For a critique of this worldview, see Enrique D. Dussel, Etica de la liberación en la edad de la globalización y la exclusión, 2 ed., Colección Estructuras y Procesos. Serie Filosofía (Madrid: Trotta, 1998) and The Invention of the Americas: Eclipse of “the Other” and the Myth of Modernity, trans. Michael D. Barber (New York: Continuum, 1995). 5. In what follows I rely on Jack Nelson-Pallmeyer, Is Religion Killing Us?: Violence in the Bible and the Quran (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2003) and Hector Avalos The End of Biblical Studies (Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 2007). 6. Gustavo Gutiérrez, A Theology of Liberation: History, Politics, and Salvation (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1973), 155 and 157. 7. Gutiérrez, A Theology of Liberation, 157. 8. Nelson-Pallmeyer, Is Religion Killing Us?, 43. 9. As Nelson-Pallmeyer (Is Religion Killing Us?, 38) points out, “God in the Exodus story creates opportunities to prove his credentials through superior violence: ‘Then I will harden the hearts of the Egyptians so that they will go in after them; and so I will gain glory for myself over Pharaoh and all his army . . . and the Egyptians shall know that I am the Lord, when I have gained glory for myself over Pharaoh, his chariots and his chariot drivers’ (Exodus 14:17–18).” 10. For an example that focuses on the role of biblical prophetic books in liberation theology, see Avalos, The End of Biblical Studies, 274. 11. Cited in Nelson-Pallmeyer, Is Religion Killing Us?, 30. 12. Nelson-Pallmeyer, Is Religion Killing Us?, 34–35. 13. Nelson-Pallmeyer’s argument cuts across the Hebrew Bible, the New Testament, and the Qur’an. Given the scope of this chapter, I focus on the Bible itself. 14. Nelson-Pallmeyer, Is Religion Killing Us?, 49. 15. Nelson-Pallmeyer, Is Religion Killing Us?, 51–55. 16. For a good and brief discussion, see Gadi Taub, The Settlers and the Struggle over the Meaning of Zionism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010). 17. For a classic exposition of this argument, see Sayyid Quṭb, Milestones (Cedar Rapids, IA: Mother Mosque Foundation, 1981). See also the Charter of Hamas, which that states that the group “found itself at a time when Islam disappeared from life. Thus rules were broken, concepts were vilified, values changed, and evil people took control; oppression and darkness prevailed, coward become tigers; homelands were invaded, people were scattered. . . . When Islam is absent from the arena, everything changes.” Following the logic of exile, thing went wrong when Islam “disappeared.” The only solution is to return to Islam, and violence is a legitimate means to restore God’s proper order. The Hamas Charter is quoted in Nelson-Pallmeyer, Is Religion Killing Us?, 78. 18. See Gershom Gorenberg, The End of Days: Fundamentalism and the Struggle for the Temple Mount (New York: Free Press, 2000). 19. Several foundational thinkers of the late 19th and 20th century predicted a secular world. Friedrich Nietzsche famously proclaimed the death of God; Karl Marx

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described religion as an “opium”; Sigmund Freud saw religion as a childhood neurosis soon to be overcome; and Max Weber wrote about the disenchantment of society—to name just a few examples. See Peter L. Berger and Anton C. Zijderveld, In Praise of Doubt: How to Have Convictions Without Becoming a Fanatic (New York: HarperOne/HarperCollins Publishers, 2009). What follows draws from this work. 20. See Milton Rokeach, with Introduction by Rick Moody, The Three Christs of Ypsilanti: a Psychological Study (New York: New York Review Books Classics, 2011). 21. See, for example, Mahatma Gandhi and Mahadev H. (Mahadev Haribhai) Desai, Autobiography: The Story of My Experiments with Truth (New York: Dover, 1983). Bhikhu C. Parekh, Gandhi: A Very Short Introduction, Very Short Introductions 37 (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 2001) provides a good brief overview. 22. I briefly developed this idea in “Religion Reloaded: A Changing Landscape,” The Huffington Post, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ivan-petrella/religion-reloadeda-chang_b_509998.html (accessed May 3, 2013). José María Vigil came close to this understanding in a paper, “Liberation Theology-Spirituality and Deep Religious Pluralism,” delivered at Union Theological Seminary’s 2013 International BuddhistChristian Conference on “Enlightenment and Liberation: Engaged Buddhists and Liberation Theologians in Dialogue.” I was a respondent on the panel. 23. See John Dewey, A Common Faith (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991). 24. For the notion of “bibliolatry,” see Avalos, The End of Biblical Studies. 25. I develop this idea in the first chapter of my Beyond Liberation Theology: A Polemic (London: SCM Press, 2008). 26. See, for example, Paul Blustein, And the Money Kept Rolling in (and Out): Wall Street, the IMF, and the Bankrupting of Argentina (New York: PublicAffairs, 2005). 27. Clodovis Boff, “Epistemology and Method of the Theology of Liberation,” in Ignacio Ellacuría and Jon Sobrino, eds., Mysterium Liberationis: Fundamental Concepts of Liberation Theology (Marknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1993), 26. See also the version of this essay in Jon Sobrino and Ignacio Ellacuría, Systematic Theology: Perspectives from Liberation Theology: Readings from Mysterium Liberationis (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1996) and the account in Leonardo Boff and Clodovis Boff, Introducing Liberation Theology (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1987). 28. Boff, “Epistemology and Method of the Theology of Liberation,” 73. 29. Boff, “Epistemology and Method of the Theology of Liberation,” 76. 30. Sobrino and Ellacuría, Systematic Theology, 15. 31. Sobrino and Ellacuría, Systematic Theology, 15. 32. Sobrino and Ellacuría, Systematic Theology, 20. 33. Sobrino and Ellacuría, Systematic Theology, 11. 34. For the development of the theology of land, see Boff and Boff, Introducing Liberation Theology, 41–42; for the presentation of both diagrams, see Jung Mo Sung, Economía, Tema Ausente en la Teología de la Liberación (San José, Costa Rica: Departamento Ecuménico de Investigaciones [DEI], 1994), 112–113. 35. Robert Shore-Goss, “Dis/Grace-full Incarnation and the Dis/Grace-full Church: Marcella Althaus-Reid’s Vision of Radical Inclusivity,” in Lisa Isherwood and Mark

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D. Jordan, eds., Dancing Theology in Fetish Boots: Essays in Honor of Marcella Althaus-Reid (London: SCM Press, 2010), 1, where he cites a paper Althaus-Reid gave at the “Queering the Church” conference at the Boston University School of Theology in 2007. For my brief take on the significance of her work, see Ivan Petrella, “Liberation Theology after Marcella,” in Lisa Isherwood and Mark D. Jordan, eds., Dancing Theology in Fetish Boots: Essays in Honor of Marcella Althaus-Reid (London: SCM Press, 2010), 200–206. This collection of essays includes a variety of viewpoints on the significance of Althaus-Reid. 36. Marcella Althaus-Reid, From Feminist Theology to Indecent Theology: Readings on Poverty, Sexual Identity and God (London: SCM Press, 2004), 61. 37. James H. Cone, The Cross and the Lynching Tree (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2011), xv–xvi. 38. For the classic polemic, see William R. Jones, Is God a White Racist? A Preamble to Black Theology, C. Eric Lincoln Series on Black Religion (Garden City, NY: Anchor Press, 1973). 39. Althaus-Reid, From Feminist Theology to Indecent Theology, 80. 40. Althaus-Reid, From Feminist Theology to Indecent Theology, 45. 41. Althaus-Reid, From Feminist Theology to Indecent Theology, 48. On this point, see Hugo Cordova Quero: “Without denying the importance of the biblical text for liberation, indecent theology believes that it is important for our present times also to pay attention to other formats where the ‘word of God’ can be traced and/or inferred, specifically in the sexual stories of individuals. . . . Therefore, we cannot consider the Bible ‘normative’ as if it were a book of legislation, which has to be followed literally without being questioned or interpreted. On the contrary, we value the Bible as a source and inspiration for theological reflection and liberating praxis.” See “Risky Affairs: Marcella Althaus-Reid Indecently Queering Juan Luis Segundo’s Hermeneutical Circle Propositions,” in Lisa Isherwood and Mark D. Jordan, eds., Dancing Theology in Fetish Boots: Essays in Honor of Marcella Althaus-Reid (London: SCM Press, 2010), 215. Quero, I believe, does not recognize, or chooses not to recognize, the radical implications of Althaus-Reid’s claim. 42. Althaus-Reid, From Feminist Theology to Indecent Theology, 79. 43. Peter Burns recognized this fact when he wrote that liberation theology’s original challenge was precisely to raise the question of what theology really is, and how one should pursue it. Peter Burns, “The Problem of Socialism in Liberation Theology,” Theological Studies 53, no. 3 (September 1992): 513. 44. See chapter 4 of my Beyond Liberation Theology for more on this issue. 45. See Gordon D. Kaufman, In Face of Mystery: a Constructive Theology (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993) for one theologian who has adopted this path. 46. See Ivan Petrella, “Beyond Progressive Religion,” ReligionDispatches, http:// religiondispatches.org/archive/atheologies/1700/beyond_progressive_religion____a_ theologies___/ (Accessed May 25, 2013). 47. Claremont Theological Seminary has revamped its program around a “multireligious” approach that can be seen tackling some of the issues I raise under the “New York” section of this chapter. No institution, however, has really dealt with

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questions raised by the “Buenos Aires” and idolatry axis. See Ivan Petrella, “The Futures of Liberation Theology,” in Zoë Bennett and David B. Gowler, eds., Radical Christian Voices and Practice: Essays in Honour of Christopher Rowland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 201–211. In the “manifesto” in my The Future of Liberation Theology, I wrote the following about the dilemma the theologian faces if he or she seeks to pursue this line of work: Theologians today are unprepared to tackle the challenge posed by the nonperson. They are unprepared because theological education is geared toward the preservation of Christian identity and thus discourages the interdisciplinary work needed to train a budding liberation theology. Of course, future liberation theologians need to be aware of their rich theological heritage, but they must also receive training in disciplines such as comparative political economy, social theory, and legal theory. They must learn to use these tools if there is to be any hope of placing liberation at the forefront of the theological task. However, there is a further problem. The professional practice of the theologian also discourages interdisciplinary work. This is so because theology suffers from lack of self-confidence. Within the academy, theology is often seen as not truly “academic,” as not truly rigorous. This attack has forced the theologian to retrench and focus more minutely on traditional theological concerns. As long as the concerns are traditionally theological, the theologian feels safe from outside criticism, she is master of her territory. The theologian who ventures outward, however, is ostracized on both fronts. Non-theologians see him as a dilettante, while theologians are afraid that his foolishness will reveal the foolishness of the profession as a whole. Any theologian who leans too heavily on disciplines deemed non-theological becomes a threat to the survival of the profession. His work is then judged as non-theological and he becomes an outcaste. See Ivan Petrella, The Future of Liberation Theology: An Argument and Manifesto (London: SCM Press, 2006), 148–149. 48. Althaus-Reid, From Feminist Theology to Indecent Theology, 79.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Althaus-Reid, Marcella. From Feminist Theology to Indecent Theology: Readings on Poverty, Sexual Identity and God. London: SCM Press, 2004. Avalos, Hector. The End of Biblical Studies. Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 2007. Berger Peter L. and Anton C. Zijderveld. In Praise of Doubt: How to Have Convictions Without Becoming a Fanatic. New York: HarperOne/HarperCollins Publishers, 2009. Betto, Frei. “A teología da libertação: Ruiu com o muro de Berlim?” Revista Eclesiastica Brasileira 50, no. 200 (1990): 922–999.

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Blustein, Paul. And the Money Kept Rolling in (and Out): Wall Street, the IMF, and the Bankrupting of Argentina. New York: PublicAffairs, 2005. Boff, Clodovis. “Epistemology and Method of the Theology of Liberation.” In Mysterium Liberationis: Fundamental Concepts of Liberation Theology. Edited by Ignacio Ellacuría and Jon Sobrino, 57–84. Marknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1993. Boff, Leonardo. “A implosão da socialismo autoritario e a teología da libertação.” Revista Eclesiastica Brasileira 50, no. 197 (March 1990): 76–92. Boff, Leonardo and Clodovis Boff. Introducing Liberation Theology. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1987. Burns, Peter. “The Problem of Socialism in Liberation Theology.” Theological Studies 53, no. 3 (September 1992): 493–516. Cone, James H. The Cross and the Lynching Tree. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2011. Dewey, John. A Common Faith. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991. Dussel, Enrique D. Etica de la liberación en la edad de la globalización y la exclusión. Colección Estructuras y Procesos. Serie Filosofía. 2nd ed. Madrid: Trotta, 1998. ———. The Invention of the Americas: Eclipse of “the Other” and the Myth of Modernity. Translated by Michael D. Barber. New York: Continuum, 1995. Gandhi, Mahatma and Mahadev H. (Mahadev Haribhai) Desai. Autobiography: The Story of My Experiments with Truth. New York: Dover, 1983. Gardels, Nathan. “Stiglitz: The Fall of Wall Street Is to Market Fundamentalism What the Fall of the Berlin Wall Was to Communism.” The Huffington Post. http://www. huffingtonpost.com/nathan-gardels/stiglitz-the-fall-of-wall_b_126911.html Gorenberg, Gershom. The End of Days: Fundamentalism and the Struggle for the Temple Mount. New York: Free Press, 2000. Gutiérrez, Gustavo. A Theology of Liberation: History, Politics, and Salvation. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1973. Habermas, Jürgen. The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity: Twelve Lectures. Studies in Contemporary German Social Thought. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1987. “How Thomas Jefferson Created His Own Bible.” Smithsonian.com. http://www. smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/How-Thomas-Jefferson-Created-His-OwnBible.html# Jones, William R. Is God a White Racist? A Preamble to Black Theology. C. Eric Lincoln Series on Black Religion. Garden City, NY: Anchor Press, 1973. Kaufman, Gordon D. In Face of Mystery: a Constructive Theology. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993. Nelson-Pallmeyer, Jack. Is Religion Killing Us? Violence in the Bible and the Quran. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2003. Parekh, Bhikhu C. Gandhi: A Very Short Introduction. Very Short Introductions 37. Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. Petrella, Ivan. The Future of Liberation Theology: An Argument and Manifesto. London: SCM Press, 2006. ———. Beyond Liberation Theology: A Polemic. London: SCM Press, 2008.

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———. “Beyond Progressive Religion,” ReligionDispatches. August 18, 2009. http://religiondispatches.org/archive/atheologies/1700/beyond_progressive_ religion____a_theologies___/ ———. “Liberation Theology after Marcella.” In Dancing Theology in Fetish Boots: Essays in Honor of Marcella Althaus-Reid. Edited by Lisa Isherwood and Mark D. Jordan, 200–206. London: SCM Press, 2010. ———. “Religion Reloaded: A Changing Landscape,” The Huffington Post. May 25, 2011. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ivan-petrella/religion-reloaded-achang_b_509998.html ———. “The Futures of Liberation Theology.” In Radical Christian Voices and Practice: Essays in Honour of Christopher Rowland. Edited by Zoë Bennett and David B. Gowler, 201–211. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. Quero, Hugo Cordova. “Risky Affairs: Marcella Althaus-Reid Indecently Queering Juan Luis Segundo’s Hermeneutical Circle Propositions.” In Dancing Theology in Fetish Boots: Essays in Honor of Marcella Althaus-Reid. Edited by Lisa Isherwood and Mark D. Jordan, 207–218. London: SCM Press, 2010. Quṭb, Sayyid. Milestones. Cedar Rapids, IA: Mother Mosque Foundation, 1981. Ratzinger, Joseph. “Relación sobre la situación actual de la fe y la teología.” In Fe y Teología En América Latina, 13–36. Santa Fe de Bogotá, Colombia: CELAM, 1997. Rokeach, Milton with Introduction by Rick Moody. The Three Christs of Ypsilanti: A Psychological Study. New York: New York Review Books Classics, 2011. Shore-Goss, Robert. “Dis/Grace-full Incarnation and the Dis/Grace-full Church: Marcella Althaus-Reid’s Vision of Radical Inclusivity.” In Dancing Theology in Fetish Boots: Essays in Honor of Marcella Althaus-Reid. Edited by Lisa Isherwood and Mark D. Jordan, 1–16. London: SCM Press, 2010. Sobrino, Jon and Ignacio Ellacuría. Systematic Theology: Perspectives from Liberation Theology: Readings from Mysterium Liberationis. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1996. Stiglitz, Joseph. The Price of Inequality: How Today’s Divided Society Endangers Our Future. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2012. ———. Freefall: America, Free Markets, and the Sinking of the World Economy. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2010. ———. Making Globalization Work. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2007. ———. Globalization and Its Discontents. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2003. Sung, Jung Mo. Economía, Tema Ausente en la Teología de la Liberación. San José, Costa Rica: Departamento Ecuménico de Investigaciones (DEI), 1994. Taub, Gadi. The Settlers and the Struggle over the Meaning of Zionism. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010. Vigil, José María. “Liberation Theology-Spirituality and Deep Religious Pluralism.” International Buddhist-Christian Conference on “Enlightenment and Liberation: Engaged Buddhists and Liberation Theologians in Dialogue.” Union Theological Seminary, New York. 2013. Weber, Max. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. New York-London: Allen & Unwin, Scribner, 1930. Zondervan NIV Study Bible. 2008. Grand Rapids: Zondervan.

Chapter 15

Transfiguration The Figural Approach to Reading the Bible in Latin America Vítor Westhelle In Latin America the reading or rereading of the Bible—erstwhile in communities at the grassroots level, and subsequently also at the academic level—has definitely not been, strictly speaking, beholden to the historical critical method as developed in the Western academy, with its overwhelming symbolic approach. Neither has this reading or rereading been characterized by fundamentalism, as in some evangelical groups throughout. Narrative criticism, social hermeneutics, materialist criticism, performance criticism— all have made a contribution to the Latin American approach, or have been inspired by it. To be sure, the traditional historical critical method and, indeed, fundamentalism itself have contributed their share as well, for the literal meaning is important for giving thick historical concreteness to events and characters. However, I would argue that the dominant characteristic of the Latin American reading of the Bible has been, since the rise of liberation theology, threefold: literalistic, historical, and contextual. Literalistic, first of all, because characters and events are seen as expression of actual facts; historical, second, because such characters and events are located at a given time; contextual, lastly, because the events narrated are placed, located. The mode of reading the Bible in this key should best be described, therefore, as a figural approach: a way of broaching a subject-matter by transposing “figures”—characters, events, or circumstances—from one context to another. I am not suggesting that such a reading or rereading of the Bible is a method (meta-hodos), a theory of how to go on the way of reading. I would suggest, rather, that it is a reflection on practice—the practice of a way of reading and applying the biblical material to concrete circumstances in Latin American reality. At the onset of liberation theology, such circumstances were negatively defined by dependency theory; more recently, they have been 271

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defined positively by postcolonial theory, as will be argued below. Yet, the method as such is still maturing as a critical theory and has not yet been fully developed as a systematic second-order discourse. What one finds thus far in Latin America is a practice, which practice has, in turn, formed the basis for subsequent reflection. FIGURA Such reflection, however, can be buttressed by an interpretative method developed in literary theory by Erich Auerbach in an influential essay titled “Figura.”1 Figurae, figures, describe emblematic characters or localized events, which, unlike concepts and doctrines, are rooted, belong to a context, and are concrete. They have a genealogy, a place, a time to which they belong. According to Erich Auerbach, “a figural interpretation establishes a connection between two events or persons, the first of which signifies not only itself but also the second, while the second encompasses and fulfills the first.”2 Figurae have the capability of migrating over time and space and finding roots in other characters or events. A figure is the catalyst of different experiences in different times and different places: the first signifies the second, and the second actualizes the first. For example, the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt is the figure for many contemporary liberation struggles, just as it was used by the South African Boers in colonizing the land of native Africans and by the Puritans in framing the of migration to America. There are many other such examples in the biblical literature: Pharaoh is the figure for many oppressive and authoritarian rulers; Moses, for revolutionary and prophetic leaders; Peter, for the papacy or the grounding of the faith community; resurrection, for redemptive events; Jonah, for Christ’s resurrection; the Adamic Fall, for human frailty and incompleteness, as well as the antitype of Christ. Figures of the human imaginary are also abundantly employed in biblical literature, as, for example, in the book of Revelation: the “dragon” stands for the empire, the “beast of the sea” for the economy, and the “beast of the land” for the emperor and his minions. One of the basic theses of Auerbach has to do with this particular characteristic of biblical literature: the migration of figures that are transposed over time and space and become relevant in other contexts, where they receive a new life. Such transposition happens to characters, events, and places, which, in the process, receive new configurations and are enriched by the new circumstances. They become saturated with new meanings. This is what we find in the reading of the New Testament as a transfiguration of the Old Testament stories.

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Auerbach, who was a persecuted German Jew under Nazism, wrote this essay in the context of the anti-Semitic attempt on the part of German Christians to disassociate the New Testament from the Old Testament. Yet, figures of the Old Testament are ominous in the New Testament. The figural approach shows not only continuities but also how a tradition is owned by incorporating historical circumstances and characters from other times and places. Such a procedure appeals to figurae in order to establish legitimacy, even when the content and meaning are not the same as those of the original typos. The Greek words typos, morphe, or schema (1 Cor 7:31) were often translated as figura, as the dominant language of early Christianity changed from Greek to Latin, starting with Tertullian, one of the earliest Latin Fathers.3 Therefore, typology as a way of interpretation may be used interchangeably with the figural approach, although the term typology is often taken as a synonym of taxonomy. An inner-biblical case of such figural migration is represented by the story of the transfiguration in Mark 9:2–8. The Greek word rendered as “transfiguration” is metamorphete. Jesus takes another “form”: he takes the mantle of Moses and Elijah. Jesus becomes invested by the figures of the two prophets. However, he is neither a repetition nor a replica. The figures of the prophets are etched into Jesus’ own fate, announced some verses before (Mark 8:31), a fate that the prophets did not share. Yet, the prophets lend their repute to the new instantiation. It is not the content of the characters that functions to circumscribe the life of Jesus, but the mold into which the content of Jesus’ life is cast. On the basis of the reading of this text, I suggest that “transfiguration” might describe the procedures of interpretation that otherwise are identified as typology, or the figural approach. The use of an alternative label to describe the interpretative procedure that Auerbach so persuasively described is because transfiguration entails a number of other elements and hermeneutic procedures that are not directly implied in the figural approach. Transfiguration, rooted in the figural approach, branches out to include other features. In the case of the biblical reading of Latin America, such reading often absorbs features of allegorical interpretations, ironic gestures, and tactical dissimulations, without compromising its grounding in the figural approach. I turn now to an explanation of these features of transfiguration. Allegory and Symbol Although Auerbach understood the figural approach as distinct from allegorical interpretation,4 it, in fact, is very closely related to the allegory of antiquity and, to a more limited extent, the allegory of the Middle Ages. Figura has thus been also often combined with allegory, as Auerbach himself points out.5

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However, it has fallen into discredit in the modern West, above all since the enthronement of symbolic interpretation in the Romantic Age. The difference, however, is significant: “The symbol must possess magic power, not the figura; the figura, on the other hand, must always be historical, but not the symbol.”6 The figural approach is to the allegorical interpretation as the genus is to the species in biology: there are always allegorical elements in the figura, but not all possibilities of the figura are encompassed by the allegorical approach. For example, Jonah’s coming out of the belly of the fish is a figura for Christ, but to interpret it as a reference to the idea of perdition and redemption is an allegory, as in “For just as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the sea monster, so for three days and three nights the Son of Man will be in the heart of the earth” (Matthew 12: 40). The figural approach entails many other possible allegorical moves. It might refer to Jonah as a sacrificial victim for the sailors of the boat, or to Jonah’s preaching of doom to Nineveh, or to his feeling of desolation (abandonment) under the scorching sun. The distinction between the figural approach and the allegory may be described as follows: the allegory is often spiritualized and thus becomes abstract, a concept, a notion; the figure is always historical and concrete, moving from the punctual meaning of the figura to a character, an event, or a condition.7 Yet, insofar as the allegory remains concrete, it expands the figural approach into an interpretative theory, yet one still rooted in concrete events, unlike the symbolic approach that has dominated western biblical interpretations. Goethe provided the classical definition of allegory that was dominant in Romanticism: “allegory transforms appearance into a concept and the concept into an image so that the concept is always limited but fully contained in the image and expressed in it.”8 The privileging of the symbol is clearly expressed in the contrast proposed: “This is the truth of symbolism, that the particular represents the universal not as a dream or a shadow, but as a living instantaneous revelation of the inscrutable.”9 In summary, this is the point of the contrast: It makes a great difference whether the poet starts with the universal and searches for the particular, or beholds the universal in the particular. The former mode of procedure generates the allegory, in which the particular is taken as an illustration, an example of the universal. The latter reveals the true nature of poetry: it speaks forth a particular, without thinking on or referring to a universal. The one who grasps this particular in its vitality upholds simultaneously the universal within it without having it as a proviso.10

The distinction that Goethe proposed became widely accepted from Schlegel and Schelling to Lukács and Tillich into the 20th century.11

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It was only with Walter Benjamin’s The Origin of German Tragedy (1928) that the hermeneutical relevance of the allegory was again appreciated as a unique form of figuration that produced results unique to the allegorical procedure. Although Benjamin’s study is limited to the German baroque, he does lift up the earthly concreteness of the allegory in comparison with the idealized move of symbolism. He presents it thus: Whereas in the symbol destruction is idealized and the transfigured face of nature is revealed in the light of redemption, in allegory the observer is confronted with the facies hippocratica [facial characteristics the portents death] of history as a petrified, primordial landscape. Everything about history that, from the very beginning, has been untimely, sorrowful, unsuccessful, expresses itself in a countenance—or rather a death's head . . . this is the form in which man's subjection to nature is most pronounced and it gives rise to the enigmatic question not only of the nature of human existence as such but of the biographical historicity of the individual. This is the core of the allegorical way of seeing, of the baroque, secular account of history as the Passion of the world, a world that is meaningful only in the stations of decay. The greater the significance, the greater the subjection to death, because death digs most deeply the jagged line of demarcation between physical being and significance.12

Benjamin’s use of “transfiguration” (Verklärung) in this passage is revealing in comparison with the use of metemorphōthē in Mark 9:2, set against the backdrop of the announcement of passion, death, and decay in Mark 8: 31. The bliss of Jesus’s clothes “dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them” creates an amazing contrast with the bold announcement (parrhēsia, Mark 8: 32) of the passion and death. Here one should keep in mind that the “ideal” moment of the transfiguration was a transient one and that the need to go down from the “ideal mountain” to concrete reality comes immediately. The figural event lent meaning to a concrete and frail historicity. Hence, what appears in the transfiguration, the blissful form it took, remains in an irreconcilable relationship with the content of that life bound to death. This is the cleft that the allegory creates and the symbol sublimates; it is the tense-ridden uncoupling of meaning and representation, soul and form, significance and physical being. Gershom Scholem, the close friend of Benjamin, renders this uncoupling with words that Benjamin would probably also endorse: Allegory consists of an infinite network of meanings and correlations in which everything can become a representation of everything else, but all within the limits of language and expression. To that extent it is possible to speak of allegorical immanence. That which is expressed by an allegorical sign is in the first instance something which has its own meaningful context, but by becoming

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allegorical this something loses its own meaning and becomes a vehicle for something else. Indeed the allegory arises, as it were, from the gap which at this point opens between the form and its meaning. The two are no longer indissolubly welded together; the meaning is no longer restricted to that particular form, nor the form any longer to that particular meaningful content. What appears in the allegory, in short, is the infinity of meaning which attaches to every representation.13

The procedures of the symbolic and allegorical representations produce two complementary but different approximations to knowledge. The symbol, in the ineffable depth of the meaning to which it points and in which it participates (Tillich), elicits analogies to speak about the universal in the particular (Goethe). The allegory introduces irony, which can properly be defined as the discontinuity between meaning and form, reality and its representation, the harsh content of passion and death and the dazzling appearance at the mountain, the literal sense and its external rendition. Analogy and irony are the two procedures that produce cognition. Analogy since Empedocles (5th century BCE) has been celebrated by the motto “like knows the like.” Irony proceeds precisely by the opposite operation, by revealing a situation in asserting precisely the opposite of what is the case. Socrates’ (5th century BCE, a generation younger than Empedocles) dialogues are the celebrated classical cases of irony. According to Plato, Socrates dissimulated pretending ignorance on the topic under discussion as a means to confute an adversary or to manifest a truth by asserting its opposite. The irony creates this chasm that the figura at once brings about and dissembles. These syncopations—figura, allegory, irony, and dissimulation—are links in a single process of interpretation not unfamiliar to the modes of representation in postcolonial writing and performance, including, and maybe above all, the mode in which religion acts out its content by offering an ironic mask. This process, particularly the role played by figura, is so important that it calls for some further discussion of how it is brought about. Dissimulation and Irony Dissimulation or dissembling is, in some sense, an act or gesture of deception. It is the art or tactic of apparent deference to those who have power, but it is acted out in such a way as to express, albeit in covert ways, one’s resistance to a situation of oppression. Dissimulation is a survival tactic: an act of protective adaptation on the part of the colonized in the face of being confronted by overwhelming supremacy, while at the same time resisting the hegemony and preserving an alternative identity to the one officially imposed. Dissimulation

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stands between, on the one hand, total subservience and surrender to the dominant narrative of the colonial power, which imposes upon the subaltern people the representation of their condition, and, on the other, the overt and explicit naming of the conditions of oppression, which becomes possible only insofar as a postcolonial condition ensues. Without a doubt, the overt naming of the conditions of oppression is the ultimate goal to be pursued, as in the Socratic irony. Yet, it is naïve, idealistic, and romantic to engage in this naming of oppression in the context of overwhelming supremacy and unequal power relations by analogical operations. Well-intended advocates or allies from the outside who come to “liberate” people fail to grasp the significance of the situation of oppression and, as such, fail to appreciate or even to discern the dynamics of resistance that the tactic of dissimulation represents. Outsiders tend to think that the subaltern are being naively subservient, when in fact they are cunningly resisting in the only way affordable to them. Under the conditions of western hegemony, and patrolled in the characteristic ways of hegemony, the subaltern could only express themselves by dissimulating their own cultural uniqueness and their beliefs by way of importing figurae that serve as proxies, hiding and revealing at the same time. This is a phenomenon commonly observed among subaltern peoples, who hide their own identity behind the mask the colonizer expects to see or imposes. For example, native religions in many places survive under the formal canopy of Christian liturgy. Original deities linger on under the disguise of the saints worshiped by the religion imposed. In the case of Latin America, Mariátegui phrased this process incisively: “The missionaries did not impose the gospel; they imposed the cult, the liturgy.”14 It should be added that the colonizers assumed mistakenly that underneath the figurae of cult and liturgy lay the true “gospel.” Dissimulation, however, is a much broader phenomenon, hardly perceived by those who have had little or no experience with subaltern groups. Such is the case, for example, of those who think that communication can be open and neutral, as in the “force of the better argument” in Jürgen Habermas, or the “veil of ignorance” in John Rawls. Dissimulation is not a lie, however; it is, rather, an act of self-protection against the hegemonic power, simultaneously resisting such power and preserving an identity, albeit hidden. Dissimulation, as Octavio Paz reminds us, “is an activity very much like that of actors in the theater, but the true actor surrenders himself to the role he is playing . . . the dissembler never surrenders or forgets himself, because he would no longer be dissembling if he became one with his image . . . [the dissembler] shuts himself away to protect himself.”15 Building on Jacques Lacan’s interpretation of mimicry, Bhabha corroborates this same point: “mimicry is like camouflage, not a harmonization of repression of difference, but a form of

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resemblance that differs from or defends presence by displacing it in part, metonymically.”16 If dissemblers became one with their image, they would either be surrendering themselves or else considered insane—giving themselves over to an identity that they knew was not their own. Such mental aberrations are not uncommon among those in transition from colonialism to post-colonialism, which is also the reason why apocalypticism is often associated with madness. As compared to Paz’s simile of the theater, a more apt parallel would be between dissembling and the masks of the carnival. In a carnival, an alter personality is allowed to jest and make fun of the powers that be, all the while “protected” by the mask. The difference is that dissembling in real-life does not happen in the permissible space of the carnival, where it is tolerated and can be easily decoded. Instead, dissembling happens in everyday life, where jesting against the powers is not permissible and where also the expressions of resistance dare not be prematurely decoded. The fact that dissembling is not overt is precisely the reason outsiders often view it either as sheer surrender or as a psychological disorder, when in reality true dissembling is neither. An outsider who is not trusted by the group is very unlikely to discover the rules of dissembling, partly because the tactics of dissembling are copious and partly because they keep changing constantly and are therefore elusive. For an outsider, it might take years of work among subaltern people, listening to their voice and sharing their plea, to gain their trust and realize the ironic discontinuity between content and form that dissimulation produces. The emergence of postcolonial awareness has made it possible for the perplexing and often incomprehensible process of dissimulation or mimicry to be much better understood and recognized. The successes in dissimulation lie in the fact that it makes the colonizers blindly believe that their project of making the colonized like them or else representing them as the inferior other is working. They often do not realize that they are spectators of the mimicry of their own projections and expectations. The so-called messianic secret in the Gospel of Mark, which portrays Jesus as hiding from the crowd (and the authorities) that he was the Messiah, provides an ample illustration. Jesus’ secretive gesture is an act of dissimulation: hiding without surrendering his identity almost to the conclusion of his ministry. It was only when the messianic secret was divulged that the abrupt end that led to his passion and crucifixion came about. Dissimulation is a messianic tactic that, once disclosed, precipitates drastic events that are fraught with the simultaneous conditions of liberation and condemnation. For the Gospel of Mark, these conditions were set in motion with the apocalyptic discourse of Jesus in chapter 13 of the Gospel. This brings me to the second characteristic of this transition between colonialism and its overcoming:

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apocalyptic. An apocalyptic attitude is the other side of dissimulation. In the case of the messianic secret, figura works tacitly. Jesus dissembles in the figure of an itinerary preacher, of which there were plenty. In the case of the transfiguration story, the figurae of Moses and Elijah are bluntly displayed by the allegorists of the gospel narratives. In both cases, however, tacitly or explicitly, the figural approach is at work and dissimulation operates. EXAMPLES OF FIGURAL APPROACH In the popular and political movements of the Third World, these transfigurations receive constantly renewed possibilities, endowing a situation with a meaning that analytical language cannot account for. Two examples of the figural approach from South America applied to the Jewish-Christian Scriptures may clarify its working. One comes from the secular realm, and the other from an ecclesial context. Flávio Koutzii is a Brazilian political militant of the 1960s and 70s (after the end of the dictatorship he became an elected politician). He went into exile in Argentina after the military coup d’état in Brazil in 1964. When the same happened in Argentina some ten years later (1975–76), he was arrested and jailed with other political prisoners. In prison they had no access to outside information; the conversation among them was monitored; and any mention of politics did not go unpunished. Yet, the military jailers allowed them to have a Bible. Instead of the political jargon to which they were used to and which was now off-limits, they started to have conversations using biblical stories and concepts to describe the political situation, thus, by dissimulation, fooling the censors. Koutzii, himself a secular Jew, tells, in his memoirs titled Pieces of Death in the Heart,17 of a surprising phenomenon. The biblical stories of exodus, exile, oppression, liberation; the healings of the New Testament; the Cross and Resurrection—all provided them with a language that, amazingly, was adroitly pertinent to describe the context and that pointed to rays of hope in a way that the socio-political language they mastered so well was not able to do with the same incisiveness. By transfiguring events and characters of the biblical narrative to South America at the end of the 20th century, they may have lost in socio-political analytical precision, but gained in vim and vigor. The second example comes from an experience I shared in a camp of landless peasants. This camp was situated between a large farm and a busy highway linking the Brazilian state of Paraná with Paraguay. I was working with the Ecumenical Pastoral Commission on Land. A Capuchin brother and I were doing some pastoral counseling and educational work. The camp residents were exhibiting some dysfunctional problems, largely due to the stressful

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and precarious conditions in which they had lived for months now, without prospects for a resolution of this situation. Part of our program involved a Bible study, for which we chose the text of Revelation 13. After explaining the socio-political context in which the text emerged, in the process of which we had recourse to a dramatic performance of the chapter (some were illiterate) and explained some of the figures in the story (the dragon, the beasts), the group was given the challenge of reckoning with the number of the beast, 666 (“human number/name”), within their own context in the camp. For this task, the subgroups were spontaneously formed. One of them comprised only women. The predicted responses to the challenge came easily to the fore: the military regime, the large land owners, the lumber industry, the military police, and so forth. The group consisting only of women, however, brought a surprise. They read the number 666 as referring to the central committee of the camp (which was made up only by men), cooking pans (the women had to cook in an open fire within the tents made up of black plastic), and alcohol (with which the men often indulge themselves). The number 666, which was a figure for the Empire and its head (the emperor Domitian, who claimed for himself the titles of dominus et deus, lord and god), was thereby transfigured not only to the Brazilian politico-economic situation but also, by the group of women, to name the oppression that they suffered within the camp itself.18 A WAY FORWARD The two examples of transfiguration above are not sufficient to prove my case, but they prove sufficient to humbly suggest a way forward in understanding the way of the Latin America reading and rereading of the Bible. The figural approach allows us to understand why the scriptures, as canonically known, are, in fact, not a closed book. As much as the New Testament transfigures the Old, the biblical inspiration bursts anew in the stories and lives of people, places, and events, where damnation and redemption are reconfigured in new narratives. There could not be a more faithful way of reading the Bible than the way in which the early Christians read their own Bible, which we now call the Old (or First) Testament. NOTES 1. Erich Auerbach, Scenes from the Drama of European Literature (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), 11–78 (“Figura”). The essay was first published in 1944, while Auerbach was in exile in Istanbul, and was then followed

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by and applied in his influential Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1953), originally published in 1946. 2. Auerbach, Scenes, 53. 3. Auerbach, Scenes, 28, 36–38. 4. Auerbach, Scenes, 54–57. 5. Auerbach, Scenes, 44. 6. Auerbach, Scenes, 57. 7. Auerbach, Scenes, 30. 8. Johann Wolfgang Goethe, Maximen und Reflexionen (Frankfurt a/M: Insel, 1976), 192. 9. Goethe, Maximen und Reflexionen, 67–68. 10. Goethe, Maximen und Reflexionen, 67. 11. See Vítor Westhelle, Religion and Representation: A Study of Hegel’s Critical Theories of Vorstellung and their Relevance for Hegelianism and Theology (Ann Arbor: UMI, 1984), 639–694. Lukács, with his atheistic verve, even suggests that there is no religious art, for religion cannot overcome the allegorical mode of representation. 12. Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama (New York: Verso Press, 1977), 166. Translation altered. 13. Gershom Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (New York: Schocken Books, 1946), 26. 14. José Carlos Marátegui, Siete ensayos de interpretación de la realidad peruana (Lima: Amauta, 1928), 169. 15. Octavio Paz, Labyrinth of Solitude (New York: Grove Press, 1972), 29 and 42. 16. Homi Bhabha, Location of Culture (New York: Routledge, 1994), 90. 17. Flávio Koutzii, Pedaços de Morte no Coração (Porto Alegre: L&PM, 1984). 18. For an elaborated version of this example, see Vítor Westhelle, “Revelation 13: Between the Colonial and the Postcolonial, a Reading from Brazil,” in David Rhoads, ed., From Every People and Nation: The Book of Revelation in Intercultural Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 183–199.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Aland, Barbara, Kurt Aland, Johannes Karavidopoulos, Carlo Maria Cardinal Martini, Bruce Manning Metzger (eds.), Novum Testamentum Graece. Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2012. Auerbach, Erich. Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1953. ———. Scenes from the Drama of European Literature. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1984. Benjamin, Walter. The Origin of German Tragic Drama. New York: Verso Press, 1977. Bhabha, Homi K. Location of Culture. New York: Routledge, 1994.

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Coogan, Michael David, Marc Zvi Brettler, Carol A. Newsom, and Pheme Perkins. 2010. The New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocrypha: An Ecumenical Study Bible, New Revised Standard Version. New York: Oxford University Press. Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. Maximen und Reflexionen. Frankfurt a/M: Insel, 1976. Koutzii, Flávio. Pedaços de Morte no Coração. Porto Alegre: L&PM, 1984. Marátegui, José Carlos. Siete ensayos de interpretación de la realidad peruana. Lima: Amauta, 1928. Paz, Octavio. The Labyrinth of Solitude: Life and Thought in Mexico. New York: Grove Press, 1961. Scholem, Gershom. Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism. New York: Schocken Books, 1946. The Zondervan NASB Study Bible. 1999. Grand Rapids: Zondervan. Westhelle, Vítor. Religion and Representation: A Study of Hegel’s Critical Theories of Vorstellung and their Relevance for Hegelianism and Theology. Ann Arbor: UMI, 1984. ———. “Revelation 13: Between the Colonial and the Postcolonial, a Reading from Brazil.” In From Every People and Nation: The Book of Revelation in Intercultural Perspective. Edited by David Rhoads, 183–199. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005.

Conclusion Colonialism and the Bible: Trajectories, Evaluations, Proposals Fernando F. Segovia

The primary aim of this inquiry regarding the problematic involving the relation between the project of colonialism and the role of the Bible is to provide a critical account of the state of the question today from the perspective of the Global South—fifty years after its incipient articulations in the movement of Liberation, in the aftermath of so much work along so many lines on this matter through these decades, and seventy years after the commencement of the heyday of the process of decolonization. Such stocktaking demands a critical analysis of the present alongside critical analyses of the past and the future. This demands, therefore, a review of the contexts and legacies of the past in order to determine the foundations and junctures that underlie and mold the present; a review of the present, its challenges and struggles, in order to assess the needs that it confronts and the desiderata that it harbors; and a review of the future, its parameters and directions, in order to construe the programs and strategies that it requires toward liberation and decolonization. The result is a remarkable account of the state of the affairs as perceived throughout the Global South: an incisive look into past developments, present conditions, and future possibilities. What follows unpacks this overarching assessment by examining, in individual and detailed fashion, the set of contributions that, taken together, yield such a revealing account of the problematic at present. I shall proceed, for lack of a better modus operandi, in alphabetical order, both with regard to the spatial-geographical configurations and with respect to the authors represented within each configuration. I shall do so in terms of their constructions of the past, the

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present, and the future; this they all do in one way or another, to one extent or another. The analysis will thus follow a threefold division: (1) Critical Context and Aim—the presentation of the historical context in question and the objective of the chapters in light of such a perception; (2) Critical Analysis and Evaluation—the reading of the situation at hand brought about by such a historical trajectory; and (3) Critical Vision and Project—the formulation of a pathway ahead with the rupture of the problematic in mind, given the crossroads identified in the present. I shall conclude with a summary of the major points made and the major proposals offered, by way of continued engagement with and advancement of the problematic. AFRICA AND THE MIDDLE EAST The representation of critical voices from Africa and the Middle East reveals a distinct difference in orientation between the two components comprising this spatial-geographical configuration. Both sets of critics address the relation between colonialism and the Bible by revisiting and reviewing historical trajectories and legacies. How they do so, however, accounts for the difference noted. In effect, the trajectories and legacies laid out reveal overarching concerns and narratives of such a nature that make it possible to speak of different social-cultural as well as religious-theological worlds at work. Those from the Middle East pursue the problematic by using the relation between Arabs/Palestinians and Israelis as a key, if not the central lens, of inquiry. Such voices come from both sides of the divide: Michel Elias Andraos (Lebanon); Yael Munk (Israel); and Mitri Raheb (Palestine). Those from Africa address the problematic by taking the dynamics and mechanics at work in their countries of origin as representative, in one way or another, of realities and experiences elsewhere in Africa, whether in the surrounding region or in the continent as a whole. Such voices hail from both the northern and southern side of the Sahara. These are: Safwat Marzouk (Egypt), Dora Mbuwayesango (Zimbabwe), and Kenneth Ngwa (Cameroon). In what follows, I deal first with the critical voices from the Middle East, given the force of the overarching concern and narrative in question, namely, the Israeli-Arab conflict emerging in the region after the end of the World War II and revolving around the creation of the State of Israel in 1948. Then, I turn to the critical voices from Africa, for whom it is the long-standing colonialist project of the European powers, dating back to the 19th century, that serves as organizing concern and narrative.

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THE MIDDLE EAST Critical Context and Objective Lebanon—Liberation in Arab Christian Communities: Pondering the Future From the angle of vision of Lebanon, Michel Andraos examines the reception of the Bible within a particular formation of the “Arabic-speaking Christian communities of the Middle East,” namely, the movement of Liberation Theology that has emerged in Palestine and Israel since the end of the 20th century. This development involved the formulation of a “contextual, de-colonial” theological-biblical project. Within this movement, Andraos foregrounds two leading figures, Naim Stifan Ateek and Mitri Raheb, both of whom are presented as having played a key role in laying the foundations for such a project. This they accomplished discursively, by way of publications in the academic-ecclesial arena and interventions in the public realm. This they also carried out materially, through the creation of centers of dissemination, the convocation of thematic gatherings and congresses, and the cultivation of an international network of collaboration. Such work Andraos describes from a variety of perspectives. In terms of mode, it has been distinctly dialectical in character, grounded in the conflictive context of Palestinian society and culture in relation to Israel. In terms of scope, it has been pointedly de-colonial, addressing not only the ongoing colonialist project of Israel but also the historical colonialist project of the West in the Middle East. In terms of influence, it has proved immensely fruitful, taken up as it has been by many “Palestinian Christian organizations” and “movements of resistance against Israeli occupation and domination.” For Andraos, looking in from the outside, the question raised by this movement at this point in its trajectory has to do with its future, and hence, ultimately, the whereto of this de-colonial and liberative project in and for the region, that is, both inside and outside Palestine. Israel—Secular-Religious Contradiction: Surfacing the Colonial Impulse Using Israel as the standpoint, Yael Munk traces—along the lines of Andraos on the Palestinians, but from the inside—the use of the Bible in the country throughout the course of its existence as a nation-state. This concern is finely nuanced. To begin with, it is a specific biblical tradition—the “colonizing imperative” of the land, as represented in the divine command of Joshua 1:1–4—that is foregrounded, as understood and exercised in Israel. Second, the conception and application of this tradition are pursued through a

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particular formation of cultural production, filmmaking, given the role that cinema has always played in the shaping of national imaginaries. Third, the cinematic representation of this tradition, with its various underlying frameworks of perception and deployment, is examined from a variety of social-cultural contexts, following a threefold national trajectory: Beginning (1948–1967), the Six-Day War (1967–2005), and (3) Disengagement (2005–). Lastly, the analysis of this trajectory includes a postcolonial dimension—the power relations at work over the land between Israeli Jews and the Palestinian Other. At the heart of Israel, Munk argues, there lies a fundamental contradiction having to do with the relation between state and religion, present since before the creation of the nation-state itself. This contradiction is utterly problematic and inescapable. Its point of origins lies in Zionism: the adoption of the colonizing imperative, a move that embodies the values of biblical religion, by the Jewish national movement founded at the end of the 19th century, a project grounded in the values of “atheist modernity.” In effect, Zionism argued for a return to the historical homeland, a fulfillment of the biblical promise, as the way out of the Old Jew of the ever-threatening diaspora and into the New Jew of confident Israel. This contradiction between the discourses of biblical promises and human rights has not only festered but also sharpened over the course of the national trajectory, and remains unresolved today. This contradiction further reveals a colonizing impulse and consequences, since it “was to become the justification for the violent occupation of the weaker Other and its silencing.” Israeli filmmaking, Munk argues, has reflected the shifting attitudes of the national imaginary toward this pivotal secular-religious contradiction and its crucial national-ethnic ramifications for the state. For Munk, the problematic is not how to break though the contradiction; it is, rather, how to bring it to the surface. The question is thus how to expose the relation between colonialism and the Bible in Israel and its consequences for Israeli-Palestinian relations. It is this task that he sets out to do by tracing the shift in attitude toward the land, as signifier for the colonizing imperative, conveyed by the cultural tradition of Israeli filmmaking. Palestine—From Imperial to Postcolonial Hermeneutics: Weighing the Shift From the angle of vision of Palestine, Raheb analyzes—not unlike Munk as well as Andraos, though from the inside like Munk—the appeal to and deployment of the Bible in the context of Palestine from the end of the World War II to the mid-2010s. This, he argues, is a freighted period of time for the region, encompassing three phases: (1) 1948–1967: from the end of the

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British Mandate of Palestine (1920–1948) and the foundation of the State of Israel (1948); (2) 1967–2001: through the Arab-Israeli wars of 1967 and 1973, the Six-Day War and the Yom Kippur War, yielding Israeli occupation of Palestinian territory; (3) 2001–today: to the conflagration throughout the Middle East unleashed by the pivotal event of 9/11 and the subsequent Afghanistan and Iraq Wars. His analysis focuses on the application of the Bible to the geopolitical problematic involving Israeli-Palestinian formations and relations of power. This period, he argues, witnesses a shift—gradual, limited, ongoing to be sure, but fundamental nonetheless—in biblical hermeneutics from an imperial to a postcolonial mode. For Raheb, the driving question is whether this shift has gone far enough or stands in need of further adjustment. Critical Analysis and Evaluation Lebanon—De-colonial Hermeneutics: Toward Realism, Justice, Empowerment In seeking to address the future of the liberationist movement in Palestinian theology and criticism, Andraos begins by outlining the historical trajectory of biblical interpretation among Christians in Palestine. Four major phases are outlined, each distinguished by a predominant disposition or a new development. As such, these phases are not presented as discrete and mutually exclusive but rather as ongoing and existing in parallel fashion. In the first stage, seen as lasting through the end of the 19th century, the role assigned to the Bible is minimal. During this time, the religious-theological life of Palestinian Christians revolves around clerical concerns, liturgical celebrations, and popular religiosity. The second stage, viewed as beginning around the middle of the 19th century, is marked by the arrival of missionaries from Europe and the United States. They bring with them a pointed emphasis on the Bible and a set of messianic visions regarding the land. At this point, the Bible—its rhetoric and content—starts to permeate the whole of Christian life in Palestine. The third stage, dated to the early part of the 20th century, is signified by the emergence of “Zionist interpretations” of the Bible. These revolve around the development of an exclusivist theology of the chosen people, with a right to build a nation-state in Palestine, and/or the deployment of millennial and apocalyptic expectations from the 19th century. It is in the fourth stage, then, traced to the decade of the 1990s, that the rise of the Palestinian Liberation movement takes place. With Liberation comes a new approach to the Bible—contextual, de-­ colonial, and liberative. It is contextual insofar as it takes as point of departure the social-cultural realities of the Palestinian people—its “story of

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suffering and struggle.” It is de-colonial insofar as it places justice at the core of its theological-biblical approach, in direct opposition to the injustice attributed to its use as “an imperial tool of colonization,” especially in terms of Zionist interpretations—a story of a God of justice who “takes side with the oppressed peoples.” It is liberative insofar as it serves to empower Palestinian Christians to resistance against the forces of domination and occupation—a story of “faith in a God of love and justice in a way that supports the liberation of their people.” This trajectory shows that the Bible has played—from the middle of the 19th century through the beginning of the 21st century—a crucial role both in the lives of Palestinian Christians and in the dynamics and mechanics of colonialism in the region. The trajectory further shows that such a role has changed with time: from a tool of colonialism in the hands of the Western missionaries through a tool of occupation and domination in the eyes of ­Zionist interpretations to a tool for de-colonialism on the part of a new generation of Palestinian Christians. For Andraos, therefore, the question regarding the future of the liberationist movement is how to proceed with the project of de-colonialization. Israel—Laying Bare the Colonizing Imperative: Toward Realism and Pessimism In tracing the shifts in attitude of Israeli filmmaking regarding the land through the trajectory of the nation-state, Munk reveals the various facets of the colonizing imperative and its nefarious repercussions. As point of departure for this endeavor, Munk describes the state of affairs during the pre-state period of the nationalist movement. Here films are said to have uniformly represented the land as a source of redemption: working the land functions as repression of the memory of exile and advancement of the biblical promise. In this period the Palestinian was portrayed as part of the exotic landscape and thus as subjected to an orientalist gaze—an object “dispossessed of being, past, and history.” In the first phase of the national trajectory, marked as “The Beginning,” while the representation of the land as innocent continued by and large, a measure of skepticism does creep in for the first time: the land as both a source of redemption and hardship, given the lack of farming skills on the part of the newcomers. At this point, the Palestinian becomes a contrast, as those who have worked and know how to work the land—an obstacle in the way. With the second phase, classified as “The Six-Day War,” the secularreligious contradiction intensifies. On the one hand, Jewish settlers (the “Gush Emunim”) move into the Occupied Territories (Judea-Samaria and the Gaza Strip), claiming the Bible as justification for their occupation driven by

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an ideology of a return to the days of Greater Israel. On the other hand, the state opts for ambiguity in its response, neither offering encouragement nor preventing such developments. The result was “one of the rare contemporary cases of colonization in the Western world.” Israeli filmmaking focused on the settlers as such, but not on their religious ideology. Regarding the Palestinian, a number of films did address, as a first example of “political border-crossing,” the hardships of occupation—those “not included in the Israeli hegemonic discourse.” A couple of films go even further, pointing to obsession with the land itself as the root of all problems. In the third phase of the nationalist movement, marked as “The Disengagement,” the contradiction boils over, as it does from time to time. The state undertakes, unilaterally, the removal of settlers from the Gaza Strip and parts of the West Bank, while the latter resist to the end, holding on the hope of a direct intervention from God, and ultimately view the ejection as “the utmost betrayal by their beloved homeland.” Here Israeli filmmaking is mostly absent, perhaps, suggests Munk, as a result of the connection perceived between the settlers of today and those of yesteryear and a reluctance to address the transgression of the law. In Israeli filmmaking, therefore, the representation of the land of Israel and the presence of Palestinians in the land move in tandem, toward a sense of greater realism and pessimism. The depiction of the land in terms of the colonizing imperative becomes ever more cloudy: from unqualified redemption prior to the nation-state through a sequence of redemption accompanied by hardships and colonization (occupation alongside noninterference) to near-total silence, in the face of interference and expulsion. The portrayal of the Palestinian turns ever more conflictive: from exotic object prior to the nation-state through a sequence of contrast as obstacle and object of harsh occupation to total absence. Beyond this tracing of attitudes, Munk does not venture. The problematic, therefore, remains in highly intensified form. Palestine—Tracing the Postcolonial Shift: Toward Affirmation and Contestation In seeking to evaluate the path of postcolonial hermeneutics in Palestine thus far, whether the model at work is sufficiently appropriate or not, Raheb traces the shift from the imperial to the postcolonial mode of interpretation. The transition proper he situates in the decade of the 1980s, hence during the second phase of the historical trajectory outlined for the region, 1967–2001, a period marked by Arab-Israeli wars and the Israeli occupation of Palestinian territory. For four decades, from the 1940s to the 1980s, it is the hermeneutics of the empire that rules. The Western world provides the State of Israel, which

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it views as essential to its interests and projects, with hardware and software alike: military equipment and advanced technology as well as culture and narrative. Theology and hermeneutics constitute a key component of the software through “the myth of the Judeo-Christian tradition”: God is on the side of Israel, a position that entails the identification of modern Israel with biblical Israel and of story with history. The result is a demonization of the Palestinians. Behind this hermeneutics stands the full spectrum of religioustheological support among Christians: the Israel Theology of mainstream evangelical theology and the nostalgia for Israel nourished by liberal Protestant hermeneutics. Behind it stands as well the American Jewish mainline discourse with its “deafening silence” regarding Israel. Thus, the dominant position of the West—including even those components whose emphasis lies on the values of the Enlightenment, on human rights and social justice— exhibits a “profound disconnect” in the face of Israeli attitudes and practices toward the Palestinians. In the 1980s the situation begins to take a different turn. Having lost all hope in the Arab and Western worlds alike, the Palestinians regain their voice, recovering from the profound trauma suffered in the aftermath of 1948 and 1967. This new voice was one of affirmation and contestation, “challenging the empire not with weapons but . . . with their story” and “questioning the omnipresent narrative” of the West. This emergence as subjects is explained discursively as well as materially. On the one hand, Raheb foregrounds the figure of Edward Said, a Palestinian Christian whose work on the discourse of orientalism appeared in 1978. Such work analyzed the dominant story about Arabs and Muslims as a dimension of Western imperialism: not an exercise in objective science, but rather the construction of a stereotype with domination in mind. On the other hand, he highlights the eruption of the first Intifada of 1987. The Uprising challenged the dominant story about Israel in the West: exposing the violence at the heart of democratic Israel and its military occupation of Palestinians. Such developments would lead to the postcolonial mode in hermeneutics in the years that followed. Said’s challenge to the dominant discourse, pursued by postcolonial studies, would be used to expose imperial hermeneutics as exhibiting a twofold bias, “against Arabs and Muslims” and “towards Israel and Judaism.” The Palestinian awakening, taken up by new theological centers and many theological voices in Palestine, would lead to the formation of “contextual, liberation, and inter-cultural theologies” in the Palestinian context. This new hermeneutics of the 1990s would expand beyond Palestine as well, across a variety of academic realms: postcolonial biblical critics; evangelical theologians; the Israeli new historians; even a few mainline theologians. With the new century would come further developments: Empire Studies in biblical studies; attention to issues related to empire in theological

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studies (diaspora; migration; statehood); the formulation of the Kairos Palestine Document, with a call for revisiting Christian theologies regarding Palestine, by the Palestinian Christian community. The question is whether such developments and accomplishments have reached their maximum expression. Critical Vision and Proposal Lebanon—Calling for Expansion: Global Solidarity and Regional Conscientization For Andraos, the whereto of the de-colonial hermeneutics emerging among Palestinian Christians should involve a twofold direction. On the one hand, the movement must expand its dialogue with academic figures and liberation movements from around the world, thus strengthening its international network of solidarity—deepening its quest for “alternate possibilities for creative, nonviolent struggle against the occupation and for justice, freedom and life in dignity.” On the other hand, the movement must serve as vehicle for conscientization on the part of other indigenous Christian communities throughout the Near East—bringing its quest to bear on “the struggle of other Christian communities in the region.” At this point in its historical trajectory, therefore, the liberation hermeneutics forged by Palestinian Christians must intensify its global dimension, both in terms of mode of operation and aim of solidarity, as well as its regional dimension, to be taken up by other Arab Christian communities throughout the Middle East. Israel—Facing a Sense of No Beyond: Intractable and Overwhelming For Munk, given the silence of filmmakers during the third phase of the nationalist movement, there is a sense of no beyond at this point regarding the colonizing imperative in the country and its consequences for the Palestinian Other in the land. To be sure, such silence, as described above, is near-total, but not absolute, for there is one exception, “The Disengagement,” by Amos Gitai (2007). However, the film approaches the critical situation more along the lines of a single family tragedy than of the settlers’ existential drama. Even so, argues Munk, it remains the only one in Israel to have dealt with the colonizing imperative of the Bible, presenting the disengagement as a “further dimension of those trapped between Jewish religion and national politics, between a divine mission and international agreements.” In the end, concludes Munk, Israeli cinematography only serves to frame the problematic more clearly, for the contradiction at work represents “one of the insoluble situations created by the post-colonial era in the Middle East.” As a result, a sense of a beyond remains perforce unnamed, since the colonizing imperative and the colonization of the Palestinian are taken as intractable

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and overwhelming. On this point, Andraos as well as Raheb would disagree, profoundly. Palestine—Adopting a New Postcolonial Paradigm: Beyond the Myth For Raheb, all efforts at and fruits of postcolonial hermeneutics prove most welcome, yet ultimately lacking, given their limitation. In fact, they have failed to touch the core of the problematic, whether by addressing only the moral implications of Israel’s practices or by touching lightly on the Palestinian context. What is needed at present, therefore, is a new direction in postcolonial hermeneutics: a “new theological discourse” that breaks the myth of the Judeo-Christian tradition—the identification of biblical Israel with modern Israel and that of story with history. Such a “post-colonial theology for the Palestinian context” would place the State of Israel with “the empire” and the Palestinians with “the Israelites of the Bible.” This new paradigm of interpretation would be, he argues, “of utmost hermeneutical importance to understanding the scriptures.”

AFRICA Critical Context and Objective Egypt—Identity and the Bible: Naming the Dilemma Safwat Marzouk attends to the fate of the Bible in Egypt—its present quandary in the light of its historical provenance and with an eye on its future disposition. The book deals, therefore, with the Africa that lies north of the Sahara. For this task he calls upon the question of identity as overall critical framework, specifically the problematic of identity in contexts where its configuration is under contestation, given polarizing dynamics of inclusion and exclusion, self and other, at work in the wake of historical and religious trajectories. Such is the case in postcolonial formations in general, given the relation between colonizer and colonized. Such is the case in particular with regard to his own community of Christian Egyptians, given the relation between Christian and Egyptian. In effect, this is a community that constitutes a minority religious formation, numbering about ten percent of the population, in a country where Islam represents the majority religious formation, accounting for about eighty-nine percent of the population. It is this community, therefore, with its conflicted sense of identity, that becomes the object of analysis. At the same time, what happens in the community is viewed as an example for what happens in postcolonial formations as a whole.

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The inquiry is focalized through the community’s approach to biblical interpretation, in particular its stance toward the Hebrew Bible, whose appropriation is said to represent a dilemma for Christian Egyptians. In so doing, Marzouk attends not only to the realm of reception but also to that of production, using these two critical dimensions in dialogical fashion: reception serves as a point of entry into production, and production functions as a point of departure for reception. The aim is to move beyond the dilemma by seeking an alternative interpretive approach, one that moves beyond categories of opposition, whereby Christian Egyptians can bring together the conflicted sense of identity that they have received from their historical and religious heritage. Zimbabwe—Subjugation of Southern Africa: Facing the Religious Component Dora Mbuwayesango examines, along the lines of Marzouk on Egypt, the reception of the Bible in Zimbabwe, a territory presented as representative of the situation in southern Africa in general. Her focus, unlike that of Marzouk, is not so much its use on the part of the indigenous peoples of the area but rather on the part of the Western missionaries who came to the area with a project of Christian evangelization. For this project, the missionaries claimed as driving force the mandate of the Great Commission of Jesus in Matthew 28:16–20, worked through the agency of missionary societies, and wielded the Bible as their primary tool. The historical framework in question centers on the latter part of the 19th century, a time when the project of colonialism, with politics and economics as foundational components, begins to unfold in more sustained and systematic fashion. Toward this project, the missionaries were sought by the colonists and readily lent their support, thus adding a third foundational component, religion. Together, therefore, colonists and missionaries carried out the “subjugation” of southern Africa. The religious-theological dimension of this enterprise, and in particular its deployment of the Bible, had, argues Mbuwayesango, severe ramifications for Africans, and, above all, for women; indeed, its effects endure to this very day. Her objective is to bring such strategies and repercussions to mind. Cameroon—Imperial-Colonial Governance in Africa: Foregrounding Necropolitics Kenneth Ngwa addresses the use of the Bible in Africa in general and in his native Cameroon in particular. At the core of imperial-colonial relations in the continent, throughout the entire course of such relations, one finds, he argues, a threefold set of interdependent realms and forces: politics, economics, and

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religion. The study centers on politics and religion, for which the gun and the Bible are taken as signifiers, respectively. The historical trajectory is outlined in terms of three phases: (1) the colonial stage, involving the encounter with and conquest by the imperial powers of Europe; (2) the anticolonial stage, which follows upon World War II, revolving around colonial opposition to and separation from the European powers; and (3) the postcolonial stage, which begins with the end of the Cold War, involving disappointment with and resistance against the realities of life in the post-colonies. In all three phases, Ngwa argues, the exercise of governance has revolved around “forms of power” that have sought and established control over the whole of life—the individual, the community, and the cosmos. Further, when such power has been structured around an institution or ideology, be it political or religious, the result has often been the phenomenon of “necropolitics”—the claim to control over life and death. In each phase, therefore, the gun and the Bible have played a key role in this regard: determining, regulating, critiquing “the very basic character and structure of human existence, life itself, lived out within histories, cultures, and policies that have identifiable economic, political, and spiritual practices and legacies.” To move beyond this tradition of necropolitics, Ngwa argues, an alternative model of political and religious relations in the post-colonies is essential, a move that includes an alternative approach to biblical criticism. Critical Analysis and Evaluation Egypt—Rejection or Allegorization of the Bible: Moving Beyond Opposition The dilemma posed by the Hebrew Bible for Christian Egyptians is sharply outlined at a variety of levels: from text, through identity, to hermeneutics. To begin with, this corpus, which contains the record of “Israel’s testimony of its experience of the divine,” is perceived as a highly conflicted text. On the one hand, as part of scripture, it is viewed as sacred. On the other hand, as sacred, it offers a highly negative representation of Egypt as the Other, a site of oppression for Israel and a threat to its identity. Such portrayal, given the centrality of the exodus in the corpus, overshadows a number of positive elements about Egypt in the text. Second, this perceived tension in the text generates tension in their own identity as well. A rupture takes place between its religious dimension, the commitment to the Hebrew Bible as scripture, and its political dimension, the commitment to Egypt as nation. Such tensions, Marzuk points out, have been exacerbated in the course of the last fifty years, given the highly charged political context of the Middle East and the highly charged nature of the Arab-Israeli conflict following upon the Six-Day

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War of 1967 and the Yom Kippur War of 1973. Third, the result has been a pointed self-questioning for Christians across the region and in Egypt regarding the status and role of the Hebrew Bible. On one side, the political component of identity is favored, leading to a rejection of the Hebrew Bible—a position influenced by the nationalistic use of the corpus in Israel. On the other side, the religious component is favored, yielding an allegorical reading of the Hebrew Bible from the perspective of the Israelites rather than the Egyptians in the text—a position involving the identification of Egyptian Christians, as marginalized, with the Israelites, as marginalized. Such tension Marzouk exemplifies by way of the traditions concerning Sarah-Isaac and Hagar-Ishmael in Genesis. Thus, the Christian Egyptian minority identifies, through allegorization, with the Sarah-Isaac pair, while the Muslim majority is identified, following its own vision in this regard, with the Hagar-Ishmael pair. Marzouk foregrounds the irony at work in such a reading: the Hagar-Ishmael pair stands closer to the reality and experience of Christian Egyptians, given not only their connection to the land of Egypt but also their situation of oppression. For Marzouk, such a binomial scenario and allegorical choice make for a divided sense of identity among Christian Egyptians: a state of alienation between its political and religious aspects. Both positions, he argues, rest on an uncritical acceptance of the representation of Egypt in the Hebrew Bible, without proper critical reflection on how such representation “shapes one’s self-image and self-understanding.” Consequently, a “third way” is imperative: one that argues, borrowing from postcolonial studies, for a concept of identity as hybrid and a view of space as liminal, so that, instead of inclusion and exclusion, the “paradoxical components of identity can coexist.” The path out of the identity quandary, therefore, is by following a path forged with reference to postcolonial formations. It is precisely such an alternative reading of identity that he seeks. Zimbabwe—Strategies of Subjugation: Transforming African Beliefs and Practices Mbuwayesango outlines two key strategies of the religious-theological project of colonialism at work in the subjugation of Africa. One has to do with the concept of God, given the strategy of displacement and replacement put in place by the missionaries. The other involves the role of women, where a strategy of disempowerment and subordination was put into effect. In both regards, Mbuwayesango declares, the ramifications for the peoples of Africa were far-reaching and long-lasting. The question of God was fundamental. Prior to colonization, the indigenous peoples believed in a supreme being, who was given different names by

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different groups and whose representation was conveyed through the myths and folktales of the various groups. The missionaries had sought at first to bring God to the Africans—the God of the Bible, whom they believed to be “the true and only God.” However, upon realizing that the Africans already possessed a concept of a supreme being, they sought to make the biblical God “relevant and acceptable” by way of literacy and education. For literacy, they translated the Bible into the local languages, using the local names assigned to the Supreme Being for the biblical God. In so doing, they represented God solely through the myths and folktales of the Bible. The result was a process of “religious usurpation,” whereby the foundation story of Israel [became] the foundation story of the Shona or Ndebele.” For education, they used the Bible in the school system as the source of religious knowledge. In so doing, they advanced the written traditions as “civilized and authentic,” while casting oral traditions as “primitive and uncivilized.” The result was a dismissal of African epistemology, along with African identity and ways of being, as “backwards and superstitious.” The position of women was no less fundamental. Failing to find much in Africa that they looked upon as “good and compatible with the Christian life,” the missionaries undertook an “overhaul of African life.” This they sought to bring about by means of the “morality and values” to be found in the Bible. One such realm of attention was marriage, where customs like bride-price and polygamy were viewed as “barbaric.” Another was religion, where the prominence played by women—alongside men—as mediums, healers, and visionaries was regarded as “demonic.” Yet another was sexuality, where the nakedness associated with the female body and sexuality was viewed as “sinful and shameful.” Through biblical education, therefore, the missionaries sought to redefine the concept of family, limit the exercise of religious leadership to men, and instill a negative view of the female body and sexuality. The objective behind this overhaul of African life through the Bible had the entire colonialist project in mind: in general, to render Africans as “more governable and a source of disciplined labor” through the imposition of patriarchal control; more specifically, to “mold girls into proper mothers and teachers for young children and suitable wives for the mission-educated men.” Cameroon—Dynamics of Necropolitics: Tracing Performance As prelude to a proposal for an alternative model of political and religious relations in the post-colonies of Africa, beyond necropolitics, Ngwa traces the political and religious dimensions of governance in all three phases of the imperial-colonial trajectory outlined: colonial imposition and domination; the period of the Cold War following upon the World War II; and the period following the end of the Cold War.

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The first phase is presented through the lens of an encounter between a British explorer, Henry Morton Stanley, and a king of Buganda, Kabaka Walumgembe bya Mutesa I, as narrated in a novel by Akiki Nyabongo, The Story of An African Chief (1935). Both figures stand as symbols for their respective political entities. In the encounter, Stanley deploys both gun and Bible as strategies of power for subjugation: the gun signifies technological superiority, the power to kill more quickly; the Bible, moral superiority, the power to legitimate such violence. The encounter thus sets up the norm and the exceptions: the material center and the periphery as well as the discursive truth and falsehood. Yet, within the encounter, a certain displacement of the binary is to be noted. There is a moment of identification with the Bible on the part of the king: a claim to similarity in historical narratives by way of an exodus-like memory—a “narrative kinship of strangers” between the imperial and the colonial. For Ngwa, this displacement represents a hermeneutical expansion: a move beyond the macronarrative of empire—beyond the control of primary interpretation (Stanley) and discourse community (British Empire); and thus the emergence of a colonial micronarrative—a negotiation of multiple political and cultural forces by the colonized subjects, yielding a discourse community. The second phase is characterized by a twofold process: decolonization on the part of the imperial powers and independence on the part of the colonial subjects. With the demise of the imperial macronarrative of alienation, a profusion of contesting micronarratives break out in the new African states. This was a period marked by the rise of liberation movements, the formation of discourse communities, and the search for alternative forms of governance. Throughout, the power of the gun and the Bible were in display. At first, anticolonial optimism reigned. Politically, the focus was on combating the racialization of the African and dealing with the geopolitical pressures of the Cold War. Religiously, the Bible was used for political and economic liberation, with the exodus as pivotal motif, whether in South Africa or in the rest of sub-Saharan Africa. Eventually, a turn toward postcolonial pessimism takes place. The ideal of liberation is compromised by the development of oppressive structures and policies throughout the African states. As a result, a call is issued for a different use of the Bible, one that would attend to such circumstances in the post-colony. The third phase is propelled by the emergence of a heightened discourse about political liberalism. In the post-colonies, political institutions had not led to effective governance, independence had devolved into political trophy propped up by military means, and the interests of the disinherited had been bypassed. The critique of the model of liberation led to alternative proposals regarding the Bible. On the one hand, a model of reconstruction was advanced (based on Ezra-Nehemiah, Third Isaiah, and the Sermon

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on the Mount)—beyond ethnic and tribal hegemonies; for public engagement; toward a politics based on “anti-Pharaoh” values. On the other hand, a model of liberative reconstruction was offered (based on the Book of Amos)—beyond a one-dimensional and toward a pluri-dimensional concept of liberation. Critical Vision and Proposal Egypt—An Alternative Hermeneutics: Toward Hybridity and Liminality For Marzouk, the parameters for a third way of approaching the Hebrew Bible among Christian Egyptians, along the lines of postcolonial theorizing, are suggested by the text itself, which thus leads to a close reading of the traditions of Sarah-Isaac and Hagar-Ishmael. This reading reveals a complex process of compositional formation, as the history of interpretation has shown, as well as a paradoxical view of such relations in its final stage, as his own analysis proposes. Such a representation reflects precisely a situation where identity is under contestation along polarizing lines: the postexilic situation in Persian Israel, marked by the question of “intermixed marriage,” of “foreign wives” and “mixed-children,” and the dynamics of expulsion and incorporation. The key elements of this reading may be summarized as follows: Hagar the Egyptian stands as oppressed by Sarah in the text; Hagar-Ishmael undergo expulsion from the household of Sarah-Isaac, but receive divine succor in the process; Ishmael, who receives the sign of the covenant in circumcision, receives promises similar to yet different from those of Isaac (progeny, but not cultic proximity). The traditions thus subvert the Egypt-Israel dichotomy of oppression and witness to a hybrid identity and a liminal space for Ishmael, who appears as “neither a full Egyptian nor a full Israelite . . . a new being.” Such findings, in turn, can serve as a “model” for Christian Egyptians, allowing them to proceed by way of paradox rather than opposition, embracing both sides of their identity, without renouncing either side. Such a choice bears consequences for Christian Egyptians, along the lines of those facing a similar postcolonial predicament: deconstructing all ideologies, national or religious, that clamor for assimilation or exclusion in dealing with the other; constructing identity in a way that views difference not “as a threat but as a gift.” Such a configuration of hybrid identity and liminal space seeks what is common between self and other, “build[ing] bridges of compassion and hospitality.” For Egyptian Christians, this means accepting the Hebrew Bible as Christians and their nationality as Egyptians, holding them in fruitful and dialogical tension, not only within the self but also vis-à-vis other selves.

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Zimbabwe—Colonial Devastation: Enduring the Consequences For Mbuwayesango, the introduction of the Bible into Zimbabwe and Southern Africa, as a key element in the religious-theological crusade of Western missionaries, was responsible for a host of negative repercussions for the indigenous peoples. On the one hand, the imposition of the biblical God brought about a radical turn in how Africans thought of and comported themselves. On the other hand, the imposition of biblical values brought about a radical turn in how African women thought of and comported themselves. While the former led to profound alienation for all, the latter led to heightened patriarchy for women—all in the name of insertion into the colonialist project. Such consequences are still in evidence today. Indeed, African women continue to struggle against a twofold oppression, signified “in and through the Bible” as well as “in and through African patriarchal culture.” In the end, Mbuwayesango offers no way of moving beyond such radical displacement and replacement in African society and culture is drawn; instead, she lets the immensity of the colonial devastation wrought stand by and speak for itself. Cameroon—Affirmation of Diversity: Breaking through Necropolitics In the light of the historical process of governance involving imperialcolonial relations outlined, Ngwa argues, from within the present juncture of the third, postcolonial stage, for a recognition of diversity and a “method of critical constructivism” in the post-colony. This would entail an interdependent project vision: politically, a multidimensional sense of identity; religiously, a multilayered approach to hermeneutics. The former would break through binaries of identity, incorporating any number of macro- as well as micronarratives of imperial-colonial relations—the “multiplicity of the postcolonial subject.” The latter would pierce through any claim to exclusivity in interpretation, allowing for a variety of readings—“new kinships of narrative strangers.” The postcolonial site would become thereby, beyond a site for power struggle, a site of negotiation involving a “multiplicity of consciousnesses” and a “strange” hermeneutics involving “a quality of cross-cultural sameness”—hence, a site beyond the necropolitics of the imperial-colonial trajectory. Reflection In dealing with the colonialism-scripture problematic, both sets of critics from Africa and the Middle East point to the long shadow cast by the colonial undertaking and the pivotal role exercised by the biblical text throughout. The project is portrayed as reaching from the past right into the present, while scripture is depicted as crucial from initial deployment through subsequent

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implementation to continuing aftereffects. Colonialism thus emerges as by no means a relic of times gone by, but rather as a continuing tear in the fabric of peoples and nations. The Bible similarly emerges as by no means an innocent observer in such circumstances, but rather as an ongoing source and agent of social-cultural dystopia. For the voices from the Middle East, such a state of affairs is filtered through the Arab-Israeli conflict. For all concerned, the legacy of colonialism still makes itself felt in no uncertain terms. Its reach is represented as extending all the way back to the 19th century. In the case of Andraos and Raheb, such reach is traced to the arrival of emissaries from the Western imperial powers. In the case of Munk, it is tied to the formation of Zionism and the elaboration of Israeli national discourse. The burden of the Bible proves no less palpable. For Munk, this lies in the conjunction of biblical religion and secular ideology through the embrace of the colonizing imperative of the land. For Andraos and Raheb, it has to do with the set of interpretive strategies and programs introduced by Western missionaries, who were in the service of imperial politics and economics. A way out of the shadow of colonialism and the burden of the Bible emerges as conflicted: feasible and imperative for Andraos and Raheb; intractable for Munk. In the case of Munk, the secular-religion conjunction at the heart of Israel, with its colonial repercussions for Palestinians, is viewed as seemingly unsurpassable. Analysis can only bring out the dystopia in full, but alas offers no solution, no utopian vision. In the case of Andraos and Raheb, what is needed in hermeneutics has already been launched through the Liberation movement of the 1980s: a different set of interpretative strategies and programs among Palestinian and Arab Christians, whose foundations lie in the existing social-cultural conditions of the people and whose principles emerge from their struggles of resistance and liberation. Analysis here is unremittingly on the side of decolonization, with a utopian vision very much in mind. For the voices from Africa, the state of affairs is approached from a variety of foci, social as well as cultural, all directly linked to the dynamics and mechanics of the colonial project. Speaking with respect to northern Africa in mind, Marzouk emphasizes the oppositional politics of identity in Egypt, as in all postcolonial societies, in which binomial discourses and practices of exclusion and inclusion reign supreme in the wake of historical-religious trajectories. Speaking in terms of southern Africa, both Mbuwayesango and Ngwa stress the nefarious consequences of discursive and material strategies for the peoples of Africa. Mbuwayesango centers on the radical and systematic displacement-replacement of African beliefs and customs, with a focus on the particularly vulnerable role of women. Ngwa recalls the violence perpetrated by the claim to total control over the whole of life. Such specters

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of colonialism hail from the past and haunt the present still, as the legacy of colonialism. Throughout, the burden signified by the Bible is unremittingly affirmed. In terms of northern Africa, Marzouk points to the oppositional sense of identity conveyed by the Hebrew Bible itself, by way of the division between Egyptians and Israelites, and its forms of appropriation in the interpretive tradition, leading to a conflicted sense of identity. In terms of southern Africa, Mbuwayesango and Ngwa prove far more comprehensive, with politics and religion as thoroughly intertwined in countless ways. For Mbuwayesango, such collusion would bring about a totalizing usurpation of African religioustheological beliefs and practices, resulting in disaster for all, but especially women given the imposition of patriarchy—in the name of economic incorporation into the empire. For Ngwa, the collusion would provide a legitimazing foundation for the aim of control through violence—in the name of the macronarrative of empire. Here too a way out of the shadow of colonialism and the burden of the Bible emerges as conflicted: altogether unspoken for Mbuwayesango; doable and essential for Marzouk and Ngwa. Marzouk argues for an alternative interpretive approach, one that finds hybrid identity and liminal space in the biblical text and brings them to bear on contemporary national identities. In so doing, Marzouk opens up a utopian vision: a deconstruction of binary ideologies in favor of a view of difference as a gift and a search for commonality with others. Ngwa advocates for an alternative mode of governance, one in which a sense of identity as multidimensional prevails and in which a view of religion as multilayered develops. Here as well a utopian vision reveals itself: moving beyond necropolitics toward negotiation, through a politics involving many macro- and micronarratives as well as a hermeneutics involving a variety of readings. ASIA AND THE PACIFIC Unlike the set of critics from Asia and the Middle East, the representation of critical voices from Asia and the Pacific reveals no major difference in orientation within this geographical-spatial configuration. All take up the relation between colonialism and the Bible by revisiting historical trajectories and legacies. A minor difference should, nonetheless, be noted. The critics from Asia attend to the dynamics and mechanics operative in their respective countries without presenting these explicitly, as in the case of the African critics, as representative of realities and experiences throughout the continent. Such voices include: Eleazar Fernandez (Philippines), Nami Kim (Korea), Hisako Kinukawa (Japan), and J. Jakariyan Sebastian (India). The critic from the

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Pacific does present the trajectories and legacies in question as signifiers for realities and experiences throughout the whole of Oceania. This is the voice of Jenny Te Paa Daniels (Aotearoa New Zealand). Critical Context and Objective The Philippines—Colonial Hermeneutics in Control: Assessing the Terrain From the perspective of the Philippines, Eleazar Fernandez addresses the entire trajectory of biblical interpretation in the country, from the beginning through the present, characterized as, for the most part, unvarying. This trajectory is presented in binomial terms, cultural-theological rather than social-geopolitical in character. Thus, the terms “colonial” and “postcolonial”—along with their corresponding classifiers “colonializing and imperializing” and “creative and liberating”—refer to contrasting sets of principles in interpretation rather than to demarcating periods of imperial-colonial relations. In effect, the “colonial storms” of hermeneutics are described as still controlling interpretation in the country today, having endured long past the end of the imperial-colonial era itself. Consequently, to break out of this situation, an alternative hermeneutics, grounded in “postcolonial moves,” proves indispensable. This task Fernandez undertakes by first carrying out a deconstructive exposé of the existing state of affairs and then setting forth a constructive exposition of the proposed model of interpretation. Korea—Colonial Collusion: Laying Bare the Foundations In terms of Korea, Nami Kim’s focus, narrower than that of Fernandez, is on the interpretation of the Bible within conservative Protestant Christianity in the country today. This religious-theological formation is pointedly delineated. It encompasses the overwhelming majority of Protestant churches, over ninety percent, in the country. It exercises extensive social-cultural influence within the country. It engages quite prominently in missions, both long-term and short-term, to the Global South. Its stance with regard to the Bible is pointedly described as well. It approaches the biblical texts, across denominational lines, in terms of a common set of beliefs along “conservative/fundamentalist” lines, at the heart of which lie the principles of inerrancy and verbal inspiration. It envisions its missionary undertaking as a fulfillment of biblical mandates along the lines of premillennialist theology, viewing itself as carrying out the great commission of Jesus to preach to all nations as a necessary prelude to his second coming. Such reception of the Bible, argues Kim, places Korean conservative Protestant Christianity in twofold collusion with colonialism: facilitating the ongoing US colonialist project of the 21st

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century and continuing the traditional Western colonialist mind-set of the 19th century. It is essential for Korea to break out of this contradiction. Japan—Era of Colonial Expansion: Tracing the Role of the Missions With reference to Japan, Hisako Kinukawa pursues, unlike Fernandez and Kim, a strictly historical inquiry, as she proceeds to analyze the role of the Bible during the time of developing European excursions into and contacts with Japan. The period in question, lasting roughly a hundred years and characterized as the “Christian Century,” is well marked: on one end, the visit of Francis Xavier, S.J., in 1549 (1549–1566), introducing Christianity into the country; on the other end, the expulsion of Christianity in 1639, including all missionaries. In Japan, this was the era of the Warring States, a time during which feudal lords struggled for control of territory; in Europe, this was the era of expansion for Portuguese colonialism and trading. The two eras come together. With trading came the missionary enterprise, the introduction of guns, and the trade in slaves. Such innovations, in turn, led to a flourishing of Christianity, a technological leap in warfare, and a dispersion of Japanese throughout the globe. It is this conjunction of elements that Kinukawa sets out to analyze, with central emphasis on the Christian missions of the Jesuits and the “journeying” of the Bible in such a project. The rationale behind this inquiry, and its problematic, is explicit: the coexistence of the missionary project and the slave trade, with a focus on women and children. The consequences of such coexistence for present-day Japan are not directly entertained by Kinukawa. Nonetheless, its specter hovers unmistakably in the background, raising pointed questions about the traveling companions of the Bible in its process of “journeying” through time and space. India—Imperial-Colonial Interaction: Examining the Fate of Identity In terms of India, Sebastian attends to the fate of the Bible in the process of imperial-colonial frameworks, both in the course and in the wake of such formations and relations of power. His primary focus in this regard is on the problematic of identity in the light of interaction between the imperial and the colonial. The driving question behind this inquiry is what transpires when the metropolitan texts of the Bible, introduced by foreign ecclesial agents under the aegis of empire, come together with the local traditions of the people, inherited by indigenous ecclesial communities from their native social-cultural contexts. Along the lines of Fernandez and Kim, Sebastian’s interest does encompass present-day times, though, in principle, it is also applicable to times past. Like Kinukawa, Sebastian is also concerned with the traveling companions of the Bible in its journeying through imperial-colonial encounters.

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Aotearoa New Zealand—Colonial Scenario: Assessing Reach and Power From the perspective of New Zealand, Te Paa Daniels addresses the reception of the Bible among the indigenous populations of Oceania, using Aotearoa New Zealand and the Maori as both main object of analysis and ready signifier for other territories and groups in Oceania. Such analysis is developed in terms of a stark twofold contrast: historical-geopolitical, involving imperial-colonial frameworks, and social-cultural, involving religious-theological frameworks. On the one hand, there is the “colonial” era, marked by the colonization of Aotearoa New Zealand by the British Empire (1841–1907). With the empire comes Christianity, yielding specific ecclesial developments: a distinctive ethos for theological education in general and a set approach to biblical interpretation in particular. On the other hand, there is the “post-colonial” era, which has as point of reference the Maori protest movement of the 1970s—in the wake of a change in status to self-governing “dominion” within the Empire in 1907 and a further change in 1947 to full sovereignty and membership in the Commonwealth of Nations. With sovereignty come developments in established Christianity: a call for a radically different ethos in theological education and a radically different approach to biblical interpretation. This contrast is not presented as a strict temporal binomial, a sequential then-now development, but rather as a functional ideological one, a coexisting side-by-side scenario. Thus, like Fernandez, Te Paa Daniels argues, the ethos and approach of the colonial era and church have remained active, indeed pervasively and unremittingly so, throughout, and continue to do so even today. This, in turn, has prevented the ethos and approach of the postcolonial era and church—marked out by the church itself in formal agreement—from taking root as envisioned. The result is a situation of profound pessimism for indigenous minorities engaged in Christian Studies and biblical studies. It is out of this context that Te Paa Daniels writes, with a vision of a different future in mind. This she does specifically from within the context of the Anglican Church, to whose ranks she belongs and in whose institutions of learning she works, and which represents the majority ecclesial formation among the Maori. Her point of departure is, therefore, quite personal, like that of Sebastian. Critical Analysis and Evaluation The Philippines—Colonial Hermeneutics: Exposing Foundations and Effects In his exposé of the colonial mode of interpretation, Fernandez identifies two core principles at work: scripturism and biblicism. Both are said to arrive

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and entrench themselves as part of the religious-theological component that accompanies Western imperialism—“Christianity, the missionaries, and the Bible.” Scripturism stands for the claims to exclusivity and normativity regarding the Bible and its interpretation. Biblicism encompasses a “constellation of beliefs” about the Bible that, taken together, serve as the grounding for scripturism. Fundamental among these is the concept of plenary inspiration: “the words of the Bible are completely identical with God’s very own words.” Scripture becomes thereby not a witness to the revelation of God, arising from the experience and tradition of the faith communities, but the revelation of God itself, over against tradition and experience—hence exclusive and normative. These principles lead, in turn, to a stance of supersessionism: the religioustheological Other is denigrated, opposed, demonized—and subordinated. The Bible has thus played a fundamental role in the subjugation of peoples—their lands and cultures as well as their religious faiths and sacred texts. In the face of Christianity, therefore, no other religious worldviews would be allowed to flourish and no other sacred scriptures would be extended such recognition. These “colonial storms,” moreover, have ruled the day—in one way or another—in all formations of Christianity in the Philippines: from fundamentalist evangelical churches through mainline denominations and academic programs to liberation and rights movements. As a result, interpretation has held throughout to a view of the Bible as having primacy in all matters and a unidirectional model of interpretation that flows from text to context (exposition-explication). The consequences are evident: the sacred texts of Filipino Muslims and the religious traditions of tribal Filipinos have been accorded, at most, a subordinate status, yielding a most unhelpful framework for interreligious relations. Korea—Colonial Collusion: Setting Forth Dynamics and Mechanics Kim sets out in detail the twofold collusion with colonialism identified at work in conservative Protestant Christianity in Korea. With regard to ongoing US colonialism, the mission to the Global South is said to function as ideological support for the presence and expansion of US military imperialism in Asia. With respect to historical Western colonialism, the mission to the Global South is said to reproduce not only the religious-theological beliefs (such as biblical inerrancy and premillennial theology) but also the socialcultural positions brought to Korea by Western missionaries at the end of the 19th century. In terms of the US project, two large-scale developments are perceived as coming together. On the one hand, conservative Protestant Christianity in Korea undergoes explosive growth from the 1960s to the 1980s. Out of such growth, a commitment to overseas missions begins toward the

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end of the 1980s, encompassing any number of agencies and projects. Underlying this sense of mission is a concept of Korea as “not just one of God’s chosen nations but ‘the last redeemer nation,’” taking the place of an unbelieving West and preparing the way for the return of Jesus to earth. This mission has as target countries that lie between 10 and 40 degrees north of the equator, where Christianity is yet to have a major impact—an area comprising a total of “sixty-two countries with about four billion people.” On the other hand, since the launching of the war on terror in the early 2000s, the United States has increased significantly its military presence in West Asia or the Middle East. Consequently, the Korean missionary crusade and the US militarization project have come to coincide. In terms of the Western project, Korean conservative Protestant Christianity is described as adopting a stance of superiority vis-à-vis the 10/40 nations, populations, and religions in question. In so doing, it is said to copy the paternalism exhibited by the Western colonialist efforts of yesteryear, with a view of “‘the other’ as inferior, dependent, unequal, frail, and helpless” and hence an “other” in need of “‘parental’ guidance, rules, restrictions, and discipline.” As a result, the Korean missionary crusade and the Western missionary crusade come together as well. On both counts, Kim points out, such collusion is tacit. Thus, Korean conservative Protestant Christianity draws no connection at all between its own endeavors and the US project of militarization in Asia. It remains unawares of how its crusade supports that of the United States in the region and, consequently, fails to mount any sort of critique whatsoever regarding the latter. This is largely the result of a historically benevolent view of the United States as the savior from both Japanese colonialism and world communism. Similarly, Korean conservative Protestant Christianity rejects any connection at all with the colonialist tradition of the West. It sees this as impossible, insofar as they are not Westerners but Koreans. Consequently, while tacit, the collusion is no less real—it is collusion, nonetheless. Japan—Bible and Its Traveling Companions: Bringing out the Collusion Kinukawa expands on the coexistence of the missionary project and the slave trade by analyzing how the former, signified by the Bible, comes into play with a variety of social-cultural dimensions affecting Japan at the time. Five such interactions are identified. First, the Bible joins hands with the trading business of Portugal, due to the lack of internal (ecclesial) funding for missions—“the propagation of the good news had to co-exist with materialism.” Second, the Bible becomes part of the colonial project of Portugal, given

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the church’s interest in conversion to the Catholic faith—religion is thereby “promoted by the state.” Third, the Bible comes to Japan alongside the gun, given the sale of guns for the wars between the feudal lords in the pursual of trade—“the Bible necessary for the promulgation of the good news and the gun powder essential for warfare.” Fourth, the Bible reaches out to the ruling classes of Japan for the purpose of furthering the missions and trading, leading to the conversion of warlords and admiration for Western culture—“the shortcut to get permission to unfold their mission work as well as to help trading flourish.” Fifth, the Bible touches the lives of the Christian poor, given the expansion of trade, the increase in population of port cities, and the emergence of sharp inequalities in the population—destitute people who “put their hope in the good news and followed the teachings given by the missionaries.” The situation that emerges from such interactions resolves the apparent contradiction between mission work and slave trade: there was profound collusion between the Bible and colonialism. Records of the period, both Portuguese and Japanese, point to the slave trade as an essential component of the trading business of Portugal and a distinguishing feature of Portuguese society and culture. In such trade, the Christian missions collaborated, indirectly and perhaps even directly, given their dependence on trade for their religious-theological project and their lack of opposition or condemnation regarding such practices. India—Mode of Imperial-Colonial Interaction: Raising the Question The rationale behind Sebastian’s pursuit of the interaction between metropolitan texts and local traditions is, unlike the previous ones, advanced in highly personal terms. Three major components are discernible, all conveyed by the title of the chapter. The first, evoking the Bible, concerns his experience as a minister of the Church of South India: his initial assignment to a rural congregation in the town of Gauribinadur, in the state of Karnataka. The second, “an Indian-Christian community,” has to do with the nature of the congregation: a community made up of “the most disadvantaged sections of Indian society,” which had become a “Christian colony” with the advent of Christianity a century earlier. The third, a funeral, concerns a specific pastoral situation: his first funeral service, described in terms bordering on the chaotic, as the established burial customs of the Church, as represented by him, encounter the traditional burial customs of the people, as performed by the congregants—a funeral. This event, quite early on in his ministry, is presented as a pivotal moment in his life, yielding a transformation that becomes central to all subsequent theological reflection on his part. Thus, standing before the grave of the deceased, a woman whose life-span virtually parallels that of Christianity in the region, a radical conceptualization of his vocation begins to be forged, as his horizon of vision expands

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“under what suddenly appeared to be a vast immensity of the heavenly dome.” A host of questions, he recalls, flooded upon him, all involving, in one way or another, the postcolonial mode and aftermath of Christianity and the Bible—the “textual trajectories and interventions in subaltern space.” Behind such questions lies the fundamental problematic: as texts and ideas travel, what happens to them in the course of such traveling, given the presence of competing texts and ideas? Does something of the original texts and ideas remain to be extracted, as the standard religious-missionary position would hold, so that, for example, the Bible could be characterized as the “True Veda” among many vedas? Or, do texts and ideas become fluid in “the actuality of subaltern space, experience, and embodiment” during the process of traveling? Aotearoa New Zealand—Colonial Ravages: Analyzing Impact and Endurance Te Paa Daniels, like Kinukawa, pointedly delineates and names the past of the colonial era: “the historical ravages of colonization upon indigenous people.” The imperial-colonial framework of Britain arrives in Aotearoa New Zealand with an all-encompassing social-cultural project of domination and oppression over the indigenous populations. The project is grounded on a threefold foundation: a surveying kit on one hand; the Bible on the other; and the foundational principle of “patriarchy rules” inscribed in hearts and cassocks. Within it, a number of “isms” were deeply embedded: imperialism, sexism, classism, racism, clericalism. Within its religious-theological parameters, a monolingual and monocultural approach to education and interpretation was embedded as well: teaching conducted in English and deployed from “a thoroughly westernized, Anglo-centric perspective.” Further, the “ravages” visited upon the Maori in Aotearoa New Zealand, including the Anglican values and practices in question, were brought upon many of the other postcolonial nations of Oceania. It is this past of domination and oppression that refuses to let go, despite explicit ecclesial commitments and resolutions to the contrary. Te Paa Daniels describes how the secular movement of activism and resistance—centered on restoring Maori sovereignty “over land and resources illegally confiscated or acquired” and establishing “treaty-based partnership relationships, across all sites nationally and locally, of political power and decision-making”—led the Anglican Church, in the decade of the 1980s, to a process of critical review regarding its complicity in the marginalization of the Maori and critical revisioning regarding its unjust structures and practices. This process culminated in 1992 with a Constitutional Revision, which formally articulated and mandated a new vision for the Church: defining relations in terms of

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“mutually interdependent partners equally committed to one another’s interests and well-being”; adopting a sharing of power across “all governance and decision-making bodies”; and designating consensus as its “new operating principle.” In retrospect, however, some thirty years later, such objectives, groundbreaking and transformative as they were, reveal “a somewhat less than heartening rate of progress toward the intended redemptive objective.” Certainly so, and “most frustratingly so,” she asserts, in theological education and biblical interpretation, where the numbers and perspectives of the Maori have remained largely the same. Critical Vision and Proposal The Philippines—Alternative Postcolonial Hermeneutics: Setting the Foundations For Fernandez, the only way out of the enduring “colonial storms” of hermeneutics in the Philippines is to opt for a contrasting set of interpretive principles and practices. First, in the face of biblicism, an alternative view of the Bible is essential: a human witness to God’s revelation, deriving its authority from the experience and tradition of the faith communities, for whom the Bible has functioned as formative—“a human testimony (human words) of the faith communities’ experience of the Word of God as it spoke to the life and death questions of the people.” Second, in the face of scripturism, an alternative attitude toward the Other is in order: a recognition of a diversity of witnesses to God’s revelation outside Christianity, yielding dialogue and cooperation—“mutual recognition and cooperation in common societal concerns along with mutual illumination and transformation through engagement in inter-textual hermeneutics.” Lastly, in the face of biblical primacy and textto-context interpretation, an alternative mode is fundamental: a view of both text and context as subject to ideological critique and a dialogical model of interpretation that flows back and forth between text and context. The consequences are evident: the development of a crosstextual hermeneutic, with a sharp ideological edge regarding both texts and contexts, for a multireligious Philippines. This proposed framework moves interpretation beyond the boundaries of its present ecclesial and scholarly confinement, including its most progressive theological expressions and its most sophisticated academic approaches. On the one hand, it breaks with traditional liberationist approaches in two ways: abandoning its unquestioned view of biblical authority and expanding its overriding focus on economics. On the other hand, it breaks with recent critical approaches, regarding literary criticism as unrelated to politics and sociocultural criticism as embodying

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a orientalist gaze. Both ruptures the proposed hermeneutic accomplishes by turning to an ideological critique that works, “informed by poststructuralist ideas,” with a nuanced view of power and a model of interlocking power relations. Traces of such a hermeneutics, Fernandez argues, are already at work in the Philippines, by way of such “postcolonial moves” as popular religiosity (marked by hybridity and fluidity) and jeepney hermeneutics (marked by transforming and repurposing). The task ahead is to let this alternative model of biblical interpretation take hold and expand, yielding “a liberating and creative hermeneutic for the Filipinos to walk with the socio-politically impoverished as well as with people of other faiths and cultures in the Philippines.” Korea—Beyond Colonial Collusion: Adopting a Global, Decolonized Hermeneutics For Kim, the twofold collusion with colonialist projects places Korea—as both object and agent of colonialist projects—in a rather “strange place in the Global South.” The way out of this contradiction lies in a different approach to the Bible altogether: one that does not see the Bible as “inspired, trans­ historical, and error-free Word of God”; one that reads the texts in relation to empire—focusing on whether they exhibit and advance the power of empire or expose and counteract such power; and one that casts its lot with the latter against the former. The result would be quite the opposite. Instead of a quest for a global Christian empire, there would be a quest for a global decolonized Christianity. Instead of a quest to witness by converting “the other,” there would be a quest to witness by respecting “the other.” Instead of tacit support for strategies of militarism and domination, there would be resistance to militarism and the promotion of peace. Only then would Korea cease to function as unwitting agent of the colonizing missions of the West, past and present. In the end, Kim argues, what is true of Korea is true of the Global South as a whole: such critical analysis of missions must be brought to bear on all overseas missions in and of the Global South, coming to terms thereby with this “irony of ‘world Christianity.’” Japan—Colonial Collusion: Keeping in Mind the Repercussions Kinukawa sees the collusion between the project of missions and the trade in slaves as having momentous consequences. On the one hand, Japanese slaves—men, women, children—would be carried all over the globe, in deplorable conditions, sold off by the destitute for survival, while the upper classes consumed the imported commodities. On the other hand, the missionary project as a whole would be eventually expelled from Japan, in part because of their participation in the slave trade. This move, she adds, was not

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altogether altruistic: for the Shogunate in question, it was a way of cementing the entire population, establishing total control, under the gods of Buddhism and Shintoism. In Japan, therefore, during the “Christian Century,” slavery and the Bible coexisted well under the aegis of colonialism. Again, while not articulated as such, there is, I believe, a message, if not a warning, conveyed by this historical inquiry into colonialism and the Bible: not only are such collusions possible, and in Japan they stand as a historical fact, but also such collusions have disastrous repercussions at any number of levels, including the lives of the poor and the oppressed. Indirectly but resolutely so, therefore, Kinukawa affirms the arguments of Fernandez and Kim regarding the past and the present. India—Analysis of Interaction: Setting Forth Means and Goals For Sebastian, the problematic of interaction between metropolitan texts and local traditions is best approached by way of “bibliology,” a critical study of the whole array of the invocation and deployment of the Bible with a threefold aim in mind—critiquing, appreciating, suggesting. First, critique involves targeting problematic usages. The example mentioned is the difference between the indigenous language used in translations and the indigenous language employed by the marginalized. Here the factor of appropriation is foregrounded: examining how the indigenous negotiate the shaping of the religious imagination in their lives—“the constructive work of the subaltern signifiers and their signification of the text.” Appreciation entails promoting constructive usages. The example given is the multiplicity of elements at work in the exercise of Dalit hermeneutics. In this case, the element of control is highlighted: acknowledging and valorizing what the indigenous have to offer—“making” what is inherited “their own” or “restructuring” or “replacing” what is held as dear. Suggestion involves attending to promising usages. The example provided is the affirmation of the importance of the local as such as well as its significance for all, elite and local alike. Here the factor of authenticity is foregrounded: avoiding the “sanctioned ignorance” of non-indigenous sources and taking into account the complex realities of the indigenous. Such expansive analysis of biblical usage provides a proper foundation for pursuing the problematic at hand: the fate of texts and ideas, the Bible and Christianity in particular, in the space of the subaltern. Two approaches are outlined. On the one hand, one must identify the points of intervention. How did the Bible, an “alien object” for the indigenous, become so central? How did it become their own, gaining “emancipatory and liberative potential in the lives of those who live in India’s villages”? On the other hand, one must examine the role of the indigenous at such points of intervention. How are the “lived realities of being marginalized and

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dehumanized,” “messy” as they are, brought into play in their negotiation of the Bible? Toward this end, Sebastian notes four “impulses” to keep in mind in any analysis of the Bible in imperial-colonial frameworks. The first is to consider how the biblical texts offered meaning and support, “a sense of worth and value,” to the marginalized. The second is to trace how the biblical texts interacted with other dominant symbols and rituals in “gaining dignity” for the marginalized. The third is to examine the ways in which the marginalized subverted the imperial nature of the Bible. The last is to move beyond a binomial epistemic paradigm of imposition-resistance by centering instead on the “modicum of meaning” that the Bible brought to the marginalized. In the end, it is clear that, for Sebastian, it is fluidity that rules in subaltern space. Aotearoa New Zealand—Beyond the Colonial: Toward Dignity, Respect, Inclusion For Te Paa Daniels, the situation of domination and oppression demands a vision of an alternative future. This future is named: “the pursuit and implementation of the common good, the birthright of all.” As such, the project entails an encompassing social-cultural project of redemption, not only for the indigenous but also for the non-indigenous populations, and indeed beyond, insofar as it has identity differences of all sorts, in all sorts of contexts (local, regional, global) in mind. This project is grounded on relational principles: respect and conversation, love and solidarity. As such, it further embodies the task of addressing the “burdens of injustice” and fulfilling the mission of “letting captive go free”—certainly so with regard to the Maori, but ultimately with regard to all marginalized groups (foregrounding the conflict over sexuality today). Within this project, one finds embedded, rather than the “isms” of the past, the “chrisms of blessing for all in the region and beyond into the global village!.” Within its religious-theological parameters, one finds embedded not monolinguism and monoculturalism, but an ethos of multilinguism and multiculturalism. In terms of theological education, therefore, the project issues a number of calls for action in academic-scholarly circles: increasing the numbers of indigenous scholars in studies and faculties; incorporating—by way of empathy, competency, and strategizing—indigenous perspectives and practices at all levels; and forming alliances both among indigenous scholars across ecclesial bodies and with non-indigenous scholars in solidarity. Likewise, in terms of biblical interpretation, the project calls for a radically different hermeneutics: highlighting the factor of contextuality in interpretation; aiming, in so doing, at a notion of Christian identity that moves beyond the

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politics of difference and emphasizes instead relationships of love, human as well as divine—the “Pauline impulse for identity transcendence”; adopting, as a result, an ethos of respect toward and dialogue with all as well as solidarity with those burdened by ongoing tensions and injustices of the traditional “isms”; and examining the interface between Scripture and such situations. Only then, Te Paa Daniels concludes, along the lines of Kim, will there emerge a “a transformed and genuinely welcoming and confidently inclusive theological academy”—and, one might add, church and world. Reflection In pursuing the colonialism-scripture problematic, the critics from Asia and the Pacific affirm, as in the case of their counterparts in Africa and the Middle East, the extensive shadow of the colonial undertaking and the leading role played by the biblical text at all times. On the one hand, the enduring grasp of colonialism on the contemporary scene emerges as palpable, with untoward consequences for the peoples and nations of this geographical-spatial configuration. On the other hand, the tactical deployment of scripture emerges as unvarying throughout the process, from beginning invocation through later deployments to present circumstances. As such, colonialism is presented not as a vestige of a past now wholly overcome, but rather as a continuing and redoubtable force in the present. Likewise, the Bible is presented not as a religious artifact removed from social-cultural moorings, but rather as a socialcultural tool in the execution of the project and its dystopian consequences. In unpacking this state of affairs, a difference in emphasis is evident within the set of approaches. On one side, one finds an overwhelming focus on the problematic from the point of view of its religious-theological component. In other words, the colonial project becomes thoroughly subsumed under the scriptural text. The colonial project is presupposed, even mentioned, but not unpacked, except by way of hermeneutics. Such is the case with Fernandez and Sebastian. On the other side, one finds more balanced attention to both the social-cultural and the religious-theological dimensions. Thus, both the colonial project and the biblical text are considered and correlated, even if the focus favors the angle of hermeneutics. This is the case with Nami Kim, Hisako Kinukawa, and Jenny Te Paa Daniels. Both Fernandez and Sebastian emphasize the pervasiveness of a hermeneutics inherited from the colonial project of the West. While Fernandez looks to foundations as well as ramifications, Sebastian focuses on effects. For Fernandez, the principles and practices of such a hermeneutics still govern the task of interpretation today, indeed across the entire range of the ecclesial spectrum. Behind it stands an ideology of scriptural exclusivity and biblical supremacy, leading to a model of text-to-life application and a position of

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social-cultural supersessionism, a dystopia of subjugation and demonization of the “others.” For Sebastian, the biblical texts form part and parcel of the entire array of texts and ideas introduced by metropolitan agents of the church and still in use today throughout local ecclesial contexts. The result comes across, at one level, as a mixture of the local and the foreign bordering on the chaotic, a dystopia of practices and beliefs. Kim, Kinukawa, and Daniels all stress the close links existing between the phenomenon of colonialism and the implication of Christianity. While Kim and Daniels look back and around, Kinukawa focuses on the past. In so doing, they point to various dimensions, social as well as cultural, of the colonial project. Kim has in mind both the Western colonial project of the 19th century and the US colonial project of the 21st century. The biblical hermeneutics, grounded in exclusivity and supremacy, and accompanying missionary impulse, characterized by millennialism and redemptionism, driving the vast majority of Protestant churches in Korea signify, respectively, a revival of the traditional paternalism of the West and a collusion with the present-day militarism of the United States. The result is dystopia: infantilization of the “other” and silence in the face of the US crusade. Daniels goes back to the colonial intervention of Great Britain in the 19th century, described as territorial, religious, and patriarchal in character. With it, therefore, comes Christianity and the whole of its ecclesial apparatus, of which two dimensions are singled out: theological education and biblical hermeneutcs, both founded on Anglo-centric monolingualism and monoculturalism. Again, dystopia is the result: exclusion of the local “other” in material as well as discursive fashion. Kinukawa centers on the beginnings of the Western colonial project in the 16th century by way of the Portuguese Empire. The expansion of commerce with the East led to the concomitant emergence of unlikely traveling companions: the gun trade, the slave trade, and the Christian missions. The result was dystopia: a fertile and silent collaboration between the spread of the biblical text and the spread of Japanese slavery, including women and children. In all cases but one a proposal for casting aside the joint shadow of colonialism and burden of the Bible is advanced. The exception is Kinukawa, given the historical nature of her inquiry, and yet there is here a clear warning regarding the nefarious consequences of any such collusion, both for the Christian movement and for peoples and nations, especially the poor and the oppressed among them. For Fernandez and Sebastian, the proposal is strictly hermeneutical. In the case of Fernandez, different principles and practices are in order: the Bible as a witness to God by way of the experience of the communities and as one among many other such witnesses. What is envisioned thereby is utopian: a postcolonial model involving ideological critique, dialogical movement between text and context, and a crosstextual hermeneutics. This is a proposal

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that brings together popular approaches, incorporation of the poor, and inclusion of the other. In the case of Sebastian, what is imperative is a critical review of what actually takes place in the interaction of the metropolitan and the local—a look beyond the surface chaos of the mixture. This involves careful analysis of the ways in which the biblical texts have been used by locals in context, and hence the dynamics and mechanics of a hybridity marked by flux. The utopian element is undeniable: an approach to the subaltern as active and creative agents in interpretation, yielding fluidity and not chaos. For Kim and Daniels, the proposal is broader, though decidedly hermeneutical as well. With regard to Kim, only a different approach to the Bible can bring to an end the collusion of Korea in colonial projects. This entails a mode of interpretation that undertakes ideological analysis of the texts with regard to imperial-colonial frameworks and sides with those that counter such frameworks. This also entails a way of being that is marked by respect for the “others.” The utopian element is evident: a global Christianity that works for peace and critiques militarism. With respect to Daniels, an alternative view of the future is of the essence, one that takes up the Maori goals of revindication, as yet unfulfilled, in the 20th century. This demands a sense of the common good as driving principle. This also demands a hermeneutics that is multilingual and multicultural, with full inclusion of the marginalized in education and interpretation as well as in society and culture. The utopian element is no less evident: a world and church transformed, in which principles of respect and dialogue, love and solidarity, rule. In all cases a tight bond is posited between the social-cultural project of imperial-colonial rule and the religious-theological project of biblical interpretation. Such collusion is affirmed by all critics, to one degree or another, with regard to the past, to the imperial-colonial frameworks of yesteryear. With regard to the present, the spectrum of opinion ranges from strong affirmation, through nuanced interaction, to implicit warning. In all cases any such collusion between colonialism and the Bible is rejected, whether—following the spectrum—in terms of tearing asunder, attending to the richness of popular usage, or taking consequences into account. In all cases, therefore, there is a call, in one way or another, to move beyond in liberating fashion. LATIN AMERICA AND THE CARIBBEAN The representation of critical voices from Latin America and the Caribbean reveals, as in the case of the set of critics from Asia and the Pacific, no significant difference in orientation within this geographical-spatial configuration. All pursue the relation between colonialism and the Bible by revisiting historical trajectories and legacies. A minor difference, however, should be noted. The critics from Latin America, all from South America, focus on the

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tradition of Liberation Theology and hermeneutics, addressing in so doing the question of its viability at present. These voices are: Nancy Bedford (Argentina), Ivan Petrella (Argentina), and Vítor Westhelle (Brazil). The critic from the Caribbean looks at the tradition of Protestant interpretation from its inception in the 19th century, bringing out its political character throughout. As such, this tradition would include that of Liberation, though without reference to it. This voice is that of Carlos Cardoza Orlandi (Puerto Rico). In all cases, while speaking of their countries of origin, these critics have the rest of the hispanophone world of the Americas in mind. Critical Context and Objective Argentina—Toward a Reading for Life Speaking from the context of Argentina but with reference to Latin America as a whole, Nancy Bedford notes how in Latin America, as elsewhere, the Bible can be used, and has been used, for destructive as well as constructive purposes. Such conflicted usage, she explains, is due to the complex and ambiguous character of the Bible, not only in terms of production, of the texts as such, but also in terms of reception, of their interpretations. While greater emphasis is placed on interpretation in this regard, there is no question that such qualities are seen as present in the texts themselves. In Latin America such use has involved, in the past as in the present, the framework of (neo)colonialism and the condition of (neo)coloniality. Thus, the Bible has been used, and can still be used today, for death or for life, for oppression or for liberation, in the continent. In the light of this conflicted trajectory, Bedford’s aim is to advance a liberatory reading in and from Latin America. Argentina—Seeking an Alternative Model Similarly grounded in Argentina but with the whole of Latin America in mind, Ivan Petrella addresses the fate of the Bible in the movement of Liberation Theology in the continent. In so doing, he distinguishes between its traditional use of the Bible and its present need for an alternative model. This break is presented as necessary on two counts: first, the ongoing critique of the traditional model from within Liberation itself; second, a fundamental change in global affairs that affects the social-cultural context of Liberation from without. This change in question is situated in 2001 and signified by two collapses taking place within months of one another: the fall of the New York World Trade Center in September and the fall of the Argentinian economy in December. Both developments are global in reach and repercussion, arising outside but deeply impacting the First World. Both involve the

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realm of religion, and in particular the use of the Bible as sacred text today. Both bring to a climax the internal critique regarding the appeal to the Bible by Liberation. Petrella places himself squarely within this critique and seeks to move it forward. Brazil—Toward Proper Grounding Speaking from the context of Brazil but also addressing Latin America as a whole, Vítor Westhelle focuses on the reception of the Bible that emerged in the region under the aegis of Liberation Theology, a way of reading that spread to other “political and religious movements in the Third World” and that continues to be employed today. His aim is to affirm as well as to enhance. Thus, such a reading is not deemed to be in need of correction or alteration; to the contrary, it is praised and appropriated. Such a reading, however, is seen as lacking critical grounding; consequently, a thorough methodological and theoretical foundation is advanced. Caribbean—Popular Reading as Complex and Shifting Situating himself firmly in the Caribbean Basin—with the islands of Puerto Rico (home) and Cuba as primary reference—but having the whole of Latin America in view as well, Cardoza Orlandi examines the use of the Bible among Protestants from the beginning of their presence in the region, in the course of the 19th century. This he does, as both a historian of Christianity with an interest in popular traditions and a product of such popular traditions, by attending not to criticism in academic quarters but to interpretation in popular contexts. These include religious-theological circles, such as the leadership of the churches, and cultural-artistic realms, like literature and music. The aim behind the inquiry is to ascertain the modes and ramifications of the use of the Bible among evangelical churches in the past with a view toward the present. Critical Vision and Evaluation Argentina—Readings of the Spirit The project of drafting a liberatory reading in and from Latin America, argues Bedford, involves three steps. The first is to accept, as already noted, the ambiguous character and activation of the Bible. It is this that leads her to describe the Bible—borrowing metaphors of Gabriela Mistral, the Chilean poet (1889–1957) and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature (1945)—as “the most burning of lavas” and a “river of fire.” A second step is to explore the tradition of liberating readings, for which a focus on “concrete trajectories

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of interpretation rooted in specific communities” is adopted. The final step is to craft a reading for life on her part—as a Protestant, feminist, Latin American theologian. The analysis of liberatory readings encompasses a spectrum of Amerindian traditions as well as her own precritical religious-theological tradition as a young woman in the tumultuous Argentina of the 1970s. From the Amerindian tradition, she foregrounds—besides the historical use of the Bible as a tool for resistance—a contemporary model involving a mutual reading of indigenous traditions and Christian traditions, with recreation in the aftermath of destruction and oppression as goal. What emerges is a reading of the Spirit, in which both traditions become the Word of God. From her Baptist community tradition, she highlights four features: the empowering practice of open access to interpretation; the countercultural attitude of questioning the world and its values; an overriding emphasis on freedom over the text in the present; and a religious-theological commitment to mutual reading of reality and the Bible. What results is a reading of the Spirit, in which the way of Jesus is made relevant in and for the present. Such readings of the Spirit she sees, as a theologian within the academicscholarly context of Christian Studies, as variations on a hermeneutical model developed in Latin American religious-theological circles of Liberation: the hermeneutical spiral, as theorized by such figures as Juan Luis Segundo and José Severino Croatto. This was a dynamic model of interpretation: profound changes in society and culture necessitated profound changes in theology and criticism, yielding a critical mutual reading of both the social-cultural and the theological-biblical realm. It is this liberatory model that she appropriates and advances as her own. Argentina—Moving beyond Textual Innocence and Political Binomials Petrella’s call for an alternative model of liberation hermeneutics is grounded on two collapses taking place toward the end of 2001. The first, which originates in the Middle East, foregrounds the phenomenon of “extremist religious violence”—a violence that is defined as based on sacred texts and at home in cultures where such “texts retain undue influence.” The second, which originates in Latin America, highlights the phenomenon of idolatry—a biblical concept that is identified as at work in modernity and defined as constituted by “ways of thinking that literally justify suffering and even taking life.” With regard to the first collapse, and the problematic of violence based on sacred texts, Petrella points out that among such texts lies the Bible, given its depiction of violence as justified, structural in character, and associated with God. This development shows that the traditional invocation of the Bible in

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Liberation Theology has been far too simplistic: a narrative of liberation from oppression that bypasses altogether the violence of the text. This first event in the United States thus calls for a critical approach to the Bible that is ideologically savvy and discerning. With respect to the second collapse, and the problematic of idolatry in modernity, Petrella notes how, in the case of Argentina, the logic of idolatry was characterized by a multiplicity of factors (“particular decisions, sets of rules, and legal regimes”) as well as by collusion between self-interest and corruption—a scenario well beyond standard categories of analysis (e.g., the left and the right). This development shows that the traditional approach to idolatry in Liberation Theology has been far too abstract: a narrative involving a “comprehensive and monolithic system.” This second event thus calls for a critical approach to the Bible that is ideologically complex and nuanced. Whether with regard to its narrative of liberation or that of idolatry, therefore, Liberation is seen as in need of radical reconfiguration. Brazil—Reading as Transfiguration Westhelle affirms the reading of Liberation on two grounds. First, it proves quite fruitful in coming to terms with contemporary social-cultural realities, varying and shifting as they may be. Second, it proves quite faithful to the scriptural mode of interpretation, reproducing the reading of the Old Testament at work in the texts of the New Testament. It is thus a way of reading that is both savvy and traditional. The reading is enhanced by showing its affinity with a solid strand of literary theory. In effect, argues Westhelle, what began as a “practice” of reading present realities in the light of biblical realities, initially among grassroots communities and subsequently in academic circles, led to “reflection” on such a practice, but not to a “systematic second-order discourse”—“a method (metahodos), a theory of how to go on the way of reading.” It is precisely such theorization, such a move beyond “reflection,” that Westhelle sets out to furnish. The practice itself is described as borrowing from and contributing to a number of approaches, both academic-scholarly and religious-theological. Among these, two are highlighted, historical criticism and fundamentalist reading, given their emphasis on the literal meaning—on the concreteness of events, characters, and circumstances. Such “figures” from the past are transposed by this practice of liberation onto “figures” of the present, yielding thereby a reading that is characterized as follows: literalist—figures as expressions of actual facts; historical—expressions as located in time; contextual—expressions as located in space. What takes place in this way of reading, therefore, is a “transfiguration” from ancient contexts to contemporary contexts. This type of reading is said to follow the figural tradition of interpretation identified by Erich Auerbach.

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This tradition is outlined as follows. First, it involves a glance backward: an invocation of events, characters, circumstances of the past that are “rooted” in their contexts, in time and space. Second, it also involves a move forward: the “migration” of such figures from their ancient contexts onto events, characters, circumstances that are similarly rooted in contemporary contexts. Consequently, the figures of the past “signify” those of the present, while the figures of the present “actualize” those of the past. Lastly, it further involves bridging past and present: a relevance of the figures of ancient contexts for contemporary contexts, where they take on new dimensions of meanings and hence a new life. In so doing, this way of reading appropriates the tradition, claiming legitimacy for itself thereby, and deploys it anew. In so doing, in turn, this way of reading sheds keen critical light on the present, in a way that no analytical analysis can match. Such precisely is the mode of liberation reading. Such a figural reading, critical to the core, serves to reveal the configuration of “damnation and redemption” at play today in society and culture. At the same time, for Westhelle, this reading of liberation also goes beyond the model of figural interpretation, insofar as it encompasses a variety of features beyond the figural: allegory, irony, dissimulation. It is for this reason that a new term, “transfiguration,” is bestowed upon this way of reading. These features are described as follows: allegorical “interpretations”—expanding the concrete figures by way of abstraction, through the use of concepts; ironic “gestures”—creating a chasm between reality and interpretation in the figures, by laying bare a situation through assertion of its opposite; and “tactical” dissimulations—resisting the dominant by deceptive acquiescence, through the use of figures from the past to speak about figures in the present. Puerto Rico—Commitment to the World Cardoza Orlandi’s analysis of the Protestant tradition of reading yields a twofold movement: a practical dimension, whereby the Bible is used to engage and direct everyday life, whether personal or communitarian; and a political dimension, whereby the Bible is mobilized to evaluate and engage the political realities in place. These two facets of interpretation are by no means unrelated: the realm of politics functions as a primary point of attention within the realm of society and culture as a whole. In effect, the Bible becomes the fundamental resource, lens as well as tool, for dealing with the world among Protestant communities. As such, the Bible further becomes a symbol for a new way of being and acting in the region—signifying not only a turn from catholicism to evangelicalism but also a turn from the doctrinal to the experiential. In terms of politics, this tradition exhibits a recurring appeal to the Bible in the face of colonialist ideology of any sort. This is readily attested by the

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religious-theological trajectory of interpretation, drawing on examples from Cuba and Puerto Rico. It is followed as well by the cultural-artistic trajectory of interpretation, appealing to examples from Cuba and the Dominican Republic. Politically, Cardoza Orlandi refers to usage among community leaders. In the case of Cuba, such use is traced historically. Its path is drawn as follows: through the 19th century, opposition to the Spanish Empire, with calls to revolutionary action; in the early 20th century, affirmation of continental leadership and priorities vis-à-vis those of the US churches, with calls to address the social ills of the continent, keeping in mind the policies of the United States in the region; in the late 20th century, during the Special Period of the Revolution (1989–), commitment to the needs of a population immersed in severe crisis following the collapse of the communist bloc, with calls for social and moral engagement, though without political critique of any sort. In the case of Puerto Rico, such use is filtered through the Disciples of Christ. It is outlined as follows: in the post-Depression period of the 1930s, development of indigenous liturgical practices, based on the biblical texts, with calls to action in the face of opposition from church leadership in the United States; in the late 20th century, production of indigenous Sunday School resources, involving biblical commentary, with calls for direct action on the part of the communities by way of ethical values and applied spirituality in the midst of a colonized people. Artistically, Cardoza Orlandi appeals to literature in Cuba and music in the Dominican Republic. With regard to the former, he points to the work of the distinguished poet Dulce María Loynaz. Her poems, written during a time of state-church antagonism, appropriate biblical texts in decolonizing ways, with reference to life in general and women in particular. With regard to the latter, he cites the lyrics of Juan Luis Guerra, a renowned popular singer who identifies himself explicitly as evangelical. His songs draw on biblical texts to deal with matters of daily life but also, in veiled fashion, to address the history of US interventionism. Such widespread use of the Bible in the face of colonialist ideology conveys, for Cardoza, a clear sense of resistance, but no one political ideology as such. The decolonizing impulse is manifest but multilayered and ambiguous. Such use he characterizes, therefore, as a search for “survival in situations of uncertainly.” Critical Vision and Project Argentina—Offering Life to the Most Disadvantaged For Bedford, the proposed liberatory model of reading is grounded in and informed by the Spirit: the Spirit leads the reading of Scripture back to Jesus and the message of the reign of God and forward to the advancement of life

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for all in the world, especially the most disadvantaged. It works in unpredictable, subversive, iconoclastic fashion. It moves in any number of directions, as the multivalence of Scripture is differently activated by a plurality of readers. Such a model is the way for Latin American Christians, and Protestants in particular, to offer a promise of life to societies still immersed in (neo) colonialism and (neo)coloniality. In so doing, it listens to the continent, and, she adds, should do so in a very special way to the voices of its poets who have drawn upon the Bible in their work. The way of poetic reason, which moves beyond rational discourse, is not unlike the way of pneumatic reading, which moves beyond historical discourse. Thus, as poets engage Scripture, its symbols and metaphors, in engaging the reality of Latin America, they bring new meaning to the Scriptures. So should theologians and critics bring new meaning, toward understanding and transformation, to the reality of Latin America, as they engage Scripture. Argentina—Focusing on Present and Future Issues For Petrella, The need for radical transformation in Liberation was already palpable around the time of the twofold collapse. Two prominent figures are invoked in this regard. A few years earlier (1994), Jung Mo Sung had argued that recourse to the biblical texts and ecclesial traditions was unnecessary for the threefold process of seeing-judging-acting. The hermeneutic mediation was said to add nothing to the social-cultural mediation, insofar as the issues of the past had little in common with the issues of today. Such recourse, therefore, provided but “a gloss of theological respectability”—a way of “justifying an already existent Christian participation in the struggle.” A few years later (2004), Marcella Althaus-Reid, would argue that the Bible actually constituted an “obstacle” in the struggle of liberation, insofar as the past, “the utopian Kingdom,” was seen with nostalgia and as foundation—“the consummation of the Christian agency in processes of social transformation.” Such a past, however, was said to bear limited value for the present. What was needed instead was an “indecent theology,” grounded in the struggles for human rights and concerned with the critical issues of social transformation today. Petrella places himself squarely within such developments. For him the proper attitude toward the Bible in Liberation, in the aftermath of 2001, is to relativize its status as a sacred text. On the one hand, in the light of the fundamentalism exposed by the collapse in New York, one should foreground the “cognitive contamination” characteristic of modernity—the interaction and coexistence of a plurality of beliefs, including religious beliefs. What is in order, therefore, is a theology that is “truly inter-religious.” From this

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perspective, the Bible would be placed alongside both sacred texts of the past and social-cultural texts of the present. On the other hand, in light of the idolatry exposed by the collapse in Argentina, one should highlight the idolatrous logic characteristic of modernity—the presence of “most dangerous idolatries” in any number of social and cultural realms. What is in order, therefore, is formal training in fields of studies that analyze such realms. From this perspective, the analysis of idolatry in the Bible or religion would be of little use. In sum, what the present global context requires is a future- rather than a past-oriented theology, a Liberation Theology concentrated on “present issues and future development, whether social, political, or religious.” Brazil—Reading in Defensive and Empowering Fashion For Westhelle, all the marks of liberation reading—figure as well as allegory, irony, and dissimulation—are characteristic of postcolonial “writing and performance,” thus branding such a way reading, quite pointedly, as a postcolonial type of discourse and practice. Indeed, it is a discourse and a practice developed in the face of “western hegemony.” Of these features irony and dissimulation emerge as most important—“the mode in which religion acts out its content by offering an ironic mask.” In its recourse to transfiguration, liberation reading stands halfway between absolute acceptance and radical rejection of the “colonial power” as a “survival tactic.” Such reading allows, at once, for protection against the power of the dominant and resistance against such power. Such use of figures of the biblical past allows for analysis of figures of the present, yielding a critical insight and consciousness that are both defensive and empowering. Indeed, Westhelle argues, such a reading shows that the scriptures are by no means “a closed book.” Puerto Rico—Siding with Resistance For Cardoza Orlandi, there is no need for redirection or transformation in the Protestant tradition of interpretation. What has been done in the past, whether along practical or political lines, is what needs to be done now and in the future as well. In everyday life, the Bible should continue to permeate the lives of Protestant communities in ever so many ways. In politics, the Bible should continue to provide a foundation for resisting, explicitly or implicitly, colonialist ideologies of any sort, from any ideological perspective. Interpretation should thus be viewed—in accord with “the rich social, economic, and political fabric of the Caribbean”—as complex, multilayered, and constantly shifting—and altogether vital. As such, it reflects the ebb and flow, the constant flowing, of the Caribbean Sea that surrounds and marks the islands. Throughout, however, what Protestant interpretation should embody is a sense of “identity in situations of uncertainty.”

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Reflections In dealing with the colonialism-scripture problematic, the critics from Latin America and the Caribbean, in distinction to their counterparts in Africa and the Middle East as well as in Asia and the Pacific, assume rather than depict—with one exception—the long shadow cast by the colonial undertaking and the pivotal role played by the biblical texts throughout. This dynamic is presupposed rather than foregrounded given the focus on reading traditions, evangelical and liberationist, viewed as having already charted a way out of colonialist interpretation. Even the one exception, Bedford, who does recall the colonialist project and its use of the Bible, does so in summary fashion, as point of departure for presenting the different type of reading provided by Liberation. At the same time, such a focus affirms, indirectly, what the other sets of critics have embraced. On the one hand, the project does reach into the present. It is in no way a relic of a past long surpassed, but rather a continuing force with nefarious consequences for peoples and nations. On the other hand, the Bible does play a driving role in the project. It is in no way an innocent observer, but rather an active agent in its implementation as well as a ready source for its dystopian ramifications in society and culture. In recalling the state of affairs wrought by the colonialist project, Bedford emphasizes the religious-theological angle far more than the social-cultural one, that is, the question of hermeneutics over the configuration of the project. The Bible, she states unreservedly, has been used and continues to be used, toward destructive ends throughout colonialism as well as neocolonialism. Such use is characterized as a reading for oppression and unto death. The reason, she states just as unreservedly, lies in the nature of the Bible itself as a conflicted text, where death and oppression are very much present as well. These forces of dystopia are not unpacked at all, either in the text or in reality. What is pursued is a utopian impulse: opting for a constructive reading, unto life and liberation. This path is provided by a renewed commitment to the hermeneutics of Liberation. On the conflicted nature of the Bible, Bedford is joined by Petrella, who highlights the structural and justifiable violence to be found in the texts. Here Cardoza Orlandi and Westhelle remain silent. On the recourse to Liberation, she is joined by Petrella and Westhelle, who similarly argue for a renewed commitment. Here Cardoza Orlandi would not disagree. Any such turn would be regarded as a further option of resistance to colonialist ideology, following in the path forged by the evangelical political tradition of interpretation. The central question is what such renewed commitment entails, and here a spectrum of positions emerge. At a minimalist end, Westhelle calls for expansion: revision by way of more secure grounding in terms of method as well as theory. For such foundations he draws on literary theory and specifically figural interpretation,

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properly amplified. The result, the practice of transfiguration, will allow Liberation to read ever more sharply and effectively—through the lens of the biblical tradition—the social-cultural realities at work in the world of Western hegemony, emerging thereby as a form of postcolonial reading. At a maximalist end, Petrella calls for overhauling: revision by way of major adjustment. This involves awareness and critique of both the violence espoused and the monolithic concept of idolatry present in the text, over against, respectively, an innocent appropriation or simplistic appropriation of the Bible. Toward this end, he argues for a multireligious and multicultural perspective, having a variety of sacred writings in view and a variety of idolatries in mind. The result, a savvy and nuanced approach, will allow Liberation to address the social-cultural realities at work in the world of the post-2001, marked by the logic of fundamentalism and the logic of modernity. Occupying a middle position stands Bedford, who calls for recasting: revision by way of the Spirit. What is needed is a pneumatic reading that exercises freedom over text and reality alike. For such orientation Bedford draws on the indigenous traditions and poetic reasoning of the continent. The result, a multivalent subversive reading, will allow Liberation to advance the message of Jesus of life for all, especially the most deprived in the world of neocoloniality. Across the spectrum, therefore, including Cardoza Orlandi as well, what the revised resumption of Liberation does is to provide a hope of utopia in the midst of dystopia. POINTS AND PROPOSALS: TOWARD CONTINUED ENGAGEMENT AND ADVANCEMENT The preceding close and comparative reading of the chapters does indeed underline what I characterized at the beginning as a remarkable account of the state of affairs of the colonialist-biblical problematic in the eyes of the Global South. The project thus constitutes an invaluable resource for taking the pulse of the problematic at a variety of levels throughout the Global South: from the local; through the regional or continental; to the global. Among the many points made and proposals offered, the following, I believe, deserve special consideration. Collusion and Dystopian Consequences It emerges as manifestly clear that the relation between the colonial project and the biblical text is viewed as one of collusion and that such collusion is seen as having brought about a situation of dystopia in society and culture

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throughout. Such collusion, furthermore, is regarded as a phenomenon not simply of times past but also of present circumstances: its consequences are thus portrayed as both historical and ongoing. At the same time, two qualifications need be made in this regard. First of all, one may speak of two exceptions in this regard, Hisako Kinukawa and Carlos Cardoza Orlandi, although in both cases such a judgment has to be properly nuanced. While Kinukawa’s focus is cast decidedly on a distant past, she does present such a collusion as a warning for all times. While Cardoza Orlandi’s focus remains on an interpretive tradition of sustained resistance to colonialist ideology of any type, there is a hint of such collusion at the end, given a fleeting reference to appropriations of the Bible for evil. In addition, a distinction in the mode of presentation is worth noting. While the critics from Africa and the Middle East as well as the critics from Asia and the Pacific are quite explicit in this assertion, fleshing out the nature of the collusion, those from Latin America and the Caribbean prove more implicit, refraining from any such elaboration, but that is only because the collusion is taken for granted and no need is seen for explicitation. Two further observations are in order. The first is that, in the exposition of the collusion in their respective contexts, the emphasis of the presentations varies: the great majority speak of the social-cultural framework and the religious-theological framework in tandem; a small minority, represented by Eleazar Fernandez and J. Jarakiyan Sebastian focus on the religioustheological framework as such. Even in the latter, however, the collusion is ultimately viewed as all-encompassing, as extending beyond the particular framework of religion-theology to the general framework of society-culture, but it is the former that is pursued in the discussion. The second is that, in dealing with the complicity of the Bible in the project of colonialism, the focus of the chapters varies as well: a small minority, constituted by Nancy Bedford and Ivan Petrella, link the collusion to dynamics and mechanics at work in the texts themselves; the great majority remain silent on this question, thereby relating such complicity to other causes by default. Both differences, although decidedly minoritarian, are worth mentioning, because of repercussions for any future direction. Rupture and Utopia It emerges as patently clear as well that the collusion posited between the colonial project and the biblical text is deemed as altogether unacceptable and in need of correction, of rupture, for which a vision of utopia for society and culture throughout proves imperative. A qualification must be made here as well. Two exceptions should be noted. For Yael Munk and Dora Mbuwayesango, no way is out is offered: while for Munk the most that one can do is to name the problem, in Mbuwayesago silence reigns. It is as if the degree of

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dystopia is such that even the formulation of a path forward proves beyond imagination. The great majority do advance suggestions for moving on. A further observation is also in order. In the case of Michael Andros and Mitri Raheb these suggestions are targeted specifically at the Israel-­ Palestinian context: the former argues for the development of a global network of solidarity and a regional network of conscientization; the latter argues for tearing asunder the received ideology of a Judeo-Christian tradition. At the same time, however, both suggestions may be approached as having broader repercussions in mind. With respect to the call for networks of solidarity and conscientization, such a path can be seen as readily applicable elsewhere and throughout, not just in the context of the Middle East—it amounts to academic-scholarly collaboration with liberation and decolonization in mind. With respect to the call for challenging a received ideology, such a path can be seen as readily pertinent elsewhere and throughout as well, not just in the context of Palestine and Israel—it amounts to ideological critique of traditions of interpretations with liberation and decolonization in mind. Both positions can, therefore, be readily expanded and appropriated elsewhere. All remaining critics advance suggestions that, while locally contextualized and motivated, have explicit repercussions for biblical hermeneutics in general. These suggestions, like those advanced by Mitri and Raheb, ultimately subscribe to the tradition of the movement of Liberation and the process of decolonization. They argue for a way out of the collusion by bringing about a rupture of the colonialist-biblical problematic and imagining an alternative, utopian vision, embodying liberation and decolonization. This way out is formulated along different lines. Those from Latin America and the Caribbean do so with the hermeneutics of Liberation foremost in mind, while those from Africa and the Near East as well as Asia and the Pacific do so with the task of biblical criticism primarily in mind. These suggestions are as follows, listed in each case in the order of reconceptualization and reformulation envisioned. The influence of postmodernist and poststructuralist discourses, highlighted by Liew in his introduction as crucial, are palpable throughout, but especially so where greater reconfiguration and redefinition are mandated. • Reforming the hermeneutics of Liberation through a more solid grounding, in literary theory, so that it is able to read more accurately the reality at work in the contemporary world of Western hegemony, becoming in the process a postcolonial type of reading (Vítor Westhelle). • Advancing the hermeneutics of Liberation through adoption of a reading of the spirit, grounded in indigenous traditions and poetic reasonings, with a focus on life rather than death and with a sense of freedom over text and reality alike, all with the aim of life for all but especially for the have-nots in the world of neocoloniality (Nancy Bedford).

328

Conclusion

• Overhauling the hermeneutics of Liberation through explicit critique of the narrative of sustained violence and the concept of monolithic idolatry espoused in the Bible and the adoption of a multireligious and multicultural perspective, with recourse to other sacred writings and critique of other idolatrous projects in mind, given the new world of post-2001 (Ivan Petrella). • Reforming the task of biblical criticism by analyzing the reception of the Bible among locals, highlighting the hybridity of such reception and the role of locals as creative agents in the process (Jarakiyan Sebastian). • Advancing the task of biblical criticism by moving beyond binomial opposites and foregrounding instead hybrid identity and liminal space in the biblical texts in order to do the same in society and culture, favoring thereby a vision of difference not as a threat but as a gift and a search for commonality rather than for uniqueness (Safwat Marzouk). • Overhauling the task of biblical criticism through more radical measures. There are two suggestions along these lines, similar in many respects. First, through a broadening of interpretation as such: approaching the Bible as one of various witnesses to God as experienced by communities; including a multiplicity of readers and readings; and deploying a stance of ideological critique with regard to texts and contexts (E. Fernandez). Second, through even more expansive broadening: multidimensionality in identity, multilayering in religion, a multitude of narratives in politics, and a variety of readings in hermeneutics—hence away from violence and toward negotiation (Ngwa). A Final Comment The scenario regarding the state of the problematic in the eyes of the Global South is, while quite varied in both respects, in accord with regard to the dystopian state of affairs still in evidence as well as with respect to the utopian vision still regarded as indispensable for the times ahead. It is amazing, but not surprising, to see the degree to which the deleterious effects of the problematic are seen as impinging on the present. After so many years, after so much work, what has been accomplished, although important, seems quite limited. It is heartening, but again not surprising, to see both the commitment and the array of proposals offered to counteract such effects and rupture the problematic. After so many years, after so much work, the sense of struggle comes across as quite vibrant, highly determined, resourceful, and sophisticated. Clearly, the process of liberation and decolonization remains an ongoing and pressing task, and one that this project has brought to the surface with utter clarity as a point of departure, a comparative framework, for what lies ahead—throughout the Global South, certainly, but also throughout the Global North.

Index

Adi, Hakim, 62 Aichele, George, 191, 195, 196 Akoko, Robert Mbe, 63, 69 Álamo, Ramona, 241, 247, 248 Allen, Chris, 63, 69 Althaus-Reid, Marcella María, 191, 195, 196, 258, 261–64, 266–68, 270, 322 Álvarez, Eliezer, 247, 248 Alves, Rubem, xii, xxvii, xxix Amin, Samir, 44–46, 63, 64, 69 Andraos, Michel Elias, 84, 85, 284, 285, 286, 287, 288, 291–92, 300 Anno, Masayuki, 185 Apawo Phiri, Isabel, 68, 69 Ashcroft, Bill, 119, 123 Assmann, H., xii, xxvii, xxix Ateek, Naim Stifan, 75, 76–80, 84, 85, 108, 119, 123, 285 Auerbach, Erich, 272–73, 280, 281, 319 Austen, Ralph A., 67, 69 Avalos, Hector, 265, 266, 268 Avilés, Héctor, 244, 248 Baden, Joel, 21, 26, 29, 30 Báez-Camargo, Gonzalo, 236, 246, 248 Bahri, Deepika, lii, lix, lx Bakhtin, Mikhail M., xxxix, lv, lx Barker, Frances, xxix, xxx Beal, Timothy, lix, lx

Bechmann, Ulrike, 119, 124 Bedford, Nancy Elizabeth, 230, 316, 317, 321, 324, 325, 326, 327 Belich, Jamie, 210 Benjamin, Walter, 89, 275, 281 Bentivegna, Diego, 226, 229, 230 Beozzo, José Oscar, xxxiii, lii, lx Berger Peter L., 256, 266, 268 Berman, Bruce J., 68, 69 Beti, Mongo, 68, 69 Betto, Frei, 264, 268 Bhabha, Homi K., xxxviii, xxxix, xlviii, xlix, l, liv, lx, 10, 24, 27, 28, 29, 194, 196, 277, 281 Biney, Ama, 68, 69 Bjornson, Richard, 44, 62, 63, 69 Blades, Rubén, 244, 248 Blanton, Ward, 123, 124 Blenkinsopp, Joseph, 20, 22, 27, 28 Blustein, Paul, 266, 268 Boff, Clodovis, 137, 146, 148, 258–61, 266, 269 Boff, Leonardo, lii, lx, 264, 266, 269 Bonz, Marianne Palmer, xxxvi–xxxviii, xxxix, xl, xlvi, xlviii, liv, lx Botta, Alejandro F., 69 Boxer, C. R., 182, 185 Boyarin, Daniel, 100, 101 Broadbent, Ralph, 109, 120, 124

329

330

Index

Brouwer, Steve, 164, 166 Brown, William, 138, 146, 148, 245, 248 Brueggemann, Walter, 111, 121, 122, 124 Buckhanon Crowder, Stephanie, 24, 28 Bundang, Rachel A., 148 Burbank, Jane, 67, 70 Burge, Gary, 109, 120, 124 Burns, Peter, 267, 269 Burrus, Virginia, xxxvii–xxxix, xlii, liv, lv, lvi, lx Bush, Luis, 159, 165, 166 Calabrese, Cora Ferro, 224, 229, 230 Caldarola, Carlo, 164, 166 Calder, Kent, 164, 166 Camacho, Keith L., 153, 164, 168 Campbell, John, 33, 40, 41 Cardoza Orlandi, Carlos F., 245, 248, 316, 317, 320, 321, 323, 324–25, 326 Carter, Warren, 114, 122, 124 Cepeda, Rafael, 236, 237, 239, 246, 248 Chacour, Elias, 108, 119, 124 Chen, Kuan-Hsing, 196 Childs, Peter, xxviii, xxix Chipenda, Jose B., 68, 70 Chong, Kelly H., 151, 163, 166 Clark, Victoria , 122, 124 Cone, James H., 147, 149, 262, 267, 269 Costelloe, M. Joseph, 182, 183, 186 Croatto, José Severino, 223–25, 229, 230, 318 Crossley, James, 116–17, 118, 123, 124 Cuellar, Gregory Lee, 116, 122, 124 Daneel, Martinus L., 33, 40, 41 Darden, Lynne St. Clair, xlviii–xlix, l, li, lii, lviii, lix, lx Davis, Uri, 110, 121, 124 Dedji, Valentin, 69, 70 de Pury, Albert, 4, 22, 26, 27, 28 Desai, Mahadev Haribhai, 266, 269 de Sante, Duarte, 184, 186

De Tió, Lola Rodriguez, 234, 246, 248 Dewey, John, 257, 266, 269 Diamond, Jared, lii, lx Dickson, Kwesi A., 57, 68, 70 Donaldson, Laura E., xx, xxi–xxiii, xxv, xxix, xxx, 192, 195, 196 Dor, Yonina, 23, 28 Dower, John W., 67, 70 Doyle, Michael, 28, 30 Driver, Felix, 65, 70 Dube Musa W., lii, lx, 31, 40, 41, 42, 54, 67, 68, 69, 70, 74, 152, 161, 164, 165, 166 Du Bois, W. E. B., xlv, xlix, l, lvii, lix, lx, 52, 67, 70 Dussel, Enriqué D., 84, 85, 228, 230, 265, 269 Éla, Jean-Marc, 57, 68, 70 El-Assal, Riah Abu, 120, 124 El Haj, Nadia Abu, 110, 121, 125 Elisha, Wagdy, 23, 28 Ellacuría, Ignacio, 220, 266, 269, 270 Elliott, John H., lvi, lx Ellis, Marc, 110, 121, 125 Englebert, Pierre, 65, 70 Feige, Michael, 91, 100, 101 Felder, Cain Hope, xlix, lix, lx Feldestein, Ariel L., 100, 101 Fernández, Cándido Quelvys, 238, 246, 247, 248 Fernandez, Eleazar S., 146, 147, 148, 149, 301–2, 303, 304, 309–10, 311, 313, 314, 326, 328 Fjellman, Stephen M., 66, 70 Flores, Máximo, 228, 230 Fornet-Betancourt, Raúl, 143, 147, 148 Fortune, George, 33, 40, 41 Foucault, Michel, xxxv, liv, lx, 147, 149 Foulkes, Irene, 224, 229, 230 Frankel, David, 16, 22, 25, 26, 28 Freston, Paul, 163, 166 Frisotti, Heitor, 213–14, 228, 230 Furukawa, Masahiro, 174, 184, 186

Index

Gandhi, Mahatma, 205, 256, 266, 269 Gardels, Nathan, 269 Gates, Henry Louis Jr., liii, lviii, lix, lx Gausset, Quentin, 66, 70 Geiss, Imanuel, 62, 70 Gertz, Nurith, 100, 101 Gifford, Paul, 164, 166 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, 274, 276, 281, 282 Goldingay, John, 24, 28 González-Doble, Esteban, 248 Gorenberg, Gershom, 265, 269 Gotay, Samuel Silva, 234, 246, 249 Gottwald, Norman, 115, 122, 125, 146, 149 Guerra, Juan Luis, 243–44, 248, 249, 321 Gunda, Masiiwa Raiges, 60–61, 69, 70 Gunkel, Hermann, 19, 27, 29 Gutiérrez, Gustavo, xii, xxvii, xxx, 77, 84, 85, 195, 196, 253, 265, 269 Habermas, Jürgen, 265, 269, 277 Hägglund, Fredrick, 116, 122, 125 Halsell, Grace, 122, 125 Hamilton, J. M., 27, 29 Harrill, J. Albert, li, lix, lx Hatendi, R. P., 41 Hélder Câmara, Dom, xxvii Hemingway, Ernest, 245, 248, 249 Hennelly, Alfred T., xxviii, xxx Hernández, Wanda, 240, 247, 249 Heumann, C. A., liv, lx Höhn, Maria, 164, 166 Holloway, Paul A., xl, xli, lv–lvi, lx Holter, Knut, 63, 70 Hopkins, Dwight, 147, 149 Horsley, Richard A., 82, 84, 85, 114, 121, 122, 124, 125, 147, 149 Howe, Stephen, xxviii, xxx Huddart, David, 24, 27, 29 Ikemoto, Kozo, 174, 184, 186 Inman, Samuel G., 246, 249 Iqbal, Zaryab, 67, 70

331

Izawa, Minoru, 184, 186 Jasper, David, 114, 121, 125 Jáuregui, Carlos A., 84, 85 Jefferess, David, l, lix, lx Jones, William R., 267, 269 Joseph, M. P., xxviii, xxx Kadmuzandu, Israel, 64, 71 Kane, Alex, 119, 125 Kang, Chang-Wook, 163, 166 Kang, Namsoon, 164, 167 Kaufman, Gordon D., 267, 269 Kawasaki, Momota, 183, 184, 185, 186 Kearny, Richard, 17, 27, 29 Kelle, Brad E., 115, 122, 125 Khoury, Jiries, 108, 119, 125 Khoury, Rafiq, 108, 120, 125 Kim, Eunjoo Mary, 142–43, 147, 149 Kim, Nami, 165, 167, 301, 302–3, 305– 6, 310, 311, 313, 314, 315 King, Michael, 210 Kiracofe, Klifford Attick, 122, 126 Kĩriakũ Kĩnyua, Johnson, 67, 71 Kirk-Duggan, Cheryl, xlix, lix, lxi Kishino, Hisashi, 182, 186 Knauf, Ernst Axel, 4, 20, 22, 27, 29 Konings, Piet, 63, 66, 71 Koutzii, Flávio, 279, 281, 282 Krieger, Milton, 66, 71 Kristeva, Julia, 17, 27, 29 Krüger, René, 229, 230 Kunene, Mazisi, 66, 71 Kwok, Pui-lan, 109, 120, 126, 148, 166, 167, 195, 196 LaBute, Todd S., 146, 149 Lee, Archie C. C., 140, 147, 149 Lee, Timothy S., 151, 156, 163, 165, 167 Levenson, Jon, 12, 15, 24, 25, 29, 111 Lewin, Boleslao, 228, 230 Liew, Tat-siong Benny, xix, xxiv, xxiv, xxv, 65, 74, 146, 149, 150, 191, 195, 197, 327

332

Index

Lim, Leng Leroy, li, lix, lxi Lochhead, David, 146, 149 Loomba, Ania, xxviii, xxx Loshitzky, Yosefa, 93, 100, 101 Lubin, Orly, 101 Machado, Antonio, 143, 148, 149 Maki, Hidemasa, 180, 184, 185, 186 Mamdani, Mahmood, 60, 68, 69, 71 Marátegui, José Carlos, 281, 282 March, Eugene, 121, 126 Martin, Dale B., li, lix, lxi Masalha, Nur, 108, 120, 122, 126 Matory, J. Lorand, 65, 71 Matsuda, Kiichi, 183, 184, 185, 186 Matsuoka, Fumitaka, 133, 146, 149 Mbembe, Achille, 43, 48, 57–59, 61, 62, 65, 68, 69, 71 Mbuwayesango Dora R., 40, 41, 42, 67, 68, 69, 70, 74, 284, 293, 295, 299, 300, 301, 326 McClintock, Anne, 152, 164, 167 McGrath-Andino, Lester, 247, 249 McNeil, Kristine, 118, 119, 126 Mearsheimer, John J., 118, 126 Mignolo, Walter, 84, 85 Míguez, Néstor, 229, 230 Mistral, Gabriela, 227, 228, 230, 317 Mizuno, Nubohiro, 68, 71 Moll, Rob, 165, 167 Monga, Yvette, 66, 71 Montero, Alain, 240, 247, 249 Moon, Seungsook, 164, 166 Moore, Stephen D., xxviii, xxx Moraña, Mabel, 84, 85 Morris, Benny, 110, 121, 126 Moxnes, Halvor, 117, 123, 124, 126 Muehlenbeck, Philip E., 67, 71 Mugambi, Jesse N. K., 59, 68, 70, 71 Muir, Diana, 100, 101 Müller, W. W., 28, 29 Munayer, Salim J., 121, 126 Mungazi, Dickson, 36, 41, 42 Münker, Herfried, xxx

Muñoz-Larrondo, Rubén, xxxix–x, xlvi, lv, lxi Nadar, Sarojini, 64, 68, 69, 71 Nalbandian, Garo, 127 Nam, Hyun-ho, 165, 167 Naumann, Thomas, 25, 29 Nelson-Pallmeyer, Jack, 253–55, 265, 269 Ngoh, Victor Julius, 66, 71 Nguyen, Viet Thanh, l–li, lix, lxi Nihan, Christiphe, 26, 29 Njoku, Raphael Chijioke, 64, 65, 72 Noble, John, 25, 28, 29 Ntloedibe-Kuswani, Gomang Seratwa, 40, 42 Nugent, Paul, 64, 66, 72 Nuriel, Yehuda, 101 Nyabongo, Akiki, 46, 64, 65, 72, 297 Nyamnjoh, Francis B., 52, 66, 67, 71, 72 Nyerere, Julius, 44, 63, 72 O’Brien, Julia, 104, 118, 126 Oduyoye, Mercy Amba, 63, 68, 69, 72 Okpewho, Isidore, 65, 72 Omasombo Tshonda, Jean, 67, 72 Oosterom, Leo, 157, 165, 167 Oshiro, Tetsuzo, 183, 186 Page, Hugh R. Jr., 67, 72 Pages, Leon, 176, 185, 186 Pao, David W., xxxv–xxxvi, xxxvii, xxxix, xl, xlvi, liv, lxi Pappe, Illan, 110, 118, 121, 126 Parekh, Bhikhu C., 266, 269 Park, Jonathan, 163, 167 Paz, Octavio, 277, 278, 281, 282 Pequeño, Andrea, 229, 230 Peters, Rebecca Todd, 162, 166, 167 Petrella, Ivan, 147, 149, 266, 267, 268, 269, 270, 316–17, 318–19, 322, 324, 325, 326, 328 Phan, Peter, 136, 146, 149 Phelan, John Leddy, 144, 148, 149

Index

Pierce, Sarah, 23, 29 Pierre, Nora, lviii, lxi Porter, Andrew, 40, 42 Powell, Mark Allan, xxix, xxxi Pratt, Mary Louise, li, lix, lxi Prestage, P., 41, 42 Priest, Joseph Paul, 164, 167 Priest, Robert J., 164, 167 Prior, Michael, xxi, xxii–xxiii, xxiv, xxv, xxix, xxx, xxxiii–xxxv, xxxvi, xxxvii, xlv, xlviii, xlix, li, lii, liii, liv, lvi, lvii, lviii, lix, lxi, 90, 99, 101, 109, 120, 126 Pulliam, Sarah, 165, 167 Punt, Jeremy, 66, 72 Quero, Hugo Cordova, 267, 270 Quṭb, Sayyid, 265, 270 Raheb, Mitri, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79–80, 81, 84, 85, 108, 118, 119, 120, 122, 123, 126, 127, 284, 285, 286–87, 289–90, 292, 300, 327 Rantisi, Audeh, 108, 120, 127 Ratzinger, Joseph, 264, 270 Richard, Pablo, 217, 224, 229, 230 Richartz, F., 36, 41, 42 Ritzenthaler, Robert and Pat, 62, 72 Rivera, Nidia Fonseca, 224, 229, 230 Robbins, Vernon K., liv, lxi Robson, Laura, 83, 85 Rodney, Walter, 56–57, 68, 72 Rodríguez, Molina, 235, 236, 246, 249 Rokeach, Milton, 256, 266, 270 Rose, Susan D., 164, 166 Rulon-Miller, Nina, 25, 29 Russell, Letty M., 24, 30, 162, 166, 167 Said, Edward W., xxii, xxix, xxx, xxxix, lii, lv, lxi, 89, 100, 101, 106–7, 109, 112, 117, 119, 127, 290 San Buenaventura, Steffi, 144, 148, 149 Sánchez, David A., xlvi–xlviii, xlix, l, li, lviii, lxi Sand, Shlomo, 110, 121, 127

333

Sandeen, Ernest R., 165, 167 Sarna, Nahum N., 27, 29 Schmid, Konrad, 16–17, 25, 26, 27, 29 Schneider, Laurel C., 66, 72 Schneider, Leander, 63, 72 Schneider, Tami J., 24, 29 Scholem, Gershom, 275, 281, 282 Schraeder, Peter J., 67, 72 Schurhammer, G., 182, 186 Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth, xli–xliii, xliv, xlv, xlvi, lvi, lvii, lix, lxi, 140, 141, 147, 149, 150, 157, 165, 167 Schwartz, Baruch, 25, 29 Scott, James C., xxxviii, xxxix, xlviii, xlix, liv, lvi, lxi Sebastian, J. Jayakiran, 195, 197, 301, 303–4, 307, 311–12, 313, 314–15, 326, 328 Seely, D. R., 28, 29 Segovia, Fernando F., xxviii, xxix, xxx, xxxi, liv, lx, 64, 66, 71, 72, 84, 85, 116, 122, 123, 127, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 194, 195, 196, 197 Segundo, Juan Luis, 222–23, 224, 225, 229, 231, 267, 270, 318 Sen, Amartya, 193, 197 Shectman, Sarah, 21, 26, 29, 30 Shigematsu, Setsu, 153, 164, 168 Shimoyama, Akira, 174, 184, 186 Shore-Goss, Robert, 266, 270 Sindima, Harvey J., 62, 67, 72 Sizer, Stephen, 109, 121, 122, 127 Soares-Prabhu, George M., 161, 165, 168 Sobrino, Jon, 220, 266, 269, 270 Southwood, Katherine, 23, 30 Soyinka, Wole, 66, 73 Smith, Alejandra Navarro, 216–17, 229, 231 Smith, Christian, 133, 134, 146, 150 Smith, George, 40, 42 Smith, Robert O., 122, 127 Smith, Roy L., 31, 40, 42 Smith, Shanell T., xlix–l, lix, lxi

334

Index

Smith, Shively T. J., xliii–xlvi, xlviii, xlix, li, lvi, lvii, lxi Speiser, E. A., 19, 27, 30 Speke, John Hanning, 53–54, 67, 73 Stanlake, J. W., 35, 41, 42 Stanley, Christopher D., xxviii, xxxi Stanley, Henry Morton, 46–51, 54, 64, 65, 70, 73, 297 Steffan, Melissa, 164, 168 Stiglitz, Joseph, 252, 264, 269, 270 Strickert, Fred, 119, 127, 128 Sugirtharajah, R. S., xx, xxviii, xxxi, liv, lx, 65, 74, 107, 119, 120, 121, 124, 127, 128, 135, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 164, 165, 166, 168, 190, 192, 194, 195, 196, 197, 229, 230 Suh, David Kwang-sun, 155, 164, 168 Sung, Jung Mo, 258–60, 261, 266, 270, 322 Sykes, R., 36, 41, 42 Syrén, Roger, 22, 30 Takase, Koichiro, 171, 172, 182, 183, 186 Taub, Gadi, 265, 270 Taylor, Mark Lewis, 162, 166, 168 Thangaraj, M. Thomas, 193, 196, 197 Thomas, Guy, 63, 73 Thompson, T. Jack, 64, 65, 73 Tilley, Helen, 65, 73 Tokutomi, Soho, 173, 176, 183, 186 Tombs, David, xxvi, xxxi Transtroemer, Tomas, 197 Trible, Phyllis, 12, 24, 30 Trinh, T. Minh-ha, xxxv, liii, liv, lxi Tutu, Desmond M., 68, 73

Vigil, José María, 266, 270 Villa-Vicencio, Charles, 59, 68, 73 Vinayaraj, Y. T., 191, 195, 197 Von Rad, Gerhard, 19, 21, 27, 30 Wagner, Don, 109, 120, 128 Walaskay, Paul W., liv, lxi Ward, Alan, 210 Ward, Haruko Nawata, 182, 184, 186 Warneck, Gustav, 40, 42 Warnier, Jean-Pierre, 62, 73 Warrior, Robert Allen, 109, 120, 128 Weber, Max, 264, 266, 270 Weems, Renita, 11, 24, 30 Weimer, Peter, 25, 30 Weingreen, J., 24, 30 Wenham, Gordon J., 19, 27, 30 West, Gerald, 63, 64, 66, 67, 73, 74, 147, 150 Westhelle, Vítor, 281, 282, 316, 317, 319–20, 323, 324, 327 Whitelam, Keith, 109, 110, 112, 120, 128 Wicki, J., 182, 186 Williams, Delores, 24, 30 Williams, Patrick, xxviii, xxix Wimbush, Vincent L., xlviii, lviii, lxi, 65, 74 Wöhrle, Jakob, 26, 30 Work, Telford, 190, 195, 197

Uzukwu, Elochukwu E., 69, 73, 85

Yafeh-Deigh, Alice Y., 68, 74 Yamauchi, Edwin M., 67, 74 Yong, Amos, 165, 168 Yoshida, Shogoro, 185, 188 Younan, Munib, 108, 119, 128 Young, Robert J. C., xxviii, xxxi

Valignano, Alessandro, 174–75, 184, 186 Vallejo, César, 226, 227, 231 Van Seters, John, 22, 28, 30 VanZanten Gallagher, Susan, xx, xxi, xxii, xxv, xxix, xxxi

Zambrano, María, 226, 229, 231 Zaru, Jean, 108, 120, 128 Zerubavel, Yael, 100, 101 Zijderveld, Anton C., 256, 266, 268 Žižek, Slavoj, 134, 146, 150 Zvobgo, C. J., 42

List of Contributors

Michel Elias Andraos, Associate Professor of Intercultural Studies and Ministry, Catholic Theological Union, USA. Nancy Elizabeth Bedford, Georgia Harkness Professor of Applied Theology, Garrett Evangelical Theological Seminary, USA. Carlos F. Cardoza Orlandi, Professor of World Christianities and Mission Studies, Perkins School of Theology, Southern Methodist University, USA. Eleazar S. Fernandez, President, Union Theological Seminary, Philippines; and Professor of Constructive Theology, United Theological Seminary in the Twin Cities, USA. Nami Kim, Associate Professor of Religious Studies, Spelman College, USA. Hisako Kinukawa, Co-Director, Center for Feminist Theology and Ministry, Japan. Tat-siong Benny Liew, Class of 1956 Professor in New Testament Studies, College of the Holy Cross, USA. Safwat Marzouk, Associate Professor of Old Testament, Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary, USA. Dora Mbuwayasengo, George E. and Iris Battle Professor of Old Testament and Languages, Hood Theological Seminary, USA. 335

336

List of Contributors

Yael Munk, Lecturer of Literature and Film Studies, Open University, Israel. Kenneth Ngwa, Associate Professor of Hebrew Bible, Drew University, USA. Ivan Petrella, Secretario de Integración Federal y Cooperación Internacional, Ministerio de Cultura de la Nación, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Mitri Raheb, Founder and President, Dar al-Kalima University College of Arts and Culture, Palestine. J. Jayakiran Sebastian, H. George Anderson Professor of Mission and Cultures and Co-Dean, United Lutheran Seminary, USA. Fernando F. Segovia, Oberlin Graduate Professor of New Testament and Early Christianity, School of Divinity, Vanderbilt University, USA. Jenny Te Paa Daniel, Co-Director, Ohaki Consultancy, New Zealand. Vítor Westhelle, Professor of Systematic Theology, Lutheran School of Theology in Chicago, USA.