Troubling (Public) Theologies: Spaces, Bodies, Technologies (Theology in the Age of Empire) 9781978714403, 9781978714410, 1978714408

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Troubling (Public) Theologies

Theology in the Age of Empire Series Editor: Jione Havea In this series, an international collective of theologians interrogate Christianity’s involvement with empires past and present, trouble its normative teachings and practices whenever they sustain and profit from empire, and rekindle the insights and energies within the Christian movement that militate against empire’s rapacity.

Titles Published Religion and Power, edited by Jione Havea Scripture and Resistance, edited by Jione Havea People and Land: Decolonizing Theologies, edited by Jione Havea Vulnerability and Resilience: Body and Liberation Theologies, edited by Jione Havea Mission and Context, edited by Jione Havea Dissension and Tenacity: Doing Theology with Nerves, edited by Jione Havea Troubling (Public) Theologies: Spaces, Bodies, Technologies, edited by Jione Havea

Troubling (Public) Theologies Spaces, Bodies, Technologies

Edited by Jione Havea

LEXINGTON BOOKS/FORTRESS ACADEMIC

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books/Fortress Academic Lexington Books is an imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www​.rowman​.com 86-90 Paul Street, London EC2A 4NE, United Kingdom Copyright © 2023 by The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 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 Available ISBN 9781978714403 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781978714410 (ebook) ∞ ™ 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.

Work on this book was supported by Council for World Mission through its DARE program (Discernment and Radical Engagement)

Contents

Prefaceix 1 Haunting Lazarus: John 11:1–12:11 Jione Havea 2 Dare to Hear Aruna Gogulamanda, Anna Jane Lagi, John Robert Lee, Chad Rimmer, and Karen Georgia A. Thompson I.  rereading (from) public spaces

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3 The Bible in Public Spaces: A Zambian Pentecostal Woman’s Critique of Rev. Sumaili’s Use of the Bible Mutale Mulenga Kaunda 4 Quest for Life: A Postcolonial Dalit Feminist Reading of Qoheleth Jasmine Devadason 5 Engaging Death Publicly: Rereading John 11:38–44 in the Philippines Maria Fe (Peachy) Labayo 6 Uncovering Mālie in the Bible: Humoring Public Spaces Brian Fiu Kolia II.  rereading (with) missioned bodies 7 Reimagining Mission in the Context of British Colonial Rule in Mizoram Lalmuanpuii Hmar vii

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Contents

8 Deposing “Massa Jesus”: “Magnificat” Moments among a Colonial Mission Archive Peter Cruchley

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9 Brit(ish) Public Liberation Theology: An (Im)migrant’s Proposal 103 Raj Bharat Patta 10 Rising to Life: A Syrophoenician Woman Invites Jesus to Do Public Theology Ericka Shawndricka Dunbar

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III.  rereading (across) broad technologies

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11 Technology, Caste-Bodies and Labour: Thinking with Dr B. R. Ambedkar on Leisure Shiju Sam Varughese

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12 Political Theology of Inter-carnation: Being-Human in the Development of Science and Technology Iljoon, Park

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13 Aboriginal Mural of Atayal and Ethics of Sight Su-Chi Lin

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14 Can the Wind Speak?: An Aeolian Listening to Ruach in Exodus 1–18 with Fairoz Ahmad’s Interpreter of Winds (2019) LIM Chin Ming Stephen

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IV. unending

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15 Rise Up and Stir: Doing Theology in Public Spaces Michael N. Jagessar

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Bibliography199 Index211 Contributors215

Preface

This is the second collection gathered from the eDARE 2021 forum,1 which was hosted by the Council for World Mission (CWM). The eDARE 2021 presenters included activists, artists, poets, pastors and scholars, but not all of the eDARE papers have been included in the publications. Those included in this volume were reviewed and revised according to the academic requirements of the publisher and the book series. This collection brings fresh insights and energies from outside, and from under, the centers of (mainline) theologies. These insights and energies reimagine the practices of, and relocate the standards for, doing (public) theologies, across three general areas: spaces, bodies and technologies. Hence the three main sections of this book, with troubling twists: the public spaces spotlighted in the first main section of the work are in Africa, Asia and Pasifika – beyond the eyes of mainline theologies; the missioned bodies embraced in the second main section survived empires and missionary positionings; and the technologies emphasized in the third main section include Dalit consciousness, cyborg mindfulness, indigenous art and the novel. FLOW OF THE BOOK The first two chapters set the tone and locate the chapters in the flow of the book, across three clusters of essays. These clusters of essays are followed by a closing chapter that “unends” the doing of theology. Structurally, the book troubles itself. Jione Havea (chapter 1) locates the chapters in the three clusters of essays with another reading of the Lazarus narrative John 11:1–12:11, in conversation with artworks and poems presented at eDARE 2021. In this rereading, ix

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Jione calls attention to spaces (public and private), bodies (that move and recline) and technologies (that can move communication and heavy objects) that are not named in the narrative. With these readings, Jione locates the essays in the three main clusters of the book. In chapter 2, five of the poems presented at eDARE 2021 – by Aruna Gogulamanda, Anna Jane Lagi, John Robert Lee, Chad Rimmer and Karen Georgia A. Thompson – are presented as a collaborative “Dare to Hear.” Echoing Jione’s rereading of Lazarus as a haunting character, these poems dare readers to hear spaces that are erased (e.g., spaces of Dalits and raped women), bodies that are compromised (e.g., bodies that are healed or raised, then abandoned) and technologies that are necessary but not taken seriously (read: tools of the poor used to build the master’s house). rereading (from) public spaces Public places are locations for doing theology and for reading biblical texts. At the same time, public places are spaces for redoing theology and for rereading scriptural texts. The dynamics of place and space are teased out in this first cluster of essays. Mutale Mulenga Kaunda (chapter 3) offers a critical reading of the use of the Bible by the former Minister of National Guidance and Religious Affairs (MNGRA, a ministry that has since been discontinued) in Zambia, Rev. Godfridah Sumaili. Sumaili constantly used the Bible to emphasize Zambia as a Christian nation. Using the Bible in the public is not in itself a problem; how the Bible is used and to what end call for critical engagement. Sumaili’s usage of the Bible is in conflict with what African women theologians (as public theologians) have been arguing – to read the Bible with conscious suspicion and to challenge patriarchal and hierarchical cultures in biblical texts. African feminists have called for critical engagement with the Bible and to not take it literally. Sumaili on the other hand uses the Bible in literal ways even when applied to politics, a trend that is popular among Pentecostal readers. The Bible should not be used in this simplistic way because doing so promotes dehumanizing and patriarchal discourses. The Bible should be engaged critically because it is a double-edged sword: it can give life, but it can also take life. The case of Sumaili is a life-denying discourse; she has reinforced male dominance over women and exclusion of non-Christian faith communities. Jasmine Devadason (chapter 4) provides an alternative to Sumaili’s approach, with a postcolonial Dalit feminist reading of Ecclesiastes that brings out liberative hermeneutical insights relevant for the public sphere. The postcolonial Dalit feminist experience is one of resistance and resilience, and it calls for the defeat of hegemonic powers. The purpose of reading in this way is

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to deconstruct the unbalanced relationships and hierarchical structures that are the origins of oppression, marginalisation, unfairness and injustice in society. Ecclesiastes could be read and heard in two ways. First, that the book – in considering power and authority to constitute vanity – hears the cry of the oppressed and marginalised. On the other hand, and second, the book can be read as the voice of a coloniser who sees life as something to be enjoyed, by eating and drinking and revelling. By separating people into two groups, Qoheleth gives two voices, and so the book could be interpreted to support the colonised mindset or to read against it. Devadason decolonises the colonisers’ voice in the text and then reconstructs the book to bring out its liberative potential. Decolonising the text makes colonising strategies visible, so that we may repel their oppressions, and finding subaltern public voices in the text, to formulate a postcolonial future in the midst of oppressions. While the world sees power as a norm for controlling the public, and the ruling hierarchical structure as a place of domination and exploitation, Qoheleth offers a view to an alternative world – where power and authority are considered vanity, and which makes everyone equal. Maria Fe (Peachy) Labayo (chapter 5) draws attention to a different kind of public place – the Filipino space for mourning – through a rereading of John 11:38–44. If Lazarus was a Filipino, and if he died in the Philippines, the story would have obviously been different. As expected, Labayo understands the biblical story differently. This applies to readers in other contexts as well: we read biblical stories from our life contexts, so our understandings may not match up with what the biblical writers had in mind. To be fair to ourselves and to our contexts, it is helpful and healthy to first understand the text from our contexts. And then see if and how our contextual understandings help us read the biblical text, which comes from a context outside of ours. Labayo’s reflection unfolds over two moves: First, to bring Lazarus to the Philippines and second, to bring her Filipina worldviews to bear on, and to even talk back at, the biblical story. Brian Kolia (chapter 6) closes this cluster of essays with another alternative approach to reading the Bible, drawing upon the term mālie (“humor” as well as “softness” in Samoan). The mālie mannerism is popular among Pasifika (Oceania) people, but mālie is absent from Pasifika readings of the Bible. The missionaries taught Pasifika people well, so they stop looking for and celebrating mālie when they read the Bible. Kolia consequently seeks to lift the ban that missionaries put on Pasifika people so that we may again find mālie in, and entertain mālie with, the Bible. Kolia illustrates how mālie works with a reading of the complaining Israelites in Exodus 14. The Bible is one of the pillars of Pasifika societies (in private, domestic, public and church spaces), where it is under the control of Christian churches.

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Kolia pushes back against this control, seeking to uncover the Bible so that we may recover our senses of mālie. Across this first cluster of essays, the challenges of reading the Bible and doing theology in public places, and for whose interest, are supplemented with opportunities to read public spaces as (living) texts. Whereas public places may be occupied, contested and stolen; public spaces inspire decolonisation, resistance, humor and talking back to biblical texts and established theologies. On the latter, more reimagining and relocating are still needed. rereading (with) missioned bodies In the beginning, “missionary bodies” crossed the world in the arms of colonizing empires to convert and silence native people. Soon after, “missioned bodies” talked and pushed back and even stood up to teach missionary-sending nations. The second cluster of essays showcases the wisdom of missioned bodies to talk and push back and to teach. Lalmuanpuii Hmar (chapter 7) exposes some of the impacts of British colonialism upon the Mizo tribal community of Northeast India. The British annexed the Mizo’s land in 1891, making it available for the Christian enterprise. The missionary movement was shot through with the presuppositions of racial superiority, that its role as a colossal buttress of empire is unquestionable. This is clear in a declaration in a school textbook from the early days of the missionary invasion: “There are five great races – the Blacks, the Reds, the Browns, the Yellows and the Whites. But we are all one race. The Yellows are the most populous and the Whites are the most superior.” From this declaration developed an idea of white supremacy among the colonized Mizo people and they thus hold their colonizers in high esteem. On the other side of the coin, the British colonizers did not understand the Mizo people and their cultures. For instance, Mizo people have a rich poetical language, but early Mizo Christian hymns rarely had poetic diction because of the unfamiliarity of the missionaries with Mizo poetic language. When an attempt was made by the Mizo people to compose their own hymns, the missionaries labelled the Mizo poetic language “paganistic.” That behaviour is critiqued in Emmanuel Garibay’s “Pagano” (see figure 1.2, on page 11). Looking at the consequential effects of colonialism, there is a need to reimagine the mission after more than one hundred years of Christianity among the Mizo people. Questions need to be asked when studying the impact of empire toward changing the passive acceptance of it among missioned bodies. Peter Cruchley (chapter 8) raises some of those questions by following the legacies of slavery to Africa and lifting up “buried de-colonial” voices whose counter-public theology offers insurgency against “Massa Jesus” (the

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Jesus of White Christian empire and missionary bodies). Among the missioned bodies that Cruchley uplifts are: • Quamina, a deacon in an LMS chapel in Guyana who wrote to the LMS in 1816 to raise his concerns about the treatment of enslaved persons like himself. He was instrumental in the slave uprising of 1823 in Dermerara and was executed for rebellion. • Jan Tzatzoe, a Koi chief, and Christian convert, from the Eastern Cape who came on deputation in 1836 to raise money for the LMS and to underscore the racist missionary message that black people were little more than animals without the Gospel. He however made the counter claim that in receiving the Gospel, Africans were subject to the same rights and freedom as the white British. • Andries Stoffles, a Christian convert from the Gona tribe who was also paraded on LMS deputation with Tzatzoe and later testified before the British parliamentary enquiry into Aboriginal People in 1835. • Emma Martin, a Victorian feminist who was ejected from an LMS meeting in Manchester in 1844 after she gave a public lecture entitled “The crimes and follies of Christian Mission.” The experiences and stories of these brave souls offer a Magnificat of sorts, in which the Massa Jesus is brought down from his throne. Their acts of noncooperation, dissension, letter-writing, maroonage, uprisings and solidarity made an indispensable contribution to the struggle of the enslaved against servitude and point to a de-colonial anthropology breaking out in the context of empire and its missionaries. Raj Bharat Patta (chapter 9), an immigrant from India now living in the belly of the empire (UK), begins from a remark by Fergus Kerr that “it is Liberation theology that Britain needs.” Reflecting on David Jenkins’s lecture (“The God of freedom and the freedom of God”) in response to Kerr’s proposal, Mark Corner explains that British liberation theology will be different from that of the two-thirds world, for it will address the needs of the British. However, for Patta, those British needs cannot be isolated from the needs of other nations as issues are interrelated and interdependent. Patta offers the Dalit theology of liberation as providing the parameters for the public liberation theology that Britain needs. The Brit(ish) have something to learn from the Dalits: hunger and racism are critical theological struggles that require Brit(ish) public liberation theology to be anti-hunger, anti-racism and anti-empire. Such a theology is most needed and relevant for a twenty-first-century multi-ethnic Brit(ish) public sphere. Ericka Shawndricka Dunbar (chapter 10) brings the courage to teach the people of the empire, to Jesus. Dunbar follows the lead of Mitzi Smith,

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who interprets the story of the Syrophoenician woman in Mark 7:24–30 through a womanist hermeneutical lens of sass – a legitimate contextual language of resistance to multiple and interlocking systems of oppression. Smith avers, sass is a “mother tongue,” a subversive, defiant, grown woman’s speech that enables black women to know, seek clarification or refuse to be silenced or dismissed. Dunbar builds upon Smith’s hermeneutical framing of sass and illustrates that the Syrophoenician woman is not solely resisting interlocking systems of oppression but also invites Jesus to do public theology. As a result of this powerful exchange, not only is the daughter of the Syrophoenician woman granted an opportunity to rise to life but so are other gentiles and Jesus himself. The daughter’s physical needs are met; the gentiles are welcomed into God’s reigndom; and Jesus’s god-consciousness is raised by the Syrophoenician mother which enables him to abandon the interlocking demonic forces of ethnic, class and gender supremacy. In this way, the public theology in which this woman and Jesus engage is one that is inclusive of, and concerning, the people as a whole. To put the drive of this cluster of essays simply: missioned bodies can speak, as well as do and teach theology, including to former masters. The theologies that arise from rereading (with) missioned bodies can help us reimagine and relocate theologies for our time. rereading (across) broad technologies Technology did not start with modern engineers or in the scientific and information age. Every culture has its own technologies, and each can help shape the theologies that we do in public spaces. Shiju Sam Varughese (chapter 11) draws attention to an Indian collective – the Dalits – whom religious teachings have historically treated as nonhumans. Varughese’s study favors the more rigorous position on technology by Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, as an alternative to the oppositional perspectives by Jawaharlal Nehru and M. K. Gandhi. Against Nehru’s preoccupation with big technological projects and Gandhi’s opposition to mechanization in favour of simple technologies which foster sustainable and self-reliant village republics, Ambedkar argues that technology can assist human salvation by freeing them from their caste-inscribed labouring bodies. Ambedkar’s critique of the views on technology by Nehru and Gandhi exposes their inattentiveness to the caste hierarchy in Indian society and its linkages with labouring body. Ambedkar argues that technology can liberate Dalits from caste-based labour so that the intense creative, emancipatory potentials of the human body can be explored by Dalits to annihilate caste. Ambedkar’s argument

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helps us rethink the relationship between technology, caste-body and human salvation. He offers possibilities for critically engaging with the dominant Christian theological outlook on technology (‘useful arts’) as redemptive, a perspective that started developing in the ninth-century CE with John Scotus Eriugena’s (c. 800–877) critique of Augustinian soteriology. By initiating a conversation on the theological–political connections between labouring body and technology, Varughese argues that the purposelessness of human beings (“inoperativity”) that Ambedkar proposed via his conception of leisure inaugurates radical possibilities to think beyond the understanding of the relationship—which is foundational to Brahminism, Judeo-Christian theology and Capitalism—to reimagine a new form-of-life, which Ambedkar called “associated life.” Ambedkar’s theorisation thus offers recourses for developing a new political theology of technology. Iljoon, Park (chapter 12) pushes political theology to the shadows of cyborgs. Our lives are already entangled in the virtual realm, through which we connect our nerve cells to the digital world and with cyborgs. A cyborg life is not a possibility but a reality. However, cyborg does not save us from labour but exploits our neuronal energy for the semiocapitalist system. We eke out scanty livelihoods, ironically, in the age of homo deus. Although the Covid pandemic did not cause the gap between those who are and those who are not (ta me onta, 1 Cor. 1:28) between homo deus and non-beings, the age of human rights has led to the age of cyborgs (digital labourers). As we maintain our daily lives with the help of digital networks, we humans are nodal points in a digital network. Technological applications of AI, robots and digital networks take decent jobs away from human laborers. People without merits are treated as non-human cyborgs that are made to work like slaves. Most of us feel impotent in an age of meritocracy, treated as cyborgs deprived of human rights. How may theology overcome a technological trap in the upgrading of inequality? The Christian idea of the divine family, in which all human beings are brothers and sisters, is a way to overcome the social autoamputation taking place today. Also, one can overcome the idea of the extended mind by reinterpreting the Christian idea of incarnation as inter-carnation. This proposes a new meaning of being-human for all-connected society in a way not to legitimate the society of homo deus but to care for pain and suffering between humans, animals, plants, natural resources and earth. Pain is pervasive all over the earth, and the real meaning of incarnation is to be with the pain and suffering of beings on the earth (this is the basic meaning of com/passion). Intercarnation means care for pains and sufferings between all forms of beings. Life is not auto-production of the self but ‘making-together’ (sympioesis). Every form of being is entangled in the web of life. This calls for a theology of sympoiesis, in which the unit of being is not as individual but as the collective.

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Su-Chi LIN (chapter 13) turns to another form of technology: indigenous art, which can express what words cannot, particularly when they touch the heart through the senses. As a form of communication, art is another medium besides literature that confronts the viewer/reader with profound questions that religion cannot ignore. Many contemporary churches in Asia have started to engage art inside and outside the church wall in order to awaken compassion or impetus to empower the local community. To what extent is the space designed for communal worship meant to not only strengthen the believer’s faith but also fulfill the ethical response to a needy world? Indigenous arts as sacred texts invite intercultural and interreligious dialogue from the perspective of the marginalized to show the aesthetic strategy of resistance utilized by contemporary Asian churches. Christian art and architecture interlace Asian cultural and religious imaginations, mediate revelation and conversion and serve as the hermeneutical connection between art, inculturation and social transformation. They raise questions on how social justice functions in transforming societies within Asian contexts and beyond. LIM Chin Ming Stephen (chapter 14) looks at another ancient technology – the novel. Politically, Lim is concerned with the rise of authoritarianism, especially in nationalist garb; hermeneutically, Lim offers a rereading of the (over)familiar passage of Exodus 1–18 in conversation with unfamiliar voices to foreground the importance of listening – especially to the Other. Lim does this by engaging Fairoz Ahmad’s Interpreter of Winds (2019), drawing attention to an understated element in our environment that arguably permeates all publics – the wind. Following Ahmad, Lim reads in between Exodus 1–18 in the Bible and Surah 41:15–16 in the Qur’an so as to expand the ways that the Exodus narratives could be read beyond the debate between traditional ethnic-national and socio-ethical liberative approaches. By building hermeneutical connections to the wind (ruach), Lim opens up its eclectic nature as a means to demonstrate the profitability of listening to it. Ultimately, the hope is to understand how wind/ruach can serve in seemingly helpless situations of powerlessness that would at the same time resist attempts to reduce praxis to any single conception – nationalist, liberative or otherwise. This cluster of essays invites engaging with technologies, broadly understood, when one does theology (which is always already a public act). Technologies are producers of texts, and are in themselves texts, in public places. unending Michael N. Jagessar (chapter 15) closes the collection with an invitation for unending considerations, especially around the nature of texts to engage theologically and the problems in theologies of deliverance. On the first

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concern, Jagessar encourages engagement with art and poetry, and with the second concern, Jagessar problematizes the raising of two biblical characters with the same name – Lazarus (see Luke 16:19–31 and John 11:38–44). TROUBLING The title – Troubling (Public) Theologies – indicates the aims of this collection of essays: to reimagine and thus boost the practices, as well as relocate and thus push the scales (pun intended) of doing theology in general but with special attention to public theologies. This collection is troubling in three ways: first, the acts of reimagining and relocating are in themselves troubling of the subject matter – here, public theologies. On that note, what theology is not public? Hence the second troubling aspect of this work – it takes theologies in general, and not just the theologies that carry the “public” label, to be public affairs. This standpoint will be troubling for theologians who neglect or forget the public location and function of theology, as well as for the gatekeepers of “Public Theology” (who may have assumed that they are special or different). Third, this work takes theologies (in general) to be inherently troubling. In this regard, theologies that are not troubling are not public enough. NOTE 1. eDARE: “e” because the DARE forum took place virtually; DARE stands for “Discernment and Radical Engagement,” a program of the Council for World Mission.

Chapter 1

Haunting Lazarus John 11:1–12:11 Jione Havea

Lazarus is a pawn. This accusation applies to two biblical characters with the same name, each a pawn in his own story:1 the Lazarus in John 11:1–12:11 as well as the Lazarus in Luke 16:19–31 (see also chapter 15). They are both “raised up” for the sake of someone else—for Jesus’s sake (against death) in John 11 and for Abraham’s sake (against the dead Dives) in Luke 16. For this reflection, i focus on Lazarus the pawn in John 11:1–12:11 (see also chapter 6), who was raised in defiance of the only certainty of life—death (cf. Eccl 3:2a). Jesus recalled the Lazarus in John 11 from his peaceful rest in death and then ordered his release—“Unbind him, and let him go” (v. 14)2—into the uncertainties and troubles of living. In a previous reflection,3 i foregrounded my irritation with Jesus for not considering the burdens upon Lazarus of having to live again and then abandoning Lazarus at the exit from the cave.4 In this chapter I reread the release of Lazarus in the text and extend that to his release from the narrative. Lazarus was a pawn in Jesus’s contention with the Jews (11:8, 45–53), and in the following reflections i borrow elements from the narrative to explain the flow of this collection—across the broad subjects of spaces, bodies, and technologies. In the process, to be upfront concerning the politics of interpretation, the narrative and Lazarus are pawns of and in my reflection. As i weave the flow of and the voices in this collection, i also subvert the narrative that i use to provide the skeleton for this chapter. The favor-andat-once-subvert approach is the soul of the following reflections. Put another way, in the shades of the artwork by Malia Vaurasi on the cover of this book (see figure 1.1), the soul of this chapter is “resistance”—Pasifika style! Vaurasi, a young woman artist from the island of Rotuma, near Fiji, depicts resistance as a collaboration between poly-racial and multigenerational 1

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Figure 1.1  Malia Vaurasi, Hands of Resistance (2021).

women who weave their mats and baskets, their homes and lives, their contexts and hopes, and so forth. The struggles in the context of these weaving/ resisting women include the legacies of war and nuclear testing (the Runit dome at the top right corner), climate crisis, food insecurity, and neocolonial capitalist “white hands” that reach out (under the pretense of aid but they come to Pasifika in order) to take native resources. In weaving together, the women resist the powers that impoverish and rob their island lives and livelihoods. Varusi’s version of resistance is not with stones and weapons, loud cries and civil disturbance but with weaving hands. With that soul of resistance, i chase (pun intended) Lazarus and his narrative in three directions: public spaces, missioned bodies, and broad technologies.

SPACES The plot of the narrative unfolds and evolves across and in between places. From Bethany, words of the illness and death of Lazarus were carried across the Jordan (where John used to baptize followers) to Jesus and to his disciples (cf. John 10:40). To the home of Martha and Mary, bodies (of Jesus and his disciples) crossed the Jordan and other cultural boundaries (by a people

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grouped as “the Jews”) and then away again. In the case of Lazarus—his dead body was carried across from the place of the living to the place of the dead, and then it came out again alive. Coming out of the cave, Lazarus exited a place that was conceived as both private (in the eyes of the dead) and public (in the eyes of the living).5 With respect to the hostility between Jesus and “the Jews” (11:11), bodies carried words from the opened tomb and the unwrapped Lazarus across to and consequently fueled the animosities of the Pharisees at the Sanhedrin (11:45–57). And after Lazarus recovered from his crossing back to life, Jesus, his disciples, and a huge crowd crossed back to Bethany (John 12:1–11). The narrative moves bodies, words, and emotions across boundaries and between places. The narrative depicts, and it is at once in motion. Yet, the narrative is also placed. It moves, and it is at the same time set in/ at place(s). Intersecting at each of the places noted earlier are the private and the public, the personal and the political, the individual and the corporate, the domestic and the intersocial, the “in” and the “out,” etcetera and etcetera. And at the intersecting(s) of those, spaces are formed by the negotiation of boundaries and the reconstitution of intersecting bodies/places. In these musings, i take places to be physical and material while spaces are conceptual, ideological, and political. The distinction between, and intersecting of, places and spaces are apparent in the first cluster of essays: Mutale Mulenga Kaunda, based on insights and commitments from African feminist spaces, critiques Sumaili’s scriptural readings in Zambia’s public places for divulging conservative evangelical theologies (see chapter 3); Jasmine Devadason draws on insights from postcolonial Dalit feminist spaces to critique the gendered and supremacist placements of Qoheleth (see chapter 4); Maria Fe (Peachy) Labayo appeals to Filipino death and mourning rituals performed in public places to encourage rereading the death and resurrection of Lazarus in John 11:38–44 (see chapter 5); and Brian Fiu Kolia brings the mālie (joy, softness, humor) in Samoan places into the spaces of reading biblical texts (see chapter 6). The places from which readers engage with scriptural texts shape the readings that they offer, and the essays in this first cluster present insights from minority places and minoritized spaces. Why should we bother with minority places and minoritized spaces? Simply because minority and minoritized experiences are the daily food of abandoned, discriminated, violated, and rejected people. In the case of Dalits, for instance: infants are burnt alive, for being born, as Dalit heirs beaten to death,

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for singing their song of sorrowful lives. (Aruna Gogulmanda, “This is my country”; chapter 2)

Lazarus’s Space I’m allowed to change my mind even if I said yes first, You’re allowed to change your mind, even if you said yes first I want to respect you, but you respect me too You don’t have to know my name to help protect my virtue. (Anna Jane Lagi, “You don’t have to know my name”; chapter 2)

Lazarus is located at Bethany with his sisters Mary and Martha, but he is a passive character in his story. Bethany is narratively registered to Lazarus (John 11:1, 12:1), but he does not act as the head of his household, as one expects of a brother (even if he was younger than his sisters) in a patriarchal narrative. When Jesus came back to Bethany, it was Martha (as expected, considering Luke 10:38–42) who served a meal for him and his men (12:2) while Lazarus is described as “one of those reclining with him [Jesus]” (12:2). Lazarus reclines among the guests; he does not act as head of his home nor as agent (or star) in his story. Martha and Mary are both active in this part of the story:6 Martha hosts the dinner and “Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’s feet, and wiped them with her hair” (12:3a). Mary catches the attention of Judas Iscariot (12:4), and Jesus comes to her defense (12:7–8). The activeness of Martha and Mary makes Lazarus appear lame(r). The narrative presents Lazarus as a pawn. He did not act nor speak, and the presence of Jesus became a threat against him. On account of Jesus, a “great crowd of the Jews” came looking for Lazarus, and “the chief priests planned to put Lazarus to death as well” (12:9–10). Lazarus would probably have lived out his second life quietly if Jesus had not stopped for a visit at Bethany. The Jews who wanted to kill Jesus in the previous chapter now come for Lazarus as well. “Thank you Jesus!” one might say (sarcastically). In life, as it was in death, Lazarus did not own nor hold his place. He was recalled from death then he was later sought to be sent back to death, and all the while he was silent like a lamb at the slaughter. In death and in life, he was vulnerable to being displaced. Like a pawn, his space was that of displacement. How did returning to life benefit Lazarus? What joy was resurrection for him? Has the narrative made up its mind about him? Could readers, to borrow Anna Jane Lagi’s appeal on behalf of women who have been sexually violated, change our minds (by reading against the narrative), pay proper respect to Lazarus, and protect his virtue? Lazarus returned from death and became a symbol for the raised and saved, but he was not thereby free of minority and minoritized experiences.

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BODIES Illness is spotlighted at the opening of the narrative. Lazarus was ill, and his sisters sent a message to Jesus because he loved their brother (John 11:1–3). Jesus’s response to the message (11:4), announced to his disciples instead of the sisters who sent the message, sounds apathetic (“This illness does not lead to death”) and egoistic (“rather, it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it”). Contrary to Jesus’s diagnosis, Lazarus’s illness led to death. Jesus was wrong. But he was also partially correct: it was not illness but death that led to the glory of God (11:40) and consequently to the glory of the Son of God (11:38–44). In the narrative, the glory of God and of the Son of God matter. The woes of the sisters, and the body of Lazarus, did not matter in comparison. Illness bridges life to death, the intersection of places and spaces that permeate the narrative. First, life and death are woven into the message from the sisters, which may be read as a notification that Lazarus’s death is expected and hence kith and kin are to prepare for funeral rituals (see chapter 5). If Jesus has any responsibility for the funeral of Lazarus, he has been acknowledged and notified. Funeral responsibilities and rituals are however not the concerns of the narrative, which hastens through the burial to the raising of Lazarus from death. The narrative climaxes with Jesus proving that he is the Messiah, the Son of God (11:27). Illness led to death, but there is no glory in death. Rather, glory is in the unnatural return from death to life and herein lies the narrative’s concern. Illness, life, and death affect the body of Lazarus. Illness bridges between life and death, and the words of Jesus (uttered into the tomb), for the sake of God’s glory, provide the bridge from death back to life. Under these “bridges,” the body of Lazarus is lived and deceased, tombed then recalled, unbound and then released (11:44). Second, the return of Lazarus to life interweaves with the death being sought for Jesus (11:8). By raising Lazarus to life, Jesus hastened his own death. In other words, for the Son of God—the words and glory of God are the bridge from life to death. In John 11, the words and glory of God hastened death for Jesus. Outside of John 11, the words and glory of God have led to death in the so-called new world and mission fields. For instance, as Lalmuanpuii Hmar shows, the words and glory of God in the arms of British missionary bodies brought hardship, disrespect, and death to her people in Mizoram (see chapter 7). The same scenarios occurred to other “missioned bodies”—the so-called converted, baptized, Christianized, and civilized—in other mission fields, and under the arms of other Christian missionary bodies. Third, the projected death of Jesus is not the end. As it was for Lazarus, so it will be for Jesus, death is not the end. The death of Jesus is for the sake of his own people because, as Caiaphas concluded, “it is better [. . .] to have

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one man die for the people than to have the whole nation destroyed” (11:50). The death of Jesus will lead, not to his own resurrection (as in the case of Lazarus) but, to life for his people and nation: the death of Jesus will save his people, the Jews, from the Romans (11:48). The people who were seeking to put Jesus to death will as a consequence receive life. Death (of Jesus) is not the end, but life (for the Jews). In John 11, the designation “the Jews” generalizes and demonizes. Surely, there must have been ten (e.g., babies, children) among the people of Jesus (cf. Gen 18:22–33) who did not want death for Jesus.7 Along this line of suspicion, but outside of John 11, there have been missioned bodies who talked back to missionary bodies. From the other side of the missionary position, missioned bodies have the wisdom and courage to talk and push back, at missionary bodies. Peter Cruchley found evidence of such missioned bodies in the archives of the Council for World Mission—and he called their talking and pushing back as Magnificat moments (see chapter 8). Cruchley found the magnifying of the Lord (the basic meaning of “Magnificat”) among missioned bodies from Africa, the Caribbean, and the streets of the British Empire. Raj Bharat Patta goes further to present Dalit theological insights, from the mission fields of India, as appropriate paradigms for developing Brit(ish) Public Liberation Theology. For Cruchley and Patta, missioned bodies are not ill bodies to be saved, but wise minds that could teach the inheritors of missionary bodies. Along this line, Ericka Shawndricka Dunbar read the Syrophoenician Woman in Mark 7:24–30 to have invited (read: taught) Jesus to do Public Theology. The Syrophoenician daughter was not only the beneficiary of Jesus’s mercy but also the bridge that veered Jesus toward serving life. Collectively, the second cluster of essays finds illness and death in missionary bodies. But instead of walking away from the open tombs to the missionary drive, these authors bridge biblical and missionary teachings with life-affirming theologies in modern public spaces. The Magnificat moments in the second cluster of essays may be summed up in the following lines by Karen Georgia A. Thompson: time for new ways of being time for us to demand good life for the living time for us to release the brutality wrought by missed missiology and misguided mission. (Karen Georgia A. Thompson, “grow up”; chapter 2)

Lazarus’s Body There are no details about Lazarus’s illness. He is brought into the story as someone who was ill (11:1). There is no textual evidence that anyone,

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including his own sisters, attempted to heal him. Jesus did not send a reply to the sisters, as one expects from a loving and lovable friend. This lack is revealing in two ways. First, it reveals that Jesus did not have the caring and sensual spirits that were in Mary. This assertion is based on the identification of Mary—prior to sending the message to Jesus—as “the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair” (11:2). That event had not occurred; rather, it comes in the next chapter (12:3). When it finally took place, Jesus described his anointment by Mary as care in preparation for his death, which his disciples should appreciate because he, unlike “the poor,” will not always be with them (12:7–8). Jesus did not express care for Mary’s brother—whom he was known to love (11:3)—in the same way that Mary cared for Jesus in 12:1–3. Second, Jesus’s disregard for the sisters’ message makes the question by some of the Jews—“Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” (11:36)—more critical. The question expresses confidence that Jesus had the authority to prevent Lazarus’s death, and it sounds as if the Jews also believed that Jesus could have easily done that. What then prevented Jesus from doing so? What stopped him from healing Lazarus? On another tangent, the question by the Jews associates Lazarus’s situation with that of a blind man. Could Lazarus have been blind? Was blindness his illness? Was his illness on top of his condition, which could have been blindness? Was his condition or illness not blindness, but another form of bodily impairment? Could Lazarus have been impaired or sickly throughout his life, and the illness hastened his death? These questions cannot be confidently answered, but they raise the prospect that Lazarus may not have (ever) been healthy before he became ill. Furthermore, these questions direct attention to Lazarus’s body which had to endure the burdens of life, illness, death, and resurrection. And then, round two: life, illness, and death.

TECHNOLOGIES I follow a native understanding of technology: the use of technical knowledge and skills to conceive procedure(s) and/or build apparatus(es) that will improve, ease, and/or increase the outcome of one’s labor. Technical knowledge and skills differ across time and space but using them for practical purposes is (in my native mind) the instinct of technology. Put simply, technology is “useful arts.” Technologies are not always named in scriptures, and i am energized by finding those between the lines. Before the technically wise migrants from the east designed and built a tower at Shinar (renamed as Babel by the narrator;8

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Gen 11:2–3), and before the so-called righteous and blameless Noah figured out how—and accordingly built—the three-deck ark required by God (Gen 6:14–16), Cain gained technical knowledge and skills to improve, ease, and increase the fruits of his labors. First, Cain knew how, and succeeded, to break the curse that Yhwh God placed on the ground (Gen 3:17–18) and thus reaped “fruit of the ground” (Gen 4:3). The text does not name Cain’s knowledge, procedures, or apparatuses, but they would have been cuttingedge for his time, given the gravity of the curse that Yhwh had placed on the ground—“thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you” (3:18a). Cain’s technologies produced fruits of the ground instead. Second, Cain also gained technical knowledge and skills to build a city. As punishment for killing his younger brother, Cain was “cursed from the ground [. . .] When you till the ground, it will no longer yield to you its strength; you will be a fugitive and wanderer on the earth” (4:11–13). But Cain, again, broke Yhwh’s curse. He settled down, got himself a wife (from somewhere unnamed), who bore him a son, and he built a city which he named Enoch after his son (4:17). Cain’s technologies generate fruits from the ground and enabled him to build a city on the ground. Twice, Cain broke God’s curse (read: control). Cain was the first biblical character to showcase the potentials in human technologies, but his knowledge and skills were deemed rebellious against God’s design and will. Cain shared similar technical knowledge and skills with Noah, but the key difference was that God endorsed Noah’s handiwork. God “had regard” for Noah but not Cain (cf. Gen 4:4–5). The builders at Shinar shared similar technologies with Noah, but God did not endorse them. Nor did the narrator. Like Cain, they too were rejected. Put another way: God’s design and will are key criteria for whether human technologies are endorsed in biblical literature. Technologies are also presumed in the story of Lazarus, and those too are not named: for instance, the technologies that deliver information (John 11:3, cf. 11:47)9 and move large and heavy objects (such as the large stone from the mouth of the cave; 11:41). In light of the latter, Shiju Sam Varughese presented rival views in India (between Nehru and Gandhi), where Casteism scripturalizes that the heavy lifting in and of the Indian society be the fate of Dalits (see chapter 11). For India, Varughese advocates Ambedkar’s view on labor in part because it favors leisure (over against productivity). Park Iljoon extends the discussion on technology to the world of science, in which cyborg life is already a reality (see chapter 12). Park invites theological constructions to shift (from incarnation) toward inter-carnation, given that human lives and labors are already inter-carnated with nonhuman apparatuses and mind(set)s. Also hidden in the story of Lazarus are two other technologies: that which produces “costly perfume made of pure nard” (12:3) and that which assures the perpetual existence of the poor (12:8). These two unnamed technologies

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are implied at the closing of the Lazarus narrative, and the possible link between them is suggestive: Do technologies that produce costly goods and products contribute to ensuring that the poor will always be with us (12:8)? The question calls attention to the tentacles of capitalism that control technologies in the modern age where to borrow the words of John Robert Lee: lust for dollar & cents is root of all evil, all crime in the city, everybody have a price, everything have a cost. (John Robert Lee, “Watchman”; chapter 2)

Furthermore, the question points back to the suggestion by Judas Iscariot (12:5)—sell the perfume and give the proceedings to the poor—which the narrator belittles (12:6) and Jesus rejects (12:7). Jesus spoke up for Mary, but his concern was more for himself (and his bridge to death) than for Mary. And even though Judas made a good suggestion, the narratorial and scriptural authorities were (a priori?) against him. The essay by Su-Chi Lin turns to one of the embodiments of “the poor”— the indigenous people (see chapter 13). Whereas Judas saw the poor as beneficiaries, and Jesus sidelined their condition, Lin presents one of the indigenous/poor groups in Taiwan as people with wisdom and imagination. Jesus was correct that the poor will continue to be on earth, but he did not explain how his followers might deal with the poor. Lin’s essay provides one option for this lack: recognize and affirm the imaginations and gifts of the poor/indigenous and, in terms of the drive of this chapter, engage with indigenous art as a form of technology. LIM Chin Ming Stephen winds up the third cluster of essays by turning to another form of technology—the novel, as a platform for inter-scriptural reading (see chapter 14). Art and the novel are technologies in public places that invite theological engagement. In John 11:1–12:11, technologies are broad. Beyond John 11, the criteria for judging the appropriateness of technologies are not limited to the design and will of God. In the third cluster of essays, Dalits and cyborgs, indigenous art and the novel, are technologies to be engaged by those who do theology in public places. Lazarus’s Technology We left behind a man named Jesus, Who held a little child on his knee. Not a soul stayed to ask What the child knows. (Chad Rimmer, “What the child knows”; chapter 2)

At the end of the narrative, “The chief priests planned to put Lazarus to death as well, since it was on account of him that many of the Jews were deserting

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and were believing in Jesus” (12:10). They laid the blame on Lazarus. But not a soul stayed to ask what Lazarus knows. What did Lazarus do, or say, that made people believe in Jesus? The narrator and many generations of readers dedicate the resurrection of Lazarus to the technical knowledge and skills of Jesus, for the glory of God and the Son of God. But the text is clear: Jesus cried loudly into the cave, “Lazarus, come out,” and the dead man came out. Did the words of Jesus raise Lazarus, or did he rise on his own accord? Was Lazarus raised, or did he rise? Could Lazarus have come out on account of his own technical knowledge and skills? Was the chief priest correct that Lazarus—based on his own technologies and longing for Jesus’s voice—was the reason why people believed in Jesus?

HAUNTING The narrative does not indicate if Martha and Mary loved or cared over Lazarus. The sisters cared for Jesus, and most readers expect that they also cared for and over their brother. Sisters loving their brother is one of the default, normal behaviors. But the narrative does not say so in the case of Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, and this narrative does not shy away from unnormal behaviors (such as returning from death). In the foregoing reflections, i found the narrative presenting Lazarus as a pawn who may have lived with some form of impairment (which may have been physical, mental, spiritual, psychological). In my reading, Lazarus is a passive character who may have not experienced joy in his lives—before and after death. After Lazarus came out of the tomb, the cave was not closed. The tomb was narratively left open, as Jesus and his entourage walked away. A few verses later, Jesus came back to Bethany, and Lazarus reclined with them at the meal. Then Jesus and his entourage again walked away, and the narrative does not explain what happened to “the great crowd of the Jews” who came looking for Lazarus. Did he who rose from the dead stand up against the crowd? My reading may be pushed further that Lazarus could have experienced resurrection as a form of abuse. In this regard, his experience of resurrection would have been similar to the depiction of Bathala the naked black native in Emmanuel Garibay’s “Pagano” (see figure 1.2). Bathala is the supreme creator deity of the Tagalog people, the natives of the cluster of islands now known as the Philippines. When conquerors and missionaries arrived, first from Spain (the group to the left of the painting) and then from North America (the group to the right), who came with the inspirations and blessings of Christian missionary bodies, they condemned

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Figure 1.2  Emmanuel Garibay, Pagano (2021).

the worship of Bathala as paganism. But in titling this work “Pagano” (“pagan”), and in depicting the invaders and the man of the cloth as matadors over against Bathala (as the bull), Garibay’s work problematizes who the pagan is/are. In Garibay’s judgment, the European and American missionaries and invaders are pagans. The association with Bathala makes Lazarus more haunting, in at least three aspects: first, Lazarus—in the foregoing reading—haunts the narrative, which presents him as a pawn. Lazarus’s illness, death, burial (lying down, i presume), recall, and recline were not for his benefit. His passiveness and muteness are haunting, even if (or, especially since) they were for the glories of God and Jesus. Second, Lazarus haunts readers who have made up their minds that he was the beneficiary of Jesus’s power and glory. Coming out was Lazarus’s one active deed, and attributing (in the foregoing reading) this feat to his credit is haunting. Third, the haunting Lazarus will always remain with us until someone respects his virtue and asks for (not what he saw or heard but) what he knew and how he felt. NOTES 1. Lazarus is the star (in both stories) who is also a pawn—a pawn star. 2. Unless noted, all biblical quotations are taken from NRSV. Concerning John 11:14, compare NRSV (cited earlier) with NKJV: “Loose him and let him go”; NEV: “Unwrap him and let him go”; NIV: “Take off the grave clothes and let him go”; NCB: “Untie him and let him go free.”

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3. “‘Take away the stone’: Lazarus as (tombed) body (John 11:38–44)” in Jione Havea (ed), Dissension and Tenacity: Doing Theology with Nerves (Lanham: Lexington/Fortress Academic, 2022), 1–12. 4. Standing unwrapped at the rear of the plot, this Lazarus is a figure for the Lazarus in Luke 16:19–31 whose body was also raised up and then abandoned. 5. The unclosed cave (in the narrative) calls attention to what passes as indigenous technology (used to open, but not to shut, the cave), and the selective (or haphazard) attitude of the biblical narrator. The narrator is not really interested in the lot nor the fate of Lazarus. 6. Compare to Luke 10:38–42, where Martha is more active than Mary. 7. Compare 11:36 (in which “the Jews” praise Jesus’s love for Lazarus) and 11:37 (in which “some of them [the Jews]” questioned Jesus’s love), for evidence of difference of opinion among “the Jews.” 8. In renaming the place as Babel the narrative shifts attention to the issues of language and disobedience, away from the technical knowledge that enabled the building project. 9. It could have been delivered by a human person as in 11:28, where Martha herself went and called Mary to come to Jesus.

Chapter 2

Dare to Hear Aruna Gogulamanda, Anna Jane Lagi, John Robert Lee, Chad Rimmer, and Karen Georgia A. Thompson

This chapter dares the constructors and gatekeepers of theology to hear the tears that stream and rip among the religiously and culturally violated (Gogulmanda), among the sexually abused (Lagi), among the ash heaps of Babylon (Lee), and among the children who are among us (Rimmer)—together, these tears demand that we grow up (Thompson). As a means for doing theology, poetry is a platform for tearing and daring verses.1 The verses offered herein require more than listening; they dare us to hear with our ears, with our hearts, and with our hands and feet. They dare us to manifest what we hear in real, practical ways, and in public spaces. You are invited to hear these verses in your own pace, and for your own interests, and yet be aware of the inspirations behind these verses. Those inspirations are inserted to preface the verses and to help you connect with the tearing and daring words of the poets. “THIS IS MY COUNTRY” Aruna Gogulamanda India is a country of many religions and cultures that trample on the bodies and agencies of Dalits. Religions and upper-cultures are not always accommodating, but Dalits have the courage to persevere. Dalits have been broken and made untouchable, but they will not give up. India is their country. This poem speaks on behalf of the Dalits of India, in India and in the diaspora, and for all peoples who are treated as Dalits across the world. This is my country of enormous history. 13

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Here, infants are burnt alive, for being born, as Dalit heirs beaten to death, for singing their song of sorrowful lives. This is my country that boasts of worshipping women but brides are burnt alive every single minute gang raped, kicked, pushed on to the streets killed and burnt like a heap of garbage paraded naked on the roads, Their men are made to eat excreta and drink urine of Casteist penises. Animals are made gods Planets and stars rule our lives. A poor man’s food is snatched away from his plate and he is lynched to death for his food is made someone else’s god, foot Paths bleed when a celebrity drunkard takes it for a racing road. Poor has no place here, They are ruthlessly driven to the outskirts whenever a white leader visits. This is my country . . . Alas! Secular and democratic but its subjects are heinously killed for eating their hard-earned morsels walking their own way and living their own life in dire poverty on the fringes of the actual village. This is a country of rich heritage, of much talked about Vedas and Puranas but fails to treat a HUMAN A HUMAN. This is my country, of ancient philosophy build on Varnashrama Dharma, the doctrine of Division and Discrimination, of Caste Religion and Gender.

Dare to Hear

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO KNOW MY NAME” Anna Jane Lagi “You don’t have to know my name” was written as a rap. After hearing one too many stories of rape and sexual abuse, I decided to do something about it. So, I compiled a few of the stories shared with me after asking permission from the survivors. On a rainy day, with low quality audio and visual equipment and a borrowed track off YouTube, I recorded the rap and posted it on my social media accounts. I wanted to write about the ugliness of this topic and yet the hope there is for us to fight it despite its taboo nature in our communities. It was originally titled “Protect My Virtue,” but its current title seemed more appropriate in reminding us that we are God’s hands and feet to everyone on this earth. When I was a little girl, I said TV show me love Then as I got a little older, I said Facebook, show me love And then Google and now Instagram and then my sister’s friends I looked only for the plastic, I didn’t care how it would end I didn’t know that it was counterfeit, the looks I gave and got I didn’t realize it isn’t real if I had to practice how to fall I didn’t want to believe when my Dad spoke to my mind About boys who come for treasure then leave into the night So now, here I am, sulking in my room Because the paper read of Uncle molesting his niece and nephew I’m baffled, shaken, angry and torn My big sister got raped, but all they say is, you were warned She wasn’t showing skin, not even picking fights She was drunk and tired, looking for refuge in the night She went up to a brother and said “Cover me tonight” “Can I sleep under your roof? Just until the morning light” And when the sun came up, no protection was in sight 5 grown adults with a brain but I guess it doesn’t work at night Then my cousin, she was 5, playing a game with the big kids All they had to do was off the lights and wait for the one who’s it But even then one boy went “No, it’s too good to pass up” “Let’ explore this little one, just feel around and see what’s up” And even though she didn’t really understand that this was wrong Her little soul knew very well “His hands were not where they belong” But just like other children, who don’t know any better Who aren’t taught because of taboo, that this is not ways of a brother They trickle down the funnel of covered up lies “let’s not stain our culture with the blood in our lives”

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My baby she may be 19, outspoken and strong-willed but that don’t mean she won’t freeze when someone’s up in her grill It don’t mean that she won’t die inside as hands go in her bra Hands that didn’t ask permission, hands that say “these are shared parts” My body is a temple, handcrafted by the Lord Your body is a temple, don’t wield it like a sword Don’t force it like a cyclone that wreaks all in its path I know mine is a garden for my love to one day have But you take out all the benches and the paths that he could walk on When you take my skin for currency and mistake my love for product I know God gives me healing and restores all that’s been stole But its tiring to do this every time a brother can’t hold his bones Or a brother can’t make his mind up on whether to be a man Or listen to the devil and go for easy slams Even some of you sisters, women, mothers You think that you’re protecting him but you’re feeding a monster Every time you pick a side that makes statistics high, Every time you pick a lie that made one’s purity die We must understand we fight not men, but lust When you choose to right the wrong, you’re helping all of us And finally, why do I need to describe what she wore The time, the place, the reason, what if she was walking to the store Does it change if she had cleavage or is confident at night? Does it change if she’s alone or has had sex many times? Why does her right need be discussed, a no is simply no Don’t get me wrong about clothing i’m not advertising shows But if she said “please stop it” or “i’m uncomfortable” Or pushes you away then you’re the dunce of the show Not just sex without consent, even pictures and recordings Verbal or emotional, no harassment for this story I’m allowed to change my mind even if I said yes first, You’re allowed to change your mind, even if you said yes first I want to respect you, but you respect me too You don’t have to know my name to help protect my virtue

“WATCHMAN” John Robert Lee If we call people to listen, then someone must be speaking. And the speaking, in the context of all else, should be a forceful, courageous, prophetic speaking, into the public square. And we are to speak into the heart, into the hearing of the

Dare to Hear

Babylonian system that oppresses humans and all creation. To speak into the public square of Babylon is to appreciate that there are many kinds of people in Babylon; that Babylon (as a metaphor of today’s Western societies) is not a theocracy but a liberal democracy. I chose, appropriately, an epigraph from an Old Testament prophet, Ezekiel. Ezekiel was called to be a watchman to Israel (even as he lived as an exile in Babylon) and he was held accountable by God for the fulfilment of his calling. The poem is divided into three parts. The central voice is that of a “dreadlocked prophet” called Watchman. The first part, “Babylon—City of Man” sets the historical stage in a Western society with its background of colonialism and neo-colonialism and all that goes with that. Throughout, the poem lists an inventory of examples of the state of Babylonian society, which becomes a kind of litany and chant against the “shitstem.” The second part is titled “Chant down Babylon” and here the voice of prophet Watchman is heard in the public square, challenging citizens to “dare to listen.” There are seven main “sins” of Babylon set out here which reflect the pride and inhumanity of Babylon: 1. Meaningless religion with its church and state alliances; 2. Moral corruption of all kinds; 3. Oppression of the poor; 4. Political and partisan divisions which create deep polarizations; 5. Money lust, capitalistic commodification of everything, including human life, rampant consumerism and all the crime (white and blue-collar) that come out of that; 6. Racisms, discriminations, classisms, hatreds of people who choose a different life-style; 7. Destruction and exploitation of the earth and forests and oceans and all nature, mainly for capitalistic gains. The last part of the poem, “Zion—City of God,” takes Watchman to the peace of the beach where he contemplates the coming restoration of the earth and all creation through the Lord Jesus Christ. It is a sacramental moment, a pause from his prophetic work in the public square of the Babylonian cities and towns. The poem ends on a note of hope even as it has called for a prophetic summoning of citizens to self-awareness and human responsibility. The voice of the poem is that of a Caribbean citizen, using Caribbean idioms, and imagined as someone who is one of the poor and oppressed. But the themes and concerns are universal and can be applied to any society going through its own sufferation, exploitation, oppression by whatever form of Babylonian tyranny it is experiencing. The prophet Watchman dared to speak, and dares us to listen. “Son of man, I have made you a watchman for the house of Israel; therefore hear a word from My mouth, and give them warning from Me” (Ezekiel 3:17)

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I. Babylon—City of Man Ask native peoples who trusted paper promises ask Africans chained below decks of slave caravels ask Asians & other immigrants from islands of the sea ask them about liberal democracy that plants burning crosses on their lawns, knees in their necks, metal in their fleeing backs, that makes them invisible ciphers fenced in minority ghettos, that gives power to autocrats who suppress their votes, ask. This is Babylon. This is its system of privilege. This is Nimrod’s land, Babel in the plain of Shinar. But ask colonies of Babylon, provinces of her Empire, kanaval & cricket places, multi-cultural, many-racial, all kinds of religions & no religion, sun, sand, sex for cruise ships/ petty tyrants & their micro-corruptions, their traffic in diamonds, ivory, children, their golf courses, multi-storey condos; ask the colonised in their complacencies, comforts & shopping malls, ask about the muted mutterings, even at their ease in Babylon.

II. Chant down Babylon The dread-locked prophet comes every day to his box under the flamboyant tree in the square by government house, facing the cathedral, with people passing through to taxi stand & restaurants, & every day mockers give him talk when he chant down the system, chant down Babylon, bloodfire scandals, point with his shaking finger at the pride & selfishness of the busy metropolis; & he chant down meaningless religion, church & state complicity, idols of liturgical masquerade, big pomposity, what god they know? & he chant down the unspeakable corruption that everybody know about, that everybody doing, rich & poor, that he cannot even mention in public; & prophet chant down the oppresson of poor like him, no job, food scarce, shack leaking in rain, boss man wicked, virus in the air, sick can’t buy medicine, children don’t have computer, politician door close;

Dare to Hear

& he raise his mouth against political camps & their barons, if you don’t vote for them, crapaud smoke your pipe, you suck salt, even your family don’t know you; when he look, he see the good book true, lust for dollar & cents is root of all evil, all crime in the city, everybody have a price, everything have a cost, when you poor you like dog! This Babylon! This slave colony of Babylon! & he come out against racism in Amerikkka, classism in his own island, against hatred for people who different/ & the prophet start to bawl when he see what they doing with their garbage, to the fish with their plastic, how they cut down trees to build hotel & warehouse & more golf course. & prophet chant & he chant & he chant all the way to his little place outside the town.

III. Zion—City of God Son of man, man born of woman, Watchman lying on his back in the sea gazing at sea birds loving the green hills in the blue distance admiring children laughing with parents on the sand hearing a sweet reggae melody coming across the water; he certain that a new world near, that the Most High planning new heavens & new earth, Zion, far from Babylon, where righteousness rule, & the prophet give thanks, laugh loud, is peaceful, as he listen to the Spirit moving in the casuarinas

“WHAT THE CHILD KNOWS” Chad Rimmer “What the child knows” highlights the connection between theopoetics and embodied epistemologies. In other words, we have different ways of “knowing” truths and the Truth. The way we perceive the world and what is communicated to us by the Spirit and one another is affected by our location, our abilities, our

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cultures and our bodies. Each body resonates with this communication a little bit differently, and resounds that Truth a little bit differently. Language is a cultural way to standardize what it means to know. But, as the story of the Tower of Babel reminds us, the increased organization of human society into linguistic families, cities, nations, cultures and disciplines tend to colonize our understanding of what it means to be human. Language gives a power to impose a logical uniformity of what it means to “know” that excludes those bodies that “know” through means outside of the rational logic of the dominant cultural, legal, religious or scientific systems. People who operate with the language and logics of the dominant culture often do not listen to those with bodies whose gender, race, ability, or species are different, because they often perceive and resound truth in ways that do not belong to the dominant language or logic. Such is the case, too, with children. Children are considered naïve, or irrational. But Jesus knew otherwise. Children naturally perceive the world through a kind of unmediated wonder in which emotions, reverberations, as well as sensory perception all equally communicate knowledge. This immediate engagement with the world is not judged by the learned constructs of language. We call such embodied, non-verbal or pre-rational way of knowing, childlike. But really, this type of consciousness is a crucial part of being an earthling (the Hebrew meaning of ’adam). In the book Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie muses that children are born knowing the language of the birds, then they learn to forget as they grow up. Seventeenth century mystic, priest and poet Thomas Traherne shared the same opinion about the way learning language and culture have the effect of distracting us from the way our bodies naturally perceive the Truth. Traherne wrote that language “murders” the child, which is a macabre echo of Jesus’s words that if we want to inherit God’s kin-dom, we must become like a child. This poem is written from my perspective as a father, watching my own two children struggle to make sense of their world during a time when my wife, their mother, was undergoing a battery of cancer treatments. Our children were dealing with the fears and losses of having to move from Sénégal to the US, shift between cultures and languages, and balance the fear of losing their mother and life as they knew it. I watched them struggle to hear the Truth and speak their truth in a world dominated by well-meaning adults who often talked to them, but rarely listened to them. I asked, what do you know, child? I hope the poem speaks to the reality of all children, and for that matter, anybody dealing with displacement, trauma, or simply trying to live in the fullness of their diversity. Job who radically counsels his friends to ask the animals, because they will tell the truth to those who dare to listen that deeply. As Emilie Townes puts it, we need to listen for the stories that resist the dominant languages and logics that colonize and exclude diverse bodies from our discursive spaces. Their perspectives help us to re-story our world with a cosmic truth about who we are, what we are, and where we are in the world. This is the work of theopoetics.

Dare to Hear

If we are going to hear the fullness of the Truth that leads us to the goodness of justice, we must dare to listen to the way that Truth is perceived by, and resonates through all those diverse bodies. The gendered bodies, the racialized bodies, the bodies of our more-than-human co-creatures, the body of the Earth, the differently abled bodies, and as Jesus says, the children know something that we all need to hear. For to such as these belong the kin-dom of God. When he picked up that little child And set her in the center, We rejoiced and ran off to proclaim That now we know. We know the answer to power Is to overcome it with another kind. A childlike power will win us our kingdom! But when we ran off to teach What we thought we had learned, We left behind a man named Jesus, Who held a little child on his knee. Not a soul stayed to ask What the child knows. What the child knows Is that the kind man from Nazareth Was not teaching some new kind of power. He was not teaching us a new way to rule our kingdom. He was helping a child to know     What it felt like to be seen     What it felt like to be held     What it felt like to be loved     What it felt like to be dignified     What it felt like to be known. But we wouldn’t know, now would we? Because we run off too quickly. We read too fast, and never stop to ask, Who was that child? Funny isn’t it? The very child that Jesus held, Saying, if you want to live Be like this one. We are so enamored with our cultured knowing We never even care to ask, “Which one?” “Who is this hero of mine?” “What does this child know?”

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My child, I’ve walked you through this life, To the plane, the palace, the car, the bus, The school, the castle, the embassy, The mountain, the church, the river, Across Copenhagen, France, London, Dakar, And I’ve tried to listen To your answer when I ask “What do you know, child?” I resist running off too quickly to proclaim “Look here,” “Taste that,” “See this,” “Speak so,” “Think this for thus sayeth the Lord!” No, I have tried to stay near Quietly beside you, Watching     how you see Mona Lisa’s smirk and wonder,     how you follow the curves of Venus de Milo and    blush,     how you feel the cold stone of Notre Dame and pray,     how you hear Mozart in the Schӧnbrunn and dance,     how you peer into the tea colored Loch Ness and imagine,     how you listen to the call resound across the Sahara and pause,     how you kneel at the rail and take hold of His body. So that I might know when to ask, “What did He say to you?” “What did you learn from Him, my child?” Now in these days I lead you by the hand, Through these halls,     To therapy and treatment,     To the cafeteria and the consult room,     To a chair in the waiting room,     To the toys in your cousins’ room     To the bed in grandma’s house,     To a new school,     To the stranger-new friend’s party. In this strangely dislodged life Among these people who have just fled His presence, Proclaiming the gospel of whatever they think they heard. New prophets of protocol and pop psychology Who want to distract you, telling you, “Eat ice cream, child, and smile” “Don’t worry, child, they are smart,” “He is good and she is strong.”

Dare to Hear

But they have not tried to sit on her weak knee Like you have. And they have not heard what He has said to you in your prayers, In your quiet heart,     When the crowds leave,     And you see her strain to stand,     And reach out to hold you,     And awake too early to pray with us,     And cry over the beauty of your art,     And defy fatigue to listen to you read,     And cuddle you despite the cords,     And show you that life is now,     And hope doesn’t wait for a cure,     And faith doesn’t require results,     And peace doesn’t need tranquility     And healing doesn’t depend on death’s decisions,     And having a new power to overcome power isn’t     the point. But I see you, And I hold you, And I love you, And so, my child, I want to know what all this means from your place in the circle? Tell me, child, While we all turned away to talk at each other, What did the nice man from Nazareth tell you?     Because that is what I need to learn. ҉

“GROW UP!” Karen Georgia A. Thompson The phrase “grow up” points to movement toward maturity. In this case however, the specific reference comes from a Caribbean context where the term is used to indicate a lack of maturity which engenders disgust and demands a set of mature behaviors and response. There is a lack of maturity evident in the ways individuals negotiate the world with privilege, and where injustices prevail. “Grow up” sometimes expressed as “oh, grow up” is usually accompanied with a dismissive wave of the hand, roll of the eyes or shaking of the head to express disdain, and is a response to behavior or action which is repeated. This call to “grow up!” includes both these definitions. grow up! is calling out oppression as irresponsible behavior fueling injustices, and points to new

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possibilities and behaviors which will alleviate suffering and injustice. It is an invitation into maturity otherwise absent in the presence of colonialism, oppressive theologies, patriarchalism and the manifestations of all forms of discrimination and oppression. grow up! is also an invitation to transformation and new ways of being present in the world. we are children of a world where justice trickles from taps long made dry by beliefs and practices obsolete and immature our souls overtaken by oppressive theologies and lies holding on to narratives eroding health and communities carrying stories of a god declared Christian while standing on pillars of colonialities grow up time for new ways of being time for us to demand good life for the living time for us to release the brutality wrought by missed missiology and misguided mission invite new ways of reading that named holy books given power to decide the value of peoples humanity interrogate that Bible strip away the great divides redefining for today respect, worth and dignity time to grow up to create justice from our experiences to retrieve what of us was demonized to recover the joy of our voices we have the power to tell our stories to venerate the wisdom of our Ancestors deprived of their spiritual traditions robbed of their heritage denied of their cultures

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read the words written on the clouds read the wisdom written by the trees on their leaves look to the wisdom of roots dug deep carried in our blood heard in the wind floating on the seas grow up release yourself from that which binds disrupt the chains of silence evict the normalization of dispossessing the marginalized their existence necessary to provide for the rich the lives of the poor reduced to bridging the service gaps between excessive wealth and depraved greed grow up increase your god-consciousness believe in God the Creator on the side of the poor strive for good life and better living grow up then grow up some more 27 October 2021 10:10 Cleveland, OH KGAT Copyright © 2021 Karen Georgia A. Thompson

NOTE 1. The following chapters refer to these poems, thus placing them in the same chapter helps readers find them.

rereading (from) public spaces

Chapter 3

The Bible in Public Spaces A Zambian Pentecostal Woman’s Critique of Rev. Sumaili’s Use of the Bible Mutale Mulenga Kaunda

Christianity has continued to grow widely in Africa and spread across the continent. John Mbiti declared that Africans are “notoriously religious”1 and that there is no clear divide between secular and spiritual in African conception of religion. In Zambia, religion and culture are intertwined so much that religion and culture seem to be the same aspect of everyday life. In Zambia, Pentecostalism has especially found fertile ground in older missionary churches. Most Zambian Christians tend to have dual memberships. They continue their membership with the mainline or missionary-founded church, but they also become affiliated with a Pentecostal-Charismatic church. Some leave the mainline churches and become full members of Pentecostal churches while others continue with their dual affiliations. Zambia was declared a Christian nation by the late president FTJ Chiluba who was the second republican president of Zambia in 1991. It is the only country that has openly declared and defined itself constitutionally as a Christian nation. President Chiluba was a Pentecostal Christian upon his inauguration as president of Zambia.2 In fact, the preamble in the constitution of Zambia (amendment) [No.2 of 2016 9], states: “WE THE PEOPLE OF ZAMBIA: ACKNOWLEDGE the supremacy of God Almighty; DECLARE the Republic a Christian Nation while upholding a person’s right to freedom of conscience, belief or religion.”3 The declaration was undergirded in Pentecostal conservative religious beliefs and practices and has become the intricate theological political problem that defines and, in some ways determines, the religio-political worldview of many Zambians. Chiluba sought the declaration to be a prophetic tool for transforming political ideas and culture.4 Every president after him used this declaration as their campaign strategy. The recent former president Edgar Chagwa Lungu 29

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reiterated this with a Ministry of National Guidance and Religious Affairs, which set a National Day of Prayers for every 18th of October while he was in office. Edgar Lungu began to show himself as a Christian during the election campaign in 2016. There were pictures of him in church kneeling to pray, walking with clergy, or just attending church services.5 Chammah Kaunda analyzed “how the Declaration discourse has developed into a political ideology used to legitimize Lungu’s political power and moral authority among some Pentecostal-Charismatic religious sector.”6 There was also a Christian campaign wing called Christians for Lungu that became defunct as soon as Lungu became president of Zambia. This Christians for Lungu campaign wing was led by Dr. Liya Mutale, a medical doctor as well as an ordained minister of the word and sacrament; Dr. Liya Mutale was appointed as minister of tourism and art. In taking Pentecostal stance on women in public spheres, Edgar Lungu appointed a female clergy to head the Ministry of National Guidance and Religious Affairs (from 2017–2021), Rev. Godfridah Sumaili. A Christian nation is defined by the Ministry of National Guidance and Religious Affairs (MNGRA) as: A Nation that acknowledges the Divine Lordship of Jesus Christ over its affairs. The Holy Bible guides the beliefs and values that its people espouse in family life and apply appropriately in government and all sectors of society for enhanced welfare, peace and unity. God’s principles of Righteousness and Justice are the foundation of the rule of law and governance for sustained social order and morality.7

From inception, there was skepticism regarding the MNGRA, that it was set up to reward Edgar Lungu’s supporters. The Zambia Conference of Catholic Bishops (ZCCB) with leaders of the Council of Churches in Zambia (CCZ) strongly challenged the institution of the ministry. There were economic needs that the country was facing, which were more important than the MNGRA. The current President Hakainde Hichilema disbanded MNGRA in September 2021, but this reflection is indicative of the use of the Bible in public places in Zambia. Rev. Sumaili’s mantra around anything that was not a norm was that Zambia is a Christian nation or that whatever that issue was—it was against Christian nation values (as defined by the Bible). On the other hand, African women theologians have argued for a liberating approach to reading the Bible (using gender lenses). AFRICAN WOMEN’S THEOLOGIES/MISSIOLOGY African women theologians and African biblical scholars have argued that the Bible, like culture, should be approached with suspicion. The Bible has

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been used to oppress, marginalize and exclude women and other minorities or those deemed different due to misinterpretation and\or literal interpretation. This means that the Bible cannot be taken literally, and thus there is a need to read the Bible differently.8 Rev. Sumaili acknowledged in 2017 that “we also need to start promoting the proper reading and application of the Bible to the African context.”9 This was in a speech presented at the Bible Society of Zambia’s 49th annual general meeting. While admitting to the need to read and interpret the Bible with African lens, Rev. Sumaili constantly engaged the Bible in literal ways and often focused on women’s dressing, sexual issues, and LGBTIQA+. The focus on these issues was done in a policing and regulating way: the irony is that while Rev. Sumaili desired to have Zambia represent a nation of good moral standing, she ended up regulating people’s lives. The focus on moralizing the nation became of greater importance than the humanity of the people that were being moralized. Transformation in these situations becomes a tool of oppression and is resisted. “There has been a consistent call in missiological circles to understand mission as not just conversion but indeed as spreading the good news of justice and love, a move which of necessity requires transforming injustice in the world.”10 This call to transform injustice stretches to discourses around biblical interpretations that are unjust. Chammah J. Kaunda argues that “certain words that are uttered by persons in authority such as high profile religious leaders are more performative in certain contexts such as Zambia where the Bible and the church are judged as authoritative, determining acceptable moral positions.”11 Religious leaders have so much influence in a context like Zambia and therefore need to be critical in the way they engage with the Bible in order to have a holistic approach. The Bible should be read cautiously for the emancipation of all and for everyone to rise to life. Words have power to empower and disempower people, divide or bring people together. This is worsened when it is words from the Bible which are used negatively, intentionally, or unintentionally.

THE BIBLE IN THE ZAMBIAN PUBLIC The Bible is a book that is often referenced in many spaces in Zambia, in casual conversations, by Christians and non-Christians alike. Music artists (Christians and non-Christians alike) refer to God and the Bible in their songs. Politics and religion are essentially the same public sphere. The naturalness of religion intertwined with culture and politics in Zambia is seen in everyday conversations by ordinary Zambian citizens and some government leaders. Pentecostals are actively involved in Zambian politics and their biblical

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interpretations are reflected in the way that the Bible is often used in the public (by Christian political leaders). The focus of these biblical interpretations is often on the desire to keep Zambia as a Christian nation at all costs, which become a hindrance to alternative thinking about Zambia’s political future. The major concern for Pentecostals and Pentecostal politicians is for the country to uphold “Christian values that are enshrined in the Bible.” As a Pentecostal and government leader, Rev. Sumaili was unsuccessful in mobilizing prophetic theological resources that would enable her to interact with the state meaningfully. In this regard, the MNGRA was less concerned about economic progress, social justice, and inclusivity but took a strategic political silence with regard to the political corruption that was rampart in the former president Lungu administration. Corruption was an issue that the minister often just glossed over while putting energies into the sexual morals of the country. Not surprising though because the Pentecostal understanding is that when the church congregants are corrupt, they will affect the pastor’s moral life—in similar ways, if the nation was immoral it was affecting the presidency, hence high levels of corruption in the Lungu government! This level of reading the Bible marginalizes and excludes certain groups of people in communities. Women have been marginalized, excluded, and denied certain opportunities due to the literal interpretation of the Bible. Rev. Sumaili’s use of the Bible in the public seems to conflict with what African women theologians—as public theologians—have been arguing in terms of challenging biblical texts as being male dominated and hierarchical.12 This often leads to the domination, exclusion, and marginalization of groups of people. Because of how the Bible has been used in the church, women have been dominated, exploited, marginalized, and abused (see also Anna Jane Lagi, “You don’t have to know my name”; chapter 2). Rev. Sumaili, for instance, compares the nation to a home and the former president Lungu as the father of the nation. While Rev. Sumaili sought to become a moral example in politics, her political moral ethic crafted and reinforced relational dynamics where women had to be subservient to men. This, for a Pentecostal, African woman who understands the difficulties that women face in society, is undoing the work of feminism and gender equality. Rev Sumaili’s rationale was to have women and other citizens submit passively to the president in the same way some conservatives expect their wives and children to submit to fatherly authority in their homes. This alliance of religio-political power that projects Lungu as the father and president of the nation promotes house-nization of the nation.13

Therefore, an African woman has to approach the Bible with suspicious eyes, because gender inequality, racism, and other forms of marginalization have

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emanated from the misuse of the Bible. In searching for the national values of a Christian nation, Rev. Sumaili posed more harm than good. Elias Munshya has argued in response to Rev. Sumaili’s utterances on issues of sex toys in Zambia that she stated that just as a home has values, so should a nation. She is advancing a very dangerous paternalism that is not envisioned by the constitution of Zambia. Zambia is not a home with a father and mother ruling over children in a household. The biblical model of a home cannot be extrapolated to the Zambian state. Zambia is a republic with a constitution that assigns roles to each branch of government. Zambian citizens are responsible adults with rights and privileges afforded to them, not by custom.14

Rev. Sumaili’s time in office from 2016–2021 had largely been about regulating Zambian people’s sex lives, from banning sex toys, deporting South African sultry and panty-less dancer Zodwa Wa Bantu, denying Somizi Mhlongo (South African openly gay choreographer and actor) into Zambia, giving anti-LGBTIQA+ sentiments, to women having a modest dress code as a nation so they cannot be raped because Zambia is a Christian nation. On the other hand, African Feminists argue for a hermeneutic of conscious suspicion when women read the Bible. They argue for a critical engagement with the Bible and not take it literally. Rev. Sumaili uses the Bible in a literal way even when she applies it to politics, a trend that is apt to Pentecostal engagement with the Bible. Rev. Sumaili emphasized the declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation in ways that also negated other religious affiliations. During the National Day of Prayers, for instance, National Guidance and Religious Affairs Minister Godfridah Sumaili of Zambia has said that inviting Hindus and Muslims to the National Day of Prayer and Repentance can cause confusion. She said that Muslims were not included in the national prayers, as confusion would reign if other religious groups were invited to a Christian event. These remarks were made on Wednesday during a press conference organized by the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting.15

Sentiments like these instigate division in a country that wants to have Christian values. What about scriptures that encourage Christians to “love your neighbor as yourself”? Within communities, Muslims, Hindus, Christians, and African traditional religious persons live at peace with each other, however, the minister somehow believes that worshipping together would be chaotic. Rev. Sumaili’s reading of the Bible can easily cause divisions in a Christian nation. Earlier in 2017, Rev. Sumaili had stated:

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Yes, we intend to work with these other religions. One, we need to know what they are doing in Zambia. We need to know their strategies, we need to have data on these ones, we need to make sure that they are law abiding so we are working with all the religious faiths.16

This religious surveillance tact is what she used while in power. Her stance from the onset has been that other religious faiths are at odds with Christianity and that Christianity cannot work with other faiths because it would only result in chaos. She failed to encourage cooperation but rather sent a sense of suspicion of faith communities that are not Christian. The Bible cannot be used in this simplistic sense in the public because that promotes dehumanizing discourses, exclusion, and oftentimes patriarchy. Leadership should strive to unite people, communities, and nations instead of dividing and separating them. The history of apartheid is a case one can refer to in South Africa in which the Bible was instrumental in bringing about divisions between white and black South Africans. There is a need for a critical engagement with the Bible in African Christianity and among Pentecostals—especially Pentecostal politicians, who have double authority and whose public speech is heard by the majority of Zambians. The Bible can be a double egged/edged sword; it can give life, but it also can be life-denying. The case of Rev. Sumaili is a life-denying discourse, it has reinforced male dominance over women, it has encouraged particular religion’s dominance over others and criminalized minorities. DECOLONIZING THE BIBLE IN ZAMBIA The genius of colonization and slavery has been the colonizing of African minds to believe that everything African is demonic, evil, and pagan. This might sound like a cliché to some, but the truth is that the African mind has to constantly grapple with accepting African identity and various other aspects of being African. This means that even those aspects of culture that were based on equality have become tainted due to various interactions. The Bible has layers of patriarchal notions, and it is “problematic for such factors as its class perspectives, its ethnic biases, and its ideology of colonization.”17 This means that the Bible cannot be read in simplistic and literal ways as the minister of National Guidance and Religious Affairs in Zambia had done. African women theologians have grappled and continue to grapple with ways in which the Bible has been used to oppress, to dominate, and to exclude persons that were and are deemed different. Colonialism, apartheid, slavery, racism, and sexism are all embedded in the misreading of the Bible. Women have argued for other ways of reading the Bible; Musa Dube aptly uses this as a title for the volume Other Ways of Reading: African Women

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and the Bible. This book has a wide range of authors from the Circle of Concerned African Women Theologians engaging biblical reading and interpretation using indigenous methods such as storytelling, postcolonial feminist or womanist perspectives, and divination. First, it is important to read the Bible with gender lenses because the Bible has been used as a tool and weapon against women’s empowerment. Musa W. Dube explicitly argues that combining Bible and culture is a recognition that authoritative texts for African women are more than just the written religious texts. Rather, African cultures remain vibrant and authoritative texts in the lives of women, and they need to be studied, analyzed, and reinterpreted for the creation of a just world and the empowerment of women.18

This means that cultural and biblical texts are good bedfellows that have had and continue to impact women disproportionately. Reading these texts with gender lenses means consciously asking difficult questions and being suspicious of the sacred text when it seems to be excluding women or other groups of people and communities. Both cultural and biblical texts conspire to limit women’s participation in various empowering activities and exclude women from decision-making platforms. A literal reading of biblical texts easily finds a patriarchal, hierarchical, and colonial interpretation. Second, contextualized reading of the Bible using contextual Bible study for instance. Gerald West argues that “our experience has taught us that we will only find a new message from the Bible when we find a new way of doing Bible study.”19 Reading the Bible or engaging in a Bible study in the same way the colonialists had done means that change would not be happening because the social located-ness of the people is not taken into account. African women theologians argue that there are various ways and methods within African indigenous cultures that can be leveraged and utilized in reading the Bible. Reading the Bible contextually aids the process of social transformation positively because everyone is given an opportunity to reflect on the sacred texts. Participation of all is key to contextual Bible study. This form of reading the Bible was produced in South Africa during apartheid when Christians wanted to read the Bible differently and contextually so that they could hear God speak in their own contexts.20 To read the Bible in uncritical ways has contributed to oppression, marginalization, racism, sexism, and exclusion of those perceived as different. The importance of contextual Bible studies is that all participants are given opportunities to engage the Bible in their contextual experiences. When the former minister of National Guidance and Religious Affairs used the Bible to

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regulate the lives of Zambian citizens, she perpetuates hostile masculinities, heteropatriarchy, and exclusion. It is so important to continuously emphasize the context so that no one feels excluded or robbed of their identity and experiences. That is the reason that feminist theology, womanism or African women theologies engage the Bible with suspicion. Being suspicious of the Bible includes the patriarchal nature of the Bible, the representation of God as male and white in the Bible as Sarojini Nadar argues.21 The Bible is never read in a vacuum; social context and experiences are necessary to take into account in biblical analysis. Indigenous and social contexts should inform the reading of the Bible; unfortunately, African theology is seen as evil as the colonists had taught, and names had to be changed from Mutale to “Christian” names like Grace. Moreover, culture and initiation rites were deemed demonic. These are aspects that need reflecting on using contextual Bible studies to reflect on African identity and to decolonize the African minds in order to “emancipate ourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds” as Bob Marley sang.22 It is rare to find books by African authors in seminaries because Western authors are preferred and deemed to have better ideas than indigenous scholars. CONCLUSION The Bible is an important book in the Christian faith, and it can be a doubleedged sword that causes harm and at the same time brings hope. The way the Bible is engaged is critical as it can cause hurt as history has shown. Engaging the Bible and interpreting it literally is detrimental to society, thus it is important to have other ways of reading the Bible, for equality, inclusion, justice, and peace. NOTES 1. John Mbiti, Concepts of God in Africa (London: SCM, 1970), 1. 2. Ogbu Kalu, Power, Poverty and Prayer: The Challenges of Poverty and Pluralism in African Christianity, 1960–1996 (Trenton, NJ: Africa World, 2006), 145. 3. Constitution of Zambia (Amendment) [No.2 of 2016 9] (Lusaka: Government Printer, 2016), 9. 4. Richard Sakala ed., Building a Political Culture: Speeches by President FTJ Chiluba (Lusaka: Sentor Publishing, 2001), 118. 5. Chammah J. Kaunda, “Christianising Edgar Chagwa Lungu: The Christian nation, social media presidential photography and 2016 election campaign,” Stellenbosch Theological Journal 4.1 (2018): 215–245. 6. Chammah J. Kaunda, “Christianising Edgar Chagwa Lungu,” 215.

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7. Ministry of National Guidance and Religious Affairs, Policy (viii). 8. Musa W. Dube, Other Ways of Reading: African Women and the Bible (Geneva: WCC, 2001). 9. Godfridah Sumaili, “Speech by the Guest of Honur, Honourable Rev. Mrs. Godfridah Sumaili MP, at the 49th Annual General Meeting at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross on 24th June 2017 at 09:00 hours.” (https://www​.google​.com​/url​?sa​=t​&rct​=j​&q=​ &esrc​=s​&source​=web​&cd=​&ved​=2ah​UKEw​iRvs​n0qN​jyAh​Wa3G​EKHe​fuAy​EQFn​ oECAIQAQ​&url​=https​%3A​%2F​%2Fwww​.mngra​.gov​.zm​%2F​%3Fwpfb​_dl​%3D56​ &usg​=AOvVaw0TmHeDWrVU​-tLUdOmm​-CUY; accessed 25 August 2021). 10. Sarojini Nadar, “Toward a Feminist Missiological Agenda: A Case Study of the Jacob Zuma Rape Trial,” Missionalia 37:1 (2009): 85. 11. Chammah J. Kaunda, “The Public Religious Speech Acts That Does Justice: Reclaiming the Narrative of Resistance in the Context of Heterosexism,” Journal of Theology for Southern Africa 155 (2016): 197. 12. Musa W. Dube. “Grant Me Justice: Toward Gender-Sectoral HIV/AIDS Readings of the Bible,” in Grant Me Justice: HIV/AIDS Gender Readings of the Bible edited by Musa W. Dube and Musimbi Kanyoro, 3–26. (Pietermaritzburg: Cluster, 2004). 13. Mutale M. Kaunda and Chammah J. Kaunda, “Pentecostalism, Female SpiritFilled Politicians, and Populism in Zambia,” International Review of Mission 107.1 (2018): 32. 14. Elias Munshya, “When the State Becomes a False Prophet: How Rev. Sumaili’s views threaten Zambia’s constitutionalism” (https://diggers​.news​/guest​-diggers​/2017​ /05​/23​/when​-the​-state​-becomes​-a​-false​-prophet​-how​-rev​-sumailis​-views​-threaten​ -zambias const​ituti​onali​sm/?f​bclid​=IwAR​3GgZw​gs76h​EfRHo​cpmBq​mIP8a​YG9Dn​ SdueF​OpQvg​HZETa​OIDgQ​mLSIy​oE; accessed 25 August 2021). 15. Admin, “Zambia: Hindus not invited for major national event” (24 September 2018; http://www​.currentriggers​.com​/people​/zambia​-hindus​-christianity/; accessed 25 August 2021). 16. Mukosha Funga, “We’ll go for Muslims, Hindus to know their agenda in Zambia—Religion minister” (22 May 2017; https://diggers​.news​/local​/2017​/05​ /22​/well​-go​-for​-muslims​-hindus​-to​-know​-their​-agenda​-in​-zambia​-religion​-minister/; accessed 23 August 2021). 17. Mmadipoane Masenya, “Esther and Northern Sotho Stories: An African Woman’s Commentary” in Other Ways of Reading: African Women and The Bible, ed. Musa Dube (Geneva: WCC Publications, 2001), 31. 18. Musa Dube, “Introduction,” in Other Ways of Reading: African Women and The Bible, ed. Musa Dube (Geneva: WCC, 2001), 1. 19. Gerald West, Contextual Bible Study (Pietermaritzburg: Cluster, 1993), 7. 20. West, Contextual Bible Study, 11. 21. Sarojini Nadar, “Stories are data with soul,” The Routledge Handbook of Contemporary Feminism (UK: Routledge, 2019), 34–45. 22. Bob Marley, “Redemption Song,” in Uprising (Produced by Chris Blackwell, 1980).

Chapter 4

Quest for Life A Postcolonial Dalit Feminist Reading of Qoheleth Jasmine Devadason

Ecclesiastes is a book that—like Job—deals with questions that human beings raise in real-life situations. Although many studies in the Asian context offer postcolonial and feminist readings of the Bible, Ecclesiastes has not received such attention except for Reading Ecclesiastes from Asia and Pasifika.1 Indepth postcolonial and feminist readings provide insights into the context of oppression and marginalization in Ecclesiastes and to the questions raised by the oppressed community. Hence, this chapter rereads Ecclesiastes from a postcolonial Dalit feminist perspective to bring out liberative insights that are relevant for today. The postcolonial Dalit feminist experience is one of resistance and resilience and a call to defeat all forms of hegemonic power (see also Aruna Gogulamanda, “This is my country”; chap. 2). Ecclesiastes comprises of voices which could play for a colonial reading of the text, as well as a reading against it. Another voice within the text struggles to get answers to the problems raised. Reading at a minimum of three levels helps us address the oppression and marginalization in the text. At the first level, we acknowledge that most of the biblical literature was composed in the context of colonial rule. To unpack the colonial nature of the text, it is important to see the text in its original context and thus to deconstruct it for today’s context. Each of the empires that conquered Judah and Israel—Assyria, Babylon, Persia, Greece, and Rome—adopted its own colonial strategies to rule the countries under its control. Many scholars have recognized the need to understand the historical context of these empires for historical-critical study of the Hebrew Bible. Scholars have researched the impact of Roman power during the times of Jesus and Paul, and recently postcolonial studies have begun to analyze the colonial context of the literatures of the Hebrew Bible. 39

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At the second level, we note that the Bible has been used and interpreted by colonizers to support imperial rule and hegemonic power; this calls for deconstruction, and it helps to reread from the perspective of marginalized communities. Deconstructing the colonial uses of the Hebrew Bible, and the effects of dissemination of biblical literature by colonizing powers, is an important feature of postcolonial biblical studies. The purpose of reading in this way is to deconstruct the unbalanced relationships and hierarchical structures that are the origins of the oppression, marginalization, unfairness, and injustice experienced in society. Finally, as indicated earlier, our current context of oppression and marginalization demands a rereading of biblical texts from the eyes of the marginalized and oppressed. In this study, the situation in India is the context (see also Aruna Gogulamanda’s “This is my country,” in chapter 2). SETTING THE CONTEXT Having acknowledged that most biblical literatures were written in the context of imperial rule, it would be beneficial to see in which context Ecclesiastes was written and what kind of colonial strategies are implied. Traditionally, King Solomon is considered the author of the book, in light of the opening phrase, “the words of Qoheleth, son of David king in Jerusalem.” King Solomon ruled the country after the death of his father, David. Solomon is also implicated in 1:12, where the speaker—speaking in the first person—refers to himself as “king.” On the other hand, many scholars say that the text in its current form may have been written long after Solomon’s reign.2 Because of the genres, linguistic form, structure, and Aramaic influence, there is a strong consensus that the book could be dated to the third-century bce when Ptolemais ruled the land. The Ptolemies adopted the theory of royal absolutism from Egypt and applied it to Palestine and Phoenicia to increase the economic contributions of the Asiatic colonies to the Nile heartland. It seems that the tax and tribute burden on Judah was heavier under the Ptolemies than under the Persians. The Greeks brought great changes to Jewish thought and day-to-day life. During the Ptolemaic rule, we find the same administrative units in Palestine, as well as the same officials and instructions. The Jews were allowed to govern themselves in peace, but taxes were to be paid to the rulers. Since Palestine was a temple state, it was governed by an aristocratic group. The high priest, whose office was hereditary, was the head of state. The high priest was the religious as well as the political leader. He was expected to collect the taxes and pay them to the royal treasury in Alexandria. Next to the

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high priest stood the council of elders, who were from the lay as well as the priestly aristocracy.3 This is the time when high priests, who were close to the colonial power, took an important role in the sociopolitical realm of the country. Also, a new group of people emerged who controlled business and trading and benefited from the imperial policies of colonial rule. Sugirtharajah locates Qoheleth4 in this group: [T]he preacher himself was one of the beneficiaries who built great houses, owned gardens and plantations, developed irrigation systems, gathered wealth, possessed herds, flocks, and slaves, and surrounded themselves with many concubines (2:4–8). He was influenced by the ruling ideology which created a cultural milieu in which the creation and pursuit of money became increasingly important. His vocabulary was filled with commercial terminology—business, occupation, money, riches, success, ownership, financial bankruptcy. He [. . .] advised his reader/hearers to be publically loyal to the king and the powerful [. . .]. For the poor he had only bad news. Nothing can change their situation. (4:1–3; 5:12)5

The context in which Qoheleth speaks was a divided and hierarchical society where most of the public was marginalized and oppressed in every aspect of their life. By providing an example from a well-known king of Israel, the “historical” Solomon, Qoheleth draws readers toward this legendary source of wisdom. In an imaginative way, Qoheleth speaks to his own context and points out the similarities between the two situations, critiquing the oppression within them and the strategies used to maintain their oppression. Qoheleth, by naming Solomon as the author, suggests that we see him as one of the elites who understands the power dynamics of the system and their impacts on the public. We see in Ecclesiastes different voices that express different points of view. It is a book that portrays a cry from the oppressed and marginalized, as it sees power and authority as vanity. But Qoheleth can also be understood as the voice of a colonizer who sees life as something to enjoy by eating, drinking, and being in company. Qoheleth divides people into two groups and gives each of them a voice, which means that the text can be interpreted to support the colonized mindset or could be read against it, depending on who we interpret the speaker to be and where he or she stands. While Qoheleth offers readers a coping mechanism (to trust God and enjoy the gifts of life through eating, drinking, and companionship), he fails to offer an alternative to this coping mechanism, which favors the people who possess wealth, life, and companionship. It could be comforting how Qoheleth speaks against the traditional understanding of power and privileges, which have often served as tools to oppress the majority, but the book does not question

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the oppression and exploitation it observes. Whether the author himself did or did not lack power is not clear, but his audience certainly was powerless. The key question here is who holds the power? Does Qoheleth of the later redaction reintroduce the colonial mindset of the past king to tackle the colonial oppression of the Ptolemies? Or are the answers that Qoheleth is trying to give not aimed at the majority of the public? Where does the public stand in the oppressive structure? What will be the alternative voice? And what is the alternative to oppression? The majority need political freedom as well as economic and social freedom to resolve their oppressive context. Enjoying what you have is an answer for people who have accumulated wealth and status. What about the marginalized, who have nothing to enjoy, and they constitute the majority of the public? My approach to Qoheleth is to acknowledge and address the colonizers’ voice within the text, in order to decolonize and then reconstruct it and bring out its liberative potential. A second aspect of my method is to find alternative, subaltern public voices in the text, which can help us envisage a postcolonial future for the majority who are still in the midst of oppression. Where the world sees power/authority/kingship as the norm for controlling the public and the ruling hierarchical structure is a place of domination and exploitation, Qoheleth sees an alternative world in which power and authority are vanity and of no value. This point of view makes everyone equal. In my search for subaltern public voices, women voices are important. Because colonialism deepens women’s subjugation, colonial oppression— forced on them by the patriarchal system—worsens their situation. Postcolonial studies often sideline gender-based oppression. Therefore, it is important to approach the text from the perspectives of marginalized women in order to bring out the liberative potential within the text. Qoheleth is already “deconstructionist” in many ways. He deconstructs hierarchy by questioning the dichotomic and hierarchical relationships present in the world, such as stability/instability, rich/poor, nature/culture, spiritual/material, male/female, reason/emotion, and power/powerless. In a way, Qoheleth’s voice re-values Solomon’s rule as leading to ‫( הבל‬vanity or futility). In that way, the Solomon of the past not only leaves a reconstructed legacy but, from the perspective of Qoheleth, can also provide recommendations for survival, self-monitoring, and quiet resistance that will promote the well-being of those in third-century Ptolemaic Judah. As Qoheleth is a kind of proto-postcolonial writer, he offers suggestions for resisting and deconstructing oppressive structures. Qoheleth provides glimpses of a postcolonial future, which need to be rediscovered to make them obvious to the readers of today. For this purpose, I pick examples of texts to identify the different voices and to look at them from a postcolonial feminist Dalit perspective.

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CONTESTING THE DOMINANT VOICES It is important to acknowledge and contest colonial voices within the text, in order to decolonize those voices and then reconstruct the text, and in that way, we bring out the liberative potential within the text. Decolonizing the text means making the hidden colonizing strategies visible for readers and becoming aware of the worldview of the colonizers so that we can find a way to confront oppression and contest their view of God and reality. Wisdom, Pleasure, and Toil (Eccl 1:12–3:15) There are three concepts which Qoheleth, based on his experiences, sees as meaningless: wisdom, pleasure (wealth), and toil. Let me start with wisdom. The biblical notion of wisdom needs to be understood from at least three perspectives. First, there is the wisdom gained from learned experiences which is passed on from generation to generation. Second, there is the wisdom that comes from an individual’s and a community’s spiritual experiences, which shaped their understanding of God, theology, and life. And third, there is the wisdom tradition that comes mostly from the royal court. What we encounter in the first part of Ecclesiastes is the biblical tradition of wisdom which is understood as an ethical and spiritual system that originated in the royal court and continued to be associated with the ruling classes, kings, and the high priests. Wisdom literature often expresses the realities of the ruling class as well as the political, social, and economic world in which it was written. Often the ruling class wielded these wisdom literatures as one of the tools with which it controlled society by justifying the existing social structure and disparities in wealth and power. They are similar to Indian Vedic literature, which supports the caste-based hierarchical system that has been used by the high-caste groups to oppress the lower castes and outcast communities. There are a few things to be noted here when we read from the perspective of postcolonial Dalit women. That is, when we talk about wisdom, whose wisdom are we talking about? How is wisdom defined? Who defines what wisdom is? In the Indian context, Dalits until recent years were denied access to any taught wisdom and therefore wisdom became the property of the dominant caste. Wisdom is often connected with the ruling class or caste, and the written tradition of the elite controls which wisdom is passed on from one generation to another. As a result, theology and spirituality are understood via the wisdom of the dominant. Added to that, Qoheleth started to search for the meaning of life based on his own experience as someone (like a king) who had wealth, wisdom, and power. This becomes very clear when he starts to explain what he had

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accomplished while he was a king. This of itself will distance any reader who comes from an oppressed and marginalized background. By explaining his achievements, does he want to establish the facts of his glorious past? Or as Peter Enns says, if he as a king who had everything (wealth, power, and wisdom) could not find a way to understand life, how could common people understand it?6 If a king cannot, then no one else can. The question for me then is this: Is the meaning of life measured by the power we hold, by the wealth we have accumulated, or by the wisdom that we have gained? The meaning of life differs from person to person and from community to community. One who holds power and controls everything sees God as one who holds similar power, and for the oppressed and the voiceless, God is one who identifies himself/herself with the oppressed and voiceless. It thus needs to be acknowledged that how the dominant group views God and the quest for life is not the same as what the oppressed and marginalized see. The first few chapters of Ecclesiastes set the tone of a ruler who enjoyed his wealth, privilege, and power and is now at a stage where he finds them all meaningless. This lament is especially clear in 2:24–26, where Qoheleth suggests that we can do nothing other than enjoy life. The problem here is that enjoyment belongs to the person and community with wealth, power, and privilege. It is not an entity of the oppressed and the marginalized. So, when Qoheleth affirms that life needs to be enjoyed, we miss the voice of the oppressed, who have no wealth, power, or other source of enjoyment in life. The sentence, “gathering and heaping is done for others’ benefit” (2:26) would suggest that the advice of Qoheleth is to keep the community as it is and maintain the hierarchical structure that existed at the time. This resembles the Dalit community in India, who mostly have menial jobs and continue to live in a context of deprivation, without a way out to enjoy their lives. Even in our post-independence/postcolonial context, Dalit liberation is yet to be achieved. Reading this passage as suggested would affirm the oppressed status of the Dalit community and encourage them to stay in it. What is important to acknowledge here is that this voice is not the voice of the public but from a ruler who enjoyed his life by exploiting the poor and asking his citizens to enjoy life like he did, without giving them any chance of an equal status. Chapter 4:1 explains the state of society at the time of the writer. As Laila identifies, the four phrases mentioned in verse 1 help us understand the situation: there is an oppression that existed at that time; oppressed people were in tears; there is no one to comfort the oppressed; and, finally, those who oppressed the public had power.7 Within this description, we can identify at least three different groups of people: oppressed, oppressors, and silent spectators. The question for us as readers of the twenty-first century is with

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whom we identify. As a postcolonial Dalit feminist reader, I cannot be an oppressor or a silent spectator. I have to be among the oppressed community to seek liberation. In this reading, it is difficult to identify the voice of the oppressed because it is silenced. We need to hear the alternative voice implicit within the text to help us understand “the other side” within this particular context. I therefore bring forward a few passages to highlight the critique of the oppressive structure that existed at a time when a ruler wanted to enjoy his wealth and power.

DECONSTRUCT THE EPITOME OF THE KNOWLEDGE

Postcolonial Social Critique of Injustice (Eccl 3:16–4:16 and 5:7–6:10) Once the voice of the dominant has been identified, it is important to deconstruct the epitome of the knowledge which justifies the life of the elite and ruling class. In chapter 3:16–17, we see a description of what is going on in the society, especially the injustice done to the public. Qoheleth himself could not do anything more than observe. We do not find any practical solution to the problem because of the powerlessness of the speaker. In that way, Qoheleth can be seen as crying out from the oppressed majority. It could also be that Qoheleth is a person in the middle—neither part of the colonial group nor the group who are marginalized and voiceless—and that, therefore, all he could do was observe and describe what was going on. Whichever group Qoheleth is in, we have here a description of the injustice that is happening and that no one could do anything about. Although it does not propose a resolution, the text suggests positive moves toward coping with the situation. In some sense, it resembles apocalyptic literature, as it gives hope for survival in the faith in God and looks for a hopeful future even in death. When he says, “when there is time for judgement, a time in which all will be made right,” Qoheleth hopes for time to end the injustice and suffering he is witnessing. There are a few points of note here for the purpose of moving forward with a postcolonial reading. First, the expression and description of the injustices by Qoheleth in 3:16 give us a notion of his anger at the injustice done to the majority under the colonial regime. And second, Qoheleth—whether he is from the oppressed majority or not—tries to identify with the oppressed when he says repeatedly, “with no one to comfort them” (4:1). Third, when Qoheleth describes the oppression and domination as evil, he challenges the colonial power and oppression that existed in his time. Qoheleth points out

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the power imbalances between the rulers/elite and the public majority. He also critiques the religious practices (4:17–5-6) of that time, which exploited the poor and worked in favor of the colonial rulers and elite, mainly the high priests, who controlled religious and political affairs. The liberative potential starts with the aforementioned points, calling out and challenging the existing injustice and oppression, and it will be complete only when all voices are heard and included in the process of liberation. From this perspective, there are voices in the book that are silenced or misrepresented, such as women’s voices.

RECLAIMING THE VOICES OF THE POWERLESS AND RECOVERING THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE VOICELESS Finally, it is important to recover the voice and knowledge of the powerless/ voiceless. When traditional wisdom literatures are dominated by the ideology of the ruling elite, the only way in which we can bring liberation for the marginalized and the public majority is to hear their voice. Their wisdom and knowledge should be brought to the forefront, not only to question the prevailing social values and beliefs but also to hear their theology and spirituality, which will be more liberating than that of the dominant group. To deconstruct the dominant tradition of wisdom and reclaim the voices of the voiceless, it is important to look at the spirituality of the oppressed, the theology that emerge out of their experiences, and the knowledge gained from those experiences. Indian Dalits are influenced by the high-caste wisdom tradition, which justifies the caste system. Dalits are also influenced by the scriptural justifications of upper-caste consciousness through Hindu scriptural authorization. Hence, Dalits have to read and study any scripture, including the Bible, with that influence. By being denied education, they are denied access to traditional knowledge. Along with marginalization from education, marginalization from religious scripture paved the way for ignorance, which has hindered Dalits from making a contribution to the interpretation of scripture. Therefore, it is important to recognize the influence of the dominant religion in order to liberate the Dalit spirituality and identity from dominance. The contribution of women and their experience are important for reclaiming the voices of the voiceless in the Bible. A postcolonial Dalit feminist hermeneutic must take cognizance of the patriarchal restraints that have denied Dalit women their dignity and value as human beings and their spirituality, which shapes their theology. A Dalit hermeneutic needs to take the experience of Dalit women seriously, because Dalit women play an important role in the family, society, and religious matters. Dalit goddesses are given equal

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importance to male gods in the Dalit community. However, although Dalit women play an important role in every aspect of life, the oppression they face is manifold. Because of their gender, they are not only oppressed by the upper-caste men and women but also by their own men. So it is important that the experiences and struggles of women be taken seriously when we read the Bible from a Dalit perspective. WOMEN AND QOHELETH In only three places does the word “woman” appear in the book of Ecclesiastes: in 7:26, 7:28, and 9:9. Two of these three portray a negative picture of women. Scholars who argue that the author of Ecclesiastes is a misogynist often do so based on these words. Only the final occurrence in 9:9 paints “woman” in a positive light. Before I explain problems in existing translations, I point out the context in which the text was written. Women did not play a major (or any) role in the temple or public life. When this book tries to speak for and against the ruling class, neither the ruling class nor the oppressed groups are concerned with the women who were present. The absence of women and their voices is strong evidence of the status of women at the time. Along with the silenced voices, we can imagine the silence of God as aligning with the voiceless. Ecclesiastes 7:28 is not an easy text to understand. The different translations of the Bible further complicate interpretation. For example, NRSV translates, ‫אתי‬ ִ ‫ָל־אלֶה ֥ל ֹא מָ ָ ֽצ‬ ֖ ֵ ‫אתי וְ ִא ָ ֥שה בְ כ‬ ִ ‫אָ ֞ ָדם אֶ ָח֤ד מֵ ֶ֙אלֶף֙ מָ ֔ ָצ‬

as: “One man among a thousand I found, but a woman among all these I have not found” (Eccl 7:28 NRSV). But NIV adds the word “upright,” which is not in the Hebrew text and suggests that the speaker (Qoheleth) portrays women in a negative light and is against women. The Hebrew word ‫( אָ דָ ם‬adam) is used here, which is often translated as humankind and, therefore, could mean both male and female, as in Genesis 1:27. If you use “human beings” for the Hebrew word adam, the translation of the verse brings a slightly different meaning than the one we get from the traditional translation. David Clines states: If there were 100 people in Qoheleth’s Jerusalem, that means to say, there were a hundred who met his standard; but among that hundred there was no woman. The hundred were all males, it is true, but in calling them ‫ אדם‬he is calling them people, since he was looking among people. Not only is this a possible interpretation of the Qoheleth text, it is, I argue, a better interpretation, or rather,

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an indispensable one. For Qoheleth must have been considering the whole population of Jerusalem when he was searching for worthy persons, since if he had considered only men, he could not have been surprised that among them were no women. If he meant that he found only one male among a thousand (whether a thousand of men and women or only of men), it would be a tautology to say that among those (men) there was no woman. It may therefore be argued not only that ‫ אדם‬in Qoheleth vii 28 can mean “human” but that it must mean “human” rather than “man, male.”8

This particular passage reflects the status of women in the society of the time. Because all those who had power in the political and religious system were men, Qoheleth mainly speaks about men. But it will be obvious that women were part of the public majority, although this is not mentioned in any specific terms, and that the injustices expressed in the book would include women’s experiences. And where women were already treated as secondary beings, subjugated by the patriarchal system, colonial oppression might have added an extra layer of oppression, which the book fails to address. How do we reclaim the voices of the voiceless when their voices are suppressed? When wisdom is controlled by the dominant group (class/caste/ male), as Vijayan rightly says, the woman who has attained a sense of selfdetermination to fight against social rejection and exploitation is wiser than the exploiters.9 To reclaim the voices of the voiceless starts with the acknowledgment of the absence of women and other marginalized people in the text. When decolonial reconstruction and rereading happens, the voices that are not represented in the texts will no longer be ignored. Reconstruction of the texts can be challenging, as we are limited in what we can create from the very old wisdom traditions dominated by the ruling class of men. But if decolonial reading is concerned with the social location and the experiences of the oppressed, then reading from the experiences of Dalit women’s help us to understand and hear the voices of the voiceless. It will also be beneficial for the current oppressed communities to speak out so that everyone hears their voices of cry. Making sure that the dominant group gives space for those voices to be heard is a task ahead of us. In conclusion, most biblical literature was written when Israel and Jerusalem were under colonial power, and traditional interpretations have been in favor of the dominant class/caste and tradition. Therefore, it is important to look at them from the perspective of the oppressed. Qoheleth starts with the expression of life as meaningless, from the point of view of an ex-ruler, but most of the words of Qoheleth come from the public, who have experienced injustice and are not able to do anything about it. Qoheleth’s words are meant to provide coping mechanisms for the oppressed community and assure them that the Creator God is the one in control. Qoheleth’s words are, therefore,

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also a reply to God. For Qoheleth, when oppression from colonial rulers as well as local elites and the rich was so omnipresent, there was no other way to fight and sustain the faith community than writing. The text’s relevance for today is that it shows the need to move forward and bring justice in society by fighting for freedom and rights, which goes beyond rereading/reconstructing the text for contemporary readers. NOTES 1. Most relevant for this chapter are the contributions of Laila Vijayan, “Qoheleth silences women: Rereading Ecclesiastes 2:25–26, 4:1, 7:26 and 28 from India” (pp. 43–52); D. Gnanaraj, “A time to Judge: Seeking justice with Qoheleth and Ancient Tamil Wisdom” (pp. 153–170); and M. Alroy Mascrenghe, “Reading Ecclesiastes in the light of Tamil Sangam Literature” (pp. 171–184) in Jione Havea and Peter H.W. Lau (eds), Reading Ecclesiastes from Asia and Pasifika (Atlanta: SBL, 2020). 2. See for example William P. Brown, Ecclesiastes (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2011); Eric S. Christianson, A Time to Tell: Narrative Strategies in Ecclesiastes (Sheffield, England: Sheffield Academic, 1998); Michael V. Fox, A Time to Tear down and a Time to Build up a Rereading of Ecclesiastes (Eugene: Wipf & Stock, 2010); Thomas Krüger et al, Qoheleth: A Commentary (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004); James Limburg, Encountering Ecclesiastes: A Book for Our Time (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans, 2006); Norbert Lohfink, Qoheleth: A Continental Commentary (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003). 3. J. C. Dancy, A Commentary on I Maccabees (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1954), 37. 4. For the purpose of this chapter, I use “Ecclesiastes” when referring to the book and “Qoheleth” when I am talking about the speaker within the book. 5. R. S. Sugirtharajah, Postcolonial Criticism and Biblical Interpretation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 81. 6. Peter Enns, Ecclesiastes (Grand Rapid: William B. Eerdmans, 2011), 377. 7. Vijayan, “Qoheleth silences women,” 44. 8. David J. Clines, “The Hebrew for ‘Human, Humanity’ a Response to James Barr,” Vetus Testamentum 53.3 (2003): 302. 9. Vijayan, “Qoheleth silences women,” 46.

Chapter 5

Engaging Death Publicly Rereading John 11:38–44 in the Philippines Maria Fe (Peachy) Labayo

My reflection begins by moving the story of Lazarus into my context of being Filipina. If Lazarus was a Filipino, and if he had died in the Philippines, the story would have obviously been different. Consequently, from my context, I understand the biblical story differently. This would be the same for readers in other contexts: we all read biblical stories from our life contexts, and so our understandings may not match up – among ourselves as readers and between us readers and the biblical writers. This is expected. We are products of our contexts, and so were the biblical writers. To be fair to ourselves and to our contexts, it is helpful and healthy for us to learn to understand the text from our context first. And then see if and how our contextual understandings help us understand the biblical text, which comes from a context outside of ours. My reflection will accordingly seek to do two key tasks: first, I seek to bring Lazarus to (die in) the Philippines and, second, I bring my Filipina understanding to bear on the biblical story. IF LAZARUS WAS FILIPINO If Lazarus was Filipino, he would not have been buried in the cave when Jesus and his disciples arrived. Instead, his body would be dressed in traditional Barong Tagalog – a traditional Filipino upper garment paired with black pants. The Barong Tagalog – meaning “Tagalog outfit” – is traditional Filipino men’s “upper garment” attire. During the Spanish colonial period, it was called Barong Tagalog to distinguish it (as a native attire of Filipinos) from the European-styled three-piece suits. Only members of the upper class, who can afford to commission courtier and tailors, wore Barong Tagalog especially during formal celebrations and affairs (like weddings and funerals). 51

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A Barong Tagalog made of piña (pineapple fibre) can be an heirloom piece because of how delicate and costly it is. In 1975, the Barong Tagalog was officially recognised as a Philippine’s national attire (Proclamation No 1374). Up to now, special Filipino men wear Barong Tagalog for formal occasions.1 Special Filipino men are also dressed in Barong Tagalog when they die and for the mourning and burial rituals. If Lazarus was Filipino and he had died in the Philippines, I expect him to have been dressed in Barong Tagalog when Jesus and his disciples arrived. Burol His embalmed body would have been placed inside a casket, before the arrival of Jesus and his disciples. He had been dead for four days (John 11:17 and 11:39), but the text does not explain how soon was he buried after his death. Given the gaps in the biblical text, and bringing the story to the Philippines, Jesus and his disciples would have arrived on the fourth day of Lazarus’s burol (wake), which would have been held at his sisters’ house. There would have been other people at the wake (see 11:19), and their arrival would have been known to the community. In the rituals of burol, lighted candles are placed on the two sides of the coffin. The candles must not go out, as the lighted candles are supposed to guide Lazarus’s soul on to the next life. Members of the family will keep company to the body and watch that the burol candle (like the Christ candle in churches) does not go out. And when needed, the watchers will replace the candle. Beautiful flower arrangements from friends, relatives and politicians would be displayed alongside the casket and decorated all over the room. Martha would be busy serving food and drinks to friends who came to pay their last respects to Lazarus. She would be heard reminding everyone that the food should only be consumed inside the room and should not be taken away, otherwise the curse or spirit of death will follow them home. Mary on the other hand would be on the other side of the room, talking to friends and family – mostly recalling how Lazarus’s last days were and how his death was totally unexpected. He was unwell (11:2–3) but too young to die yet. During the evening for the whole duration of the burol, friends and family members will take turns to stay and make sure that the deceased is never left alone. The main purpose is to keep company for the deceased, during the last days. And there are some who also believe that keeping vigil is to protect the dead by warding off evil spirits. To keep the people in the room and awake, a gambling game called sakla (local version of the Spanish tarot) is held. The revenue from this game will help pay the funeral bills. If the story in John 11:38–44 happened in my home country of the Philippines, this is what Jesus will be arriving to on the fourth day of Lazarus’s death.

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For most Christian Filipino families, the burol is a common practice where the remains of the dead are displayed for viewing by family and friends. This is normally held for at least three days and up to one week. Sometimes, it may be longer to await relatives living far away or overseas. The Muslim Filipino families, on the other hand, are bound by their custom to bury the dead within 24 hours of passing. Since I am a Filipina Christian, I expect the burol rituals; a Filipina Muslim on the other hand would expect his burial soon after his death, and this is ironically the expectation of many Christian readers of this story. Pasiyam For a duration of nine days after death, a novena or devotional prayers called Pasiyam will be observed. This is a predominantly Filipino Catholic mourning tradition, in which the family and close friends of the dead will gather and hold prayer vigils. This will happen during the burol and will continue on after the burial, for up to nine straight days after the person’s death. The Filipino shared belief is that it is only on the ninth day after the person’s death when the soul leaves the world and passes on to the afterlife. The prayers are to appease the soul and guide the person to the afterlife. After the daily prayers, family and friends will share a meal. Kwarenta Dias On the 40th day after death, the Kwarenta Dias will be observed. Family and friends of the dead will come together to offer a mass. This will be followed by a small get-together at the burial grounds. There is a shared belief that the dead still roams around earth, and only on the 40th day that the soul will ascend to heaven. This is an allusion to Jesus’s ascension after 40 days. Acts 1:6–11 describes the ascension of Jesus, 40 days after the resurrection. He instructed his disciples to stay in Jerusalem until the holy spirit comes. And as the disciples watched, Jesus disappeared into the cloud and two men in white arrived to tell them: “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven” (Acts 1:11 NRSV). The Kwarenta Dias is observed in the same spirit: that the dead person would ascent into heaven like the resurrected Christ did. I expect a similar ritual for Lazarus, if he had died in the Philippines. Collective Grief One usually feels sadness, anger, disbelief, despair, guilt and loneliness when a loved one dies. Burial and mourning traditions are important to

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process these strong feelings individually and collectively. The burol, Pasiyam, and Kwarenta Dias are some of the Filipino customs that are tied to the Christian Filipino’s belief that there is life after death. Julio Ramillo A. Mercurio states that “reverence to the dead is visibly manifested in Filipino culture. Even before Spanish colonization, early Filipinos believe in the concept of life after death” (Tope & Nonan-Mercado, 2002).2 The belief in an afterlife prompts Filipinos to construct customs and beliefs on burial to honour the departed through sense-evoking rituals. Filipino rituals and traditions around death, burial and mourning turn individual grief into collective grief. Death becomes a public event when loss and grief are experienced and processed collectively, through the shared burial and mourning traditions. Family and friends (community) undergo the same process in a shared space and time. Collective grieving is necessary for them to accept the loss and move on. The modern Filipino understanding of death is strongly influenced by our Christian faith. The Catholic Church teaches that death is the end of earthly life and the beginning of “that” life with God. Death is a passage to another life. That aspect of death adds urgency to the living of one’s life: accepting one’s mortality becomes a reminder that one has limited time in which to bring one’s life to fulfilment. Death Is Public In the Philippines, death is a public event. Upon Lazarus’s death, Martha and Mary would have immediately informed members of their family, neighbours and friends. They in turn would inform the extended family and the community until the news is publicly known. At the age of social media, it is common to see death announcements through Facebook and the news being relayed through Messenger, Viber or WhatsApp. Jesus, being one of the close family friends, would definitely be one of the first people to be informed of Lazarus’s passing. When reading the passage, we understand that Jesus was informed of Lazarus’s sickness (see 11:3) but the text does not say that he was also informed of Lazarus’s death. Somehow, Jesus felt that something may have happened but he was not sure – in my interpretation, his uncertainty is the reason why he referred to Lazarus as having fallen asleep (11:11). The narrator tried to make Jesus look certain with his explanation: “Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep” (11:13). And Jesus affirmed the narrator’s understanding with his assertion in the next verse, “Lazarus is dead” (11:14).

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JESUS AND DEATH So when he heard that Lazarus was sick, he stayed where he was two more days. (John 11:6 NIV)

In my context, being late for the wake, or worse, not coming to the wake, can be interpreted as a rejection of the dead and the grieving family. Upon knowing of Lazarus’s death, family and friends are expected to sympathise with the family. And most importantly, to come and be with the grieving family. Sharing sympathies is expressed in different ways, usually depending on the relationship and degree of closeness with the dead and the family. Usually, they are expected to come to the wake at the soonest possible time. Jesus’s decision to delay his going to Mary and Martha despite having felt or learned that Lazarus was dead shows a lack of sympathy on Jesus’s part. The Bible does not explain why Jesus did not go to Lazarus right away after he learned about his illness and his death. There could be many explanations. Jesus was maybe tied to his work and ministry, and he could not just get up and leave those behind. He may have had a responsibility which he still needed to do. In such situations in the Philippines, the wakes are extended to allow for family members from abroad to come. Oftentimes, they cannot return immediately as it would be difficult to travel and leave everything behind. Most of the Filipinos abroad need extra time to make arrangements, and they need money to pay for their journey home as well as to take to the grieving family to help cover the cost for the wake and funeral rituals. The delay in coming to the wake maybe because that person is still working hard to have the funds and to make work arrangements. Jesus may have delayed because of the Pharisees in Judea, where Bethany was, who had threatened Jesus. The disciples expressed their worry when he told them they are going back to Judea: “then he said to his disciples, ‘Let us go back to Judea.’ ‘But Rabbi,’ they said, ‘a short while ago the Jews there tried to stone you, and yet you are going back?’” (John 11:7–10 NIV). Going to Bethany posed a life-threatening situation for Jesus and his disciples. As such, Jesus may have taken the extra days to analyse the situation and assess the risks of his action. And to summon his courage to face his enemies. On the other hand, seeing that there would be a lot of people around, did Jesus wait to avoid his own death (no one would attack him with so many people around)? Jesus’s delay can also be seen as procrastination, or the act of delaying or postponing a task or set of tasks. Jesus may be avoiding a conflict. Death in the family becomes a reunion of sort. Reunions are not always happy occasions. Coming together after a long time may unearth past issues, or bring

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in new ones within the family resulting in new conflicts. Could Jesus have decided to stay back extra days so he could avoid conflicts? The decision to postpone coming to Lazarus may be Jesus’s exercise of control. Jesus loved Lazarus so much. In John 11:3, Mary and Martha described Lazarus as the one Jesus love. “So the sisters sent word to Jesus, Lord, the one you love is sick” (11:3). Hearing of his death may be just too difficult for Jesus to handle. He may have been gripped with too much emotion that he needed extra days to process such heart-breaking news. It is common for people who lose loved ones to be emotionally unstable for a certain period. John 11:35 states that “Jesus wept,” when he was at the tomb. The fact that he still cried four days after learning of Lazarus’s death shows Jesus’s strong attachment to Lazarus. By delaying, could Jesus be exercising control over his emotions? Holding off his travel to Bethany may have been Jesus’s way of making Mary and Martha long for him more and, as a consequence of waiting for him, realize how much they depend on him. Short of a messiah complex, Jesus may have thought that he can control their feelings through his absence. Maybe Jesus thought that Mary and Martha have no one to turn to except him and it is only him who can save Lazarus. But truth be told, in the Philippines context, Jesus would not have been late when he arrived on the fourth day of the wake. He was just on time. He did not miss anything yet and clearly – he was not yet missed. COVID AND DEATH The Covid pandemic brought changes not only on the lives of people but also on the death, burial and mourning traditions in the Philippines. The World Health Organization declared the outbreak as a Public Health Emergency of International Concern (PHEIC) on 30 January 2020, at the beginning of the pandemic. Due to the increasing number of Covid-related death, the Department of Health (DOH) in the Philippines issued Memorandum 2020-0067 on 03 February 2020: Guidelines on the Disposal and Shipment of the Remains of Confirmed Cases of 2019 Novel Coronavirus Acute Respiratory Disease (2019-nCoV ARD).3 This memo informed the proper handling of the remains of confirmed Covid-19 cases. According to this memo, the procedures for burial and cremation shall be done within 12 hours after death. The burial of remains is in accordance with the person’s religion and culturally acceptable norms to the most possible extent (e.g., in Islamic rites, cremation is forbidden or “haram”). First and foremost, the direction in the memo insults the Christian Filipinos’ traditional preference for burial over cremation. This preference can be

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traced back to pre-colonial times. Matthew C. Go wrote that while archaeological findings on pre-colonial cremation practice exist, there is no contemporary ethnographic evidence for the practice of cremation among Indigenous groups in the Philippines, but mummification and cave and jar burials are well-documented.4 Further, he wrote that three centuries of Spanish colonization (1521–1898) have deeply embedded among Filipinos the Christian belief in the sacredness of the human body as a receptacle of the holy spirit. Cremation was largely banned in the nineteenth century when it was used as an “act of defiance” by the irreligious and protesters against Christian belief in the resurrection. Second, the memo demands that Covid remains need to be cremated and buried within 12 hours. This prohibits the family (even from other parts of the Philippines) from seeing the dead and paying their respects before the body gets “burned.” The rather speedy and impersonal process is distressing to the grieving family. Third, the memo prohibits wakes and public assemblies to prevent the spread of the virus. Filipinos have strong mourning and burial traditions but that has significantly changed or not observed at all. Families can no longer hold wakes. People no longer gather physically for the Pasiyam and the Kuwarenta Diyas but are forced to do those rituals online via Zoom meetings or video calls. Fourth, there is however a benefit. Some people make a living out of the dead business. Crematoriums have noticeably flourished and increased in sale. Because of the DOH’s advice, requests and demands for cremations have multiplied. And cremation is expensive. At the height of the Covid pandemic around April 2020, Christia Marie Ramos reported that some private crematoriums were asking as much as Php 100,000 (US$2,083) for the cremation of the remains of Covid-positive deaths.5 To put this financial burden in perceptive: the Philippines has daily minimum wage rates, which vary from region to region, ranging from Php 316 (US$6.57) to Php 537 (US$11.17) a day in 2021. A family of 5 working adults would need to work for 38 days (if they are paid at the top minimum wage rate) to cover the expenses for one cremation – not counting other financial responsibilities (like feeding the family) for which they labour. The rise in demand causes cremation services to become more expensive – some cremation companies increasing their fee by 625% more compared to the same services during ordinary times. The incredulous increase in prices is primarily brought about by the lack of crematorium services to accommodate the increasing death toll of Covid. To date, there are only 60 crematoriums operating nationwide, and only 25 are located in Metro Manila. Fifty-four crematoriums (90% of the total) are privately owned; only six are publicly owned and are mostly operated by the local government, five (5) of which are

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operational and can only accommodate three to five cadavers a day. Though the Philippine government, through the Department of Social Welfare and Development, allots Php 25,000 (US$521) per Covid-deceased person, this is not enough to cover the cremation expenses. As such, majority of the poor Filipinos are still at a disadvantage even in death. Covid and Lazarus When he had said this, Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face. (John 11:43–44 NIV)

Within the context of the Philippines in the time of the Covid pandemic, I revisit John 11:38–44. First, if Lazarus died in the Philippines due to Covid19, Mary, Martha, Jesus and other family and friends will not be able to hold the burol as per the tradition. Lazarus’s remains would have been cremated in the first 12 hours and his ashes will be claimed by his family in a crematorium. Hence, Jesus would have to raise Lazarus from the ashes, literally. Second, if Lazarus had died in the Philippines due to Covid-19, the death, burial and mourning rituals of burol, Pasiyam and Kwarenta Diyas would be observed differently. The guidelines for dealing with dead bodies during the pandemic prohibit family members from paying their last respects. There would be no gatherings and praying together in the bereaved house. There would be no sharing of meals afterwards. These rituals – which originally enable strong ties and collective healing – are taken away from the family and friends; taking these away may cause them to experience trauma, anger and also guilt. Third, the biblical story makes us believe that Jesus’s raising Lazarus back to life is a glorious miracle – a celebration of God’s power. It is. Mary and Martha will be amazed and elated that Lazarus is alive momentarily. However, Lazarus coming back to life does not free them from the realities that they still need to pay for the costly cremation services and to settle the funeral bills. In fact, Lazarus being raised from the dead is good for the death business – one person dying twice will double the business. Fourth, Jesus’s act of raising Lazarus back to life is interruptive. For the living, Jesus interrupted the grieving process of Mary and Martha. They have to undergo such strong emotions of sadness, anger, disbelief, despair, guilt and loneliness and if not handled properly there could be long-term damage to the individual and community. For the dead, Jesus interrupted Lazarus’s journey to the afterlife.

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Fifth, would the respect for the dead remain when the dead go back to earthly life? Given that we believe that there is life after death and that that life is better than this life, how are we to respect that teaching (of better life after death)? Finally, Lazarus was not given the agency to decide for himself. Did he want to be resurrected or would he have wanted to remain dead? A resurrected Lazarus is not excluded from the painful realities of living. He is still not immune to hunger, pain or sickness and he has to experience those, again, just like any other normal human being. He was alive again but he may have come back to the same or worse situation that he was in before he died. Him being resurrected does not prevent him from dying again. And only later, beyond the eyes of the biblical writer and Jesus, he would have died again. NOTES 1. Franz Sorilla IV, “Barong Tagalog: The History of the Traditional Filipino Attire.” Tatler Asia (11 Aug 2021; https://www​.tatlerasia​.com​/style​/fashion​/barong​ -tagalog​-the​-traditional​-filipino​-mens​-attire; accessed 06 July 2022). 2. Julio Ramillo A. Mercurio, “Religious Practices on Honoring the Dead: Need for Contextualized Christian Formation.” International Review of Social Sciences Research 1.1 (2021): 78. 3. Department of Health, “Department Memorandum No. 2020-0158: Proper Handling of the Remains of Suspect, Probable, and Confirmed COVID-19 Cases” (22 March 2020). 4. Matthew C. Go, “Fire and fear: Rapid Cremations in the Philippines amidst COVID-19.” Forensic Science International: Synergy 3 (2021). doi: 10.1016/j. fsisyn.2020.100132. 5. Christia Marie Ramos, “Cremation assistance sought for kin of deceased COVID-19 patients.” Philippine Daily Inquirer (April 2020; https://newsinfo​.inquirer​ .net​/1254525​/binay​-on​-families​-of​-covid​-19​-fatalities​#ixzz7FenfY47c).

Chapter 6

Uncovering Mālie in the Bible Humoring Public Spaces1 Brian Fiu Kolia

Mālie is a term familiar to Samoans and Tongans, and it translates as “humor” (joy, happiness) as well as “softness” (calmness).2 But for many Samoans and Tongans, and for Pasifika (Oceania) people in general, mālie is absent from readings of the Bible. Why? Because we tend to be serious and pious with the “holy book.” The missionaries taught us well, and so we stop looking for and celebrating mālie when we read the Bible; this is an example of how we, in a way, were taught to stop being natives when we read the Bible. This chapter aims to lift the ban that missionaries put on our people so that we may again find mālie in, and entertain native mālie with, the Bible. The Bible is one of the pillars of Pasifika societies (in private, domestic, public, and church spaces), where it is under the control of Christian churches. Our churches also control our theologies, and the upshot is that both our readings of the Bible and our theologies have lost our native senses of mālie. This chapter is an attempt to uncover the Bible so that we may recover our senses of mālie. In doing so, I will construct a hermeneutic that builds on mālie without fear or apprehension, as Pasifika people often do outside of church spaces. This is the spirit in which I approach the text. To uncover mālie in the text I will engage the text through talanoa, for Pasifika humor is best felt when conversing as Pasifika. In Samoan circles, this humorous type of talanoa is known as tala tausua or just simply, tausua. In this chapter, I begin with tausua with Exodus 14 and the complaining Israelites. A TAUSUA HERMENEUTIC The distinction between, and separation of, private from public spaces in Pasifika reveals a disjointed representation of our native identity. It is easy to 61

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be mālie in private conversations, but in public spaces, we tend to bury our mālie orientations and effectively conceal or cover over our nativeness. At this point, I want to highlight instances of humor in the biblical text that need to be un- and re-covered. By doing so, we retrieve our native identities as a way of approaching and (re)reading the biblical text that has often privileged Western ways of reading. To guide our reading, I use talanoa which Havea describes as: the confluence of three things: story, telling and conversation. Talanoa is not story without telling and conversation, telling without story and conversation, or conversation without telling and story. Talanoa is all three—story, telling, conversation—as one.3

Talanoa can be about mostly anything, from serious and formal matters, tragedy and pain to comedy and humor. In Samoa, when talanoa takes a comedic and humorous turn, it is known as tausua. There are other types of humor; the intension of tausua is not to degrade or be derogatory but to elevate humor in situations that can often be hostile. The word tausua is made up of two words tau and sua, which can help us understand how tausua works. The word tau has an array of meanings4 but for our purposes the meaning “to strive” is appropriate. The word sua in Samoan means “to dig.” In this sense, tausua can have the meaning of “having a dig” at (make fun of) someone, but it can also mean to “dig out” some humorous content for the sake of laughter. As mentioned previously, the intention of tausua is not to hurt or denigrate. Those who do not have a thick skin to take a joke are said to be lē tausuā (cannot tausua). So in order to tausua, one takes a dig and must also have a thick skin or the temperament to handle jest and mocking. This dynamic will be replicated in our reading. We may take a dig or tausua at the text but also be ready for the text to tausua back at us. Our first point of call then is to sua (dig) for humor in the text. This implies that there is humor in the text; we have to dig for it. Tausua thus is uncovering! For Pasifika people, humor is how we deal with trauma, because not only mālie (humor) makes us laugh but mālie (soft) also softens the pain of trauma. One story that depicts these nuances of mālie is after the emancipation of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt. Let us sua for mālie.

EXODUS 14: THE WHINGING ISRAELITES In Exodus 14, as Pharaoh and the Egyptians were pursuing the Israelites, the Israelites show mālie-humor in verses 11 and 12:

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Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us, bringing us out of Egypt? Is this not the very thing we told you in Egypt, “Let us alone and let us serve the Egyptians”? For it would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness [rendered in the Samoan Bible as vao].5

When read through a tausua lens, we can picture the Israelites using māliehumor through sarcasm to mālie-relief their trauma. With a Pasifika perspective, we uncover the mālie in the response by the Israelites. First, finding a place for burial in Samoa is not a problem because we could be buried anywhere on the land. So the question that there were no graves in Egypt is mālie because, from a Samoan perspective, one can be buried anywhere on the land. Even near the outdoor kitchen where food is prepped, which might be unusual for Westerners, and it is common to be buried even in one’s front yard! Therefore, every Samoan has a place of burial. Only animals are buried in the wilderness, or vao in Samoan, because animals belong to the vao. The response by the Israelites is therefore mālie because they equate themselves with animals who belong to the vao (wilderness). For Pasifika people, the use of humor is also a recognition that beyond hope, there is not much to cry about. This is how the Israelites sound. Despite their cry “in protest, complaint, demand, and hope,” they have found their voice.6 Intriguingly, the words do not reflect their pain, rather, the words are sarcastic on two points. First, of course, there are graves in Egypt. This is not a question of fact but a humorous inquiry of intent. Second, we cannot imagine the Israelites would want to go back to a life of slavery and oppression. This too is not a statement of fact but a request to be rescued made in comical terms. This passage shows mālie-relief, as a way of dealing with trauma. Mālie has to do with emotions, and it is sometimes painful and interrogating through ironies and riddles. In such situations, mālie can function as a defense mechanism. The trauma for the Israelites is the impending death, and in dealing with this trauma, mālie is uncovered, because the Israelites prefer slavery and not freedom. In talanoa with Pasifika people, the events in Exodus 14 remind us of the indentured labor schemes of Australia and New Zealand in which farm and abattoir owners exploit Pasifika workers, through neglect and exploitation, low wages and over-deductions, and expensive and dreadful living conditions. Yet, to these Pasifika workers, the income they earn from these slavery-like labor schemes is more than what they would earn at home, even after the excessive deductions. To them, they are like the Israelites, where service to the “Egyptians” (read: Australian and New Zealand farmers/abattoirs) is preferable to service (tautua) in the vao (wilderness) in Samoa.

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The Samoan word to translate the wilderness or desert is vao. The word vao also refers to grass, forest, or bush. These latter meanings are what the Samoan translation use but none of which are associated with desert-like conditions. Ironically, Samoans thrive in the vao where they grow crops, raise pigs and cattle, and catch birds for food. Samoans would never complain about being in the vao, rather they are right at home in the vao. Is this an error in translation? From a tausua perspective, I cannot help but think of the mālie in translation politics here. Let us talanoa and tausua. Perhaps the translation took place as such: as the Samoans and missionaries in the nineteenth century were working on the translation, the Samoans, after hearing the story from the missionaries, were tricked into a theological teaching that there was nothing for Israel to complain about. After all, everything was provided for them in the wilderness, they had meat, manna, and water, and through the vao (wilderness) God was with them every step of the way. Not knowing what a desert looked like (for there are no deserts in the islands), Samoans may have suggested that the wilderness be translated as vao. While the missionaries were thinking of wilderness (desert, desperation), the term vao makes Samoans think of bush and plantation (where they get food, water, and God is there also). This is mālie and ironic because over time, the attitudes toward the vao have been distorted by this Exodus understanding. Samoans who live inland are often mocked by those living on the seaside as ola i le togāvao (living in the wilderness), which exhibits an attitude that fails to appreciate the vao but to see the vao as a barren place with no purpose, despite the rich vegetation, meat, and water available. Perhaps it is this attitude to the vao which had led to many Samoan seasonal workers preferring the slave conditions on foreign lands to their own prosperous local vao. This confusion toward the environment and the created world deserves further attention.

CREATION NARRATIVE: GENESIS Creation is a subject of and platform for mālie. The creation itself is not a laughing matter, but the attitudes of certain members of creation, namely, humans, are laughable. A sense of entitlement is spurred on by the notion of rada in Genesis 1:26, 28. This problematic verb has been translated as “dominion” by most English translations, while in the NIV it is translated as “rule.” What makes this verb even more difficult for ecologically minded scholars is that such translations are justified, especially when read alongside Psalm 72. Some scholars have tried to argue for a lesser force of the verb rada as meaning “taking care of,”7 however, Habel argues that “[t]he problem with this interpretation is that a close reading of Psalm 72 reveals that rada

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is not linked with ‘justice’ or ‘caring for’ anything mentioned in the psalm.”8 The debate around rada is mālie because as Habel reads, the creation story in Genesis 1 started off with the Earth (Erets) being the focal character. Habel writes: If we identify with Earth as the first character introduced in this narrative, the progression of scenes reflects the stages in which Earth is revealed, made replete with all forms of life, and finally blessed by God. In this narrative sequence the “goodness” of Earth and its living components are celebrated by God. Earth is, moreover, a partner with God in the creation of vegetation and other life forms.9

Yet by the sixth day, the Earth had been neglected as God’s partner in the creation, with the call by God for God’s council to come together and make humans according to their image and likeness. Significantly, as Towner notes, the purpose of creating humankind according to God’s image is “so that they may have dominion”10 or as Habel says, “so that they may rule!”11 Here, I sua out the mālie from this granting of dominion, which has been given to humans at the expense of Earth who had been there from the beginning. Newcomers (or intruders) wanting to take over land is reminiscent of uninvited colonizers who strip the lands off native people and take dominion without a treaty. As a result, we have not figured out how to live in it. For instance, we toss up between whether to subdue and have dominion (Gen 1:28) or to serve and tend (Gen 2:5) the ground but forget that we are occupiers and settlers who need to let go of our illusions of control. We think too highly of ourselves in the debates on climate justice and environmental disasters and do not realize that creation does not need us humans. Creation will do better without our presence, and this is the mālie of creation. We have not learned from Job that righteousness and wealth make no difference to creation nor to the almighty. Even Qohelet (the authorial voice in Ecclesiastes) has argued that the fate of humankind is no different to animals. In fact, Qohelet teaches us how to read the creation story, by saying that the breath (ruach) which was breathed by God was not just for humans but for animals too (Eccl 3:19). Towner argues this point: Qohelet assumes that the ‫( רוח‬rûaḥ, “wind,” “breath,” “spirit”) that God breathed into the original terracotta humanoid (Gen 2:7) is the animating principle of all living creatures and can be withdrawn by God from one species just as well as another. (See Ps 104:27–30)12

And one can imagine creation looking over us, over our behaviors and our teachings, wondering when we will learn. In this connection, from the context of Pasifika, creation is mālie—and the challenge is to learn to appreciate and cope with creation’s sense of humor! Oddly enough, the lessons of how to

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live with and as part of creation are coming from the skeptics who we might least expect to teach us these lessons.

THE ANTI-WISDOM OF ECCLESIASTES The teachings of Deuteronomy pervade the Hebrew Bible, promoting a theology where good behavior equates to blessings while wicked conduct leads to curses. In wisdom traditions, the book of Proverbs is defined by this conventional understanding. However, despite the Bible’s promotion of this pious notion of living, there is a voice of doubt and skepticism that seeps through the cracks in some places, and which is magnified through Ecclesiastes and Job. How could these books have been allowed to coexist alongside the orthodoxy of the rest of the Bible? It may seem a coincidence that the book of Ecclesiastes is not one of the most preached books in Samoan churches, but if we sua (dig) further, we may find that it is perhaps no coincidence at all. Considering the emphasis in Samoan culture on hard work through service (tautua), the skepticism of Ecclesiastes seems to tausua at the notion of tautua. In Ecclesiastes 2:18–23, Qohelet says: I hated all my toil in which I had toiled under the sun, seeing that I must leave it to those who come after me—and who knows whether they will be wise or foolish? Yet they will be master of all for which I toiled and used my wisdom under the sun. This also is vanity. So I turned and gave my heart up to despair concerning all the toil of my labors under the sun, because sometimes one who has toiled with wisdom and knowledge and skill must leave all to be enjoyed by another who did not toil for it. This also is vanity and a great evil. What do mortals get from all the toil and strain with which they toil under the sun? For all their days are full of pain, and their work is a vexation; even at night their minds do not rest. This also is vanity.

For a country that holds tautua in quintessential significance, Ecclesiastes threatens to bring tautua in disrepute. Clearly in 2:18–23, Qohelet does not hold the same regard for toiling/tautua as Samoans do, in fact, the seriousness of tautua is ridiculed by Qohelet. To clarify, tautua is a key concept in the Samoan worldview, expressed through the Samoan proverb O le ala i le pule o le tautua (The path to authority is service). In the Samoan context, pule (authority) is reached when one becomes a matai (chief), and as the proverb conditions, becoming a matai is achieved through tautua. This formula for living is promoted in the village settings, and ironically, it resembles the Deuteronomic framework for living that is prevalent in the Hebrew Bible.

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This is mālie because Qohelet’s skeptical outlook enables the reader to cast suspicion on our own toiling. Samoans who live according to the traditional principles of faa-Samoa (the Samoan culture, lit. “the way of Samoa”) would never question their own tautua. When read through the perspective of tausua, it appears that Qohelet is having a sua (dig) at the fixation over toiling. In effect, Qohelet is having a sua at all cultures who share this same obsession. For readers of these cultures, Qohelet suggests that there is more to life than work: “Go, eat your bread with enjoyment, and drink your wine with a merry heart; for God has long ago approved what you do” (9:7). Qohelet’s tausua thus challenges Samoans to consider that perhaps they are romanticizing and taking tautua too seriously. That in the end, it is all hebel-vanity. Tala tuumusumusu This tausua in Ecclesiastes also challenges our notions of piety in reading. In Pasifika circles, the holy book garners a reverent response that ignores less explicit expressions of humor, so that for the wisdom books, the teachings are always taken as orthodoxy to maintain the status quo. However, away from church spaces, Samoan people who adopt a pious stance are often ridiculed as “fia mamalu” (wannabe holy) and taunted as “fia agelu” (wannabe angel) or “fia Iesu” (wannabe Jesus). Outside the church space, people easily identify with being imperfect or being sinners. In a country where the principles of Christianity are engrained in its soul, one must wonder why this mocking attitude remains prevalent. Former Samoan Head of State and renowned cultural custodian Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi Efi II remarks on how there is a culture of whispers in Samoa, a culture he refers to as tala tuumusumusu (whispered stories). Efi states that in ancient times, “Passing on in-depth religious and cultural knowledge associated with family genealogies, place names, historical figures, ceremonial rites, honorifics, and even everyday practices, fell to a select few.”13 The sense that only a “select few” would receive this knowledge speaks more to the sacred significance of this knowledge than the exclusive nature of tala tuumusumusu. The heavy influence of Christian missionaries in the 1800s and their prohibition of many ancient practices—which they determined as sacrilegious—ensured that cultural knowledge was to be whispered if it were to survive later generations. Faleaitu One form of cultural knowledge that was passed down was the form of Samoan comedy known as faleaitu. The term “faleaitu” literally means “house of spirits” or “house of demons.” The faleaitu was a comedic skit

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that was performed during the banned pōula (night dance) festivals,14 where clowns (faaluma)—usually men and often imitating women—would perform comedic acts, to poke fun and tausua, as “a popular way of commenting on society’s affairs.”15 In modern times, the faleaitu is performed during cultural celebrations. While comedy and laughter are prominent in Samoan life, one could also see comedy as a tala tuumusumusu of the ancient times. The comedy was of the sacrilegious type which the missionaries tried to ban, only for it to survive through the generations. Thus, it is intriguing that while the pōula was banned, the faleaitu still survived; perhaps because Samoans still needed to laugh! The survival of faleaitu also meant that there was still a platform to criticize and mock society’s affairs. Perhaps it was retained as a platform to criticize the church as well, and to those who are fia mamalu! As the spirits of the faleaitu continue to roam, they are met by the spirit of Qohelet, who combine to act as a comedy duo, poking fun at Samoa’s piety (or is it fia pious?). RUNNING NAKED: THE YOUNG MAN IN MARK 14:51–52 The events in Mark 14:51–52, in the context of the narrative, are not considered important by a host of scholars.16 Others see the verses as significant for their narrative context as it is “depicting a moment of violence in the course of the chaos of Jesus’ arrest.”17 As a result, hermeneutical chaos emerges as interpreters decipher the purpose behind these two verses. Abraham Kuruvilla sums the situation up succinctly: The reason for these hermeneutical acrobatics is obvious: if 14:51–52 is erased from the account—which apparently is what Matthew and Luke did in their respective Gospels (Matt 26:56–57; Luke 22:54)—what is left actually makes for a seamless reading of a coherent story.18

The ambivalence of the episode provides an opportunity for engagement. As comics often do, there is a need to address the elephant in the room. Rather than deflecting the incident as a bizarre literary interruption, I am intrigued by the tala (story) and there is room here for talanoa. In talanoa, interruptions are part of the story, because talanoa is fluid and interacts “without a rigid framework.”19 As such, let us sua the humor in Mark 14:51–52 to “make sense” of the naked young man. Nakedness and nudity evoke a range of feelings, from horror to disgust to humor. The image of the young man fleeing in the nude may resonate with any one of these emotions, however, I cannot help but find the scene amusing.

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As Vearncombe argues, the verses depict a violent moment in the disarray surrounding Jesus’s arrest. Howard Jackson also suggests that the episode is clearly a climactic stage, on the road to a culmination in Peter’s denial (14:66–72), in the central Markan theme of the disciples’ incomprehension of and resistance to the christological necessity of the passion with which Mark has Jesus repeatedly lectured his followers (8:31–33 followed by 34–35; 9:9–10, 31–32; 10:32–34 followed by 35–30). After the disciples have all turned tail and fled (άφέντες αύτόν έφυγον πάντες, v.50), the youth, himself an outsider and consequently to the further shame of the disciples, at least makes an inchoate attempt [. . .] at “following along” with Jesus.20

The young man’s “inchoate attempt” ridicules the disciples’ commitment to Jesus? Could this be an attempt to vivify the narrative at the climax of Jesus’s arrest?21 Perhaps the young man is a metaphor, where the abandonment of Jesus by his disciples, with nobody in sight (14:50), is metaphorized by the nakedness of the young man (14:52). Or maybe we are missing (or choosing to ignore) the humor in the situation? Let us sua. Clothing is a symbol of piety in the church. A lot of emphases is placed on what to wear and how—for both the clergy as well as churchgoers. On a Sunday in Samoa, people adorn themselves in white from head to toe. The women wear hats while the men, particularly clergy and lay leaders—and this is where it gets ridiculous—are required to wear jackets or coats in 30-plus degree Celsius heat. It is part of a long church tradition that has been deemed mamalu (holy). Yet the tradition belongs to an era that is positioned on the other side of the world (England) and in a time where such dress was deemed appropriate (Victorian era). But here we are in the twenty-first century, in the tropical climate of Pasifika, still “following” this vastly different culture of 1800s British Victorianism. This is why I consider the events of 14:51–52 as mālie. Stephen Hatton, who argues that readers should pay more attention to the verbs in the episodes, maintains that there is a subtext of “following” (συνηκολούθει) behind these verses.22 Hatton writes: a typical reader does not start with this verse or this passage but has read through the entire Gospel of Mark up to this verse. Having read all the preceding narrative, it is clear that “following,” while spatial, is more than just physical. It is a sign, a code word, an image trigger, for discipleship. Many commentators have noted that discipleship is a theme in this Gospel, so it would be reasonable for the reader to wonder how this young man relates to the disciples.23

For Samoans, following or discipleship is made visible through clothing. Good discipleship is confirmed through subscribing to a dress code that church tradition deems mamalu. Yet Mark’s Gospel suggests here that

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clothing does not actually define discipleship, full clothed or naked, the followers of Jesus end up deserting him anyway. In fact, as Jackson suggests, the naked follower had probably persevered in his following the most. Such a reading subverts church traditions and its emphasis upon clothing, and it undermines clericalism also. In a sense, we might need to give credit to the young man for all he had was the linen cloth to cover his naked body—a true mark of leaving everything behind to follow Jesus, even their clothes!

CONCLUSION Uncovering mālie in the Bible requires us to lighten up in reading, by unmasking our piousness and seriousness with the “holy book” to expose our native wits and humor. For far too long Pasifika has been instructed that scripture is no laughing matter, but in Pasifika, to laugh is to cope with pain and trauma, to laugh is to remind us of our interconnectedness with creation, and to laugh is to uncover our native identity. Perhaps this is why the missionaries told us not to laugh, because our indigeneity was not pious and unholy. To deal with this, we must learn to tausua in reading, because being lē tausuā means that we are taking ourselves too seriously. To tausua in reading allows us as readers to dismantle the colonial pressures of perceiving the text through a certain way against other approaches. As a result, the Bible becomes a lecturer who has no time for talanoa and dialogue, while we, as readers sit and are dictated to where we can laugh, and where we cannot. But what about texts that do not contain humor and that are in fact tragic and horrific? What about texts that do not contain anything mālie but only matters that cause sadness or anger? Of course, not all texts contain humor, yet as valid as such questions may be, the voice of the colonial discourse lingers in the air because in these questions, we are ordered not to laugh again. Should not the point of uncovering mālie be that we are laughing on our own terms? And if it is not a laughing matter, should that not be our call as well? In fact, a lot of Pasifika culture had been suppressed and marginalized by the missionaries. The legacies of the colonial past still affect the way we read scripture today, as Pasifika people continue to lose themselves in reading. Uncovering mālie can address this. For revealing mālie in scripture is to perceive the ironies and riddles which might not be obvious because of our over-pious attitudes. Uncovering mālie brings out the humor in scripture but also discloses humor in public spaces—enabling Pasifika readers to maintain their native identity and introduce a Pasifika worldview of dealing with trauma and tragedy.

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NOTES 1. This chapter is an extended version of a presentation which I co-presented with Jione Havea at the eDARE 2021 conference. 2. The first occurrence of native terms will be italicized and when emphasis is made. 3. Jione Havea, “Bare Feet Welcome: Redeemer Xs Moses @ Enaim.” In Bible, Borders, Belonging(s): Engaging Readings from Oceania, Semeia Studies 75, edited by Jione Havea, David J. Neville, and Elaine M. Wainwright (Atlanta: SBL, 2014), 210. 4. See Vaitusi Nofoaiga, A Samoan Reading of Discipleship in Matthew (Atlanta: SBL, 2017), 34. 5. All biblical quotes are from the NRSV unless otherwise stated. 6. Walter Brueggemann, “The Book of Exodus,” In NIB, vol.1, edited by Leander E. Keck (Nashville: Abingdon, 1994), 793. 7. See William Dryness, “Stewardship of the Earth in the Old Testament,” in Tending the Garden: Essays on the Gospel and the Earth, edited by W. GranbergMichaelson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1985), 54. 8. Norman Habel, The Birth, the Curse and the Greening of Earth: An Ecological Reading of Genesis 1–11 (Sheffield: Academic, 2011), 38. 9. Habel, The Birth, 26. 10. W. Sibley Towner, “Clones of God: Genesis 1.26–28 and the Image of God in the Hebrew Bible,” Interpretation 59 (2005): 348. 11. Habel, The Birth, 38. 12. W. Sibley Towner, “The Book of Ecclesiastes,” In NIB, vol.5, edited by Leander E. Keck (Nashville: Abingdon, 1997), 311. 13. Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi Efi, “Whispers and Vanities in Samoan Indigenous Religious Culture” in Whispers and Vanities: Samoan Indigenous Knowledge and Religion (Wellington: Huia, 2014), 40. 14. Malama Melisea, “We Want the Forest, yet Fear the Spirits: Culture and Change in Western Samoa,” Pacific Perspectives 9.1 (1980): 27. 15. Vilsoni Hereniko, “Clowning as political commentary: Polynesia then and now,” in Art and Performance in Oceania, edited by Barry Craig, Bernie Kernot, and Christopher Anderson (Honolulu: University of Hawaii, 1999), 19. 16. See Morna Hooker, The Gospel According to St Mark (London: A&C Black, 1991), 532; M. Eugene Boring, Mark: A Commentary (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2006), 403; Francis J. Moloney, The Gospel of Mark (Peabody MA: Hendrickson, 2002), 299; Robert H. Stein, Mark (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2008), 674; Robin Scroggs and Kent I. Groff, “Baptisms in Mark: Dying and Rising with Christ,” JBL 92 (1973): 531–48. 17. Erin Vearncombe, “Cloaks, Conflict, and Mark 14:51–52,” CBQ 75 (2013), 684. See also Raymond E. Brown, The Death of the Messiah: From Gethsemane to the Grave: A Commentary on the Passion Narratives in the Four Gospels (New York: Doubleday, 1994), 303. 18. Abraham Kuruvilla, “The Naked Runaway and the Enrobed Reporter of Mark 14 and 16: What is the Author Doing with What He is Doing,” JETS 54(3) (2011): 527.

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19. Timote M. Vaioleti, “Talanoa Research Methodology: A Developing Position on Pacific Research,” Waikato Journal of Education 12 (2006): 23. 20. Howard M. Jackson, “Why the Youth Shed His Cloak and Fled Naked: The Meaning and Purpose of Mark 14:51–52,” JBL 116.2 (1997): 276. 21. Jackson, “Why the Youth,” 287. 22. Stephen B. Hatton, “Mark’s Naked Disciple: The Semiotics and Comedy of Following,” Neotestamentica 35.1–2 (2001): 36. 23. Hatton, “Mark’s Naked Disciple,” 36.

rereading (with) missioned bodies

Chapter 7

Reimagining Mission in the Context of British Colonial Rule in Mizoram Lalmuanpuii Hmar

The impact of British colonialism upon the Mizo community of Mizoram,1 a tribal state in Northeast India, is ubiquitous and has a consequential effect. The British colonialists established themselves in the present Mizoram in 1891. It all began with the establishment of tea industry in Northeast India in the middle of the nineteenth century. A new type of tea was discovered growing indigenously in the Mizo area. Cachar Valley, located on the northern end of the Mizo land, was also found to be suitable for tea plantations. Planters then started clearing forests in areas which the Mizos claimed as their land. In response, the Mizos fought back to prevent the planters from cultivating their land. However, the planters, backed by British arms, did not care or give way to the Mizo claims. After a series of raids and retaliations, the Mizo land was annexed to the British territory subsequently followed by complete subjugation of the Mizos, making it possible for Christian enterprise to begin.2 The pioneer missionaries were from the Arthington Aborigines Mission in London who entered Mizoram in 1894, followed later by several other Missions such as Welsh Calvinistic Mission, Baptist Missionary Society, and so on. The missionary movement was so shot through with the presuppositions of racial superiority that in the words of Andrew Porter, its integration with other processes of Empire building and its role as a colossal buttress of the empire are unquestionable.3

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LEGACY OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE AND ITS IMPACT UPON THE MIZO SOCIETY The Mizos were formerly known as Lushais, but this is a misnomer. The Mizos have been Mizos since time immemorial, but all the imperial and missionary records and reports before Indian independence, up until the 1960s, represented the Mizos as Lushais. The most prominent ruling clan at the time of the British aggression was Lusei, anglicized as Lushai. It was the time when the Lusei rulers had extended their influence over the whole of the present Mizoram. Their prominence, it seems, led the British elites to misrepresent the whole nation as Lushai.4 The Mizo people are comprised of several clans – Lusei, Hmar, Ralte, Paihte, and so on. The early missionaries adopted the Duhlian dialect spoken by the Lusei for communication. The government did not think wise to encourage the development of other dialects, seeing that the production of adequate literature for them would almost be impossible.5 With the annexation of Mizoram, the British soon became the rulers and all Mizos including the chiefs became their subjects. The Mizos respected the British rulers as they considered them to be powerful and wise. After settlement, the British unhesitatingly introduced a new form of administration or the dual form of administration. Since many villages had chiefs, the British rulers left the matter of internal village administration in the hands of the Mizo chiefs while they regulated the overall political and social administration. Through this new administrative system, the British undermined the Mizo philosophy of life by subjugating the Mizo tribe to an external political authority for the first time in their history and imposed upon them an entirely new principle of authority and jurisprudence. The cordial relationship between the missionaries and the colonial power helped the growth of Christianity in Mizoram. It has been said that the participation of the Mizos in the First World War gave them a sense of belonging to the wider British Empire. This further opened their minds to readily accept the gospel thereby helping the missionaries in their evangelizing mission. However, the Christianity that the missions brought to Mizoram was that of the nineteenth-century evangelical Christianity with a heavy emphasis on ethics. The ethical demands of the new religion were high for the carefree Mizo. As it demanded the forsaking of most of their former revelries without sufficient replacement, converts paid a high price. The changes under the new British administration seriously shook the religious, social and economic foundations of the Mizo society. It brought about a totally new value system that affected their worldview and gave them a new lifestyle. Some of these changes were in fact drastic, including the disruption

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of certain cultural values and practices thereby creating a huge cultural void.6 The lingering legacy of the British Empire and its major impact upon the Mizo community are further elaborated in the following sections.

ABOLITION OF ZU The favourite beverage of the Mizos called Zu is a kind of rice-beer prepared by steeping rice with water for two or three days. It is considered to be one of the most important articles of the traditional Mizo society. In fact, it served multifarious functions. It constituted the main item for refreshment in every celebration and social gathering. It was an entertainment for guests from neighbouring villages. Since the Mizos were altruistic in nature, Zu was an award for gallantry or self-sacrifice. Besides, it was also widely used for family consumption. With agriculture being the main source of livelihood, Zu was taken in the evening as a refreshment after a long day of hard work and toiling at the paddy fields. It also served as a means of condolence for a bereaved family. Thus, Zu was consumed in vast quantities on certain occasions. Almost all the ceremonies and festivals of the traditional Mizo society before the colonial period included Zu, and events that involved community feasts lasted three to four days depending on the availability of Zu. It is important to note that in the pre-British period, the usages of Zu were mainly for sacrifice, marriage, birth, death, festival, award, entertaining guest and celebration of successful hunting and harvesting. Normally, if an individual drank too much and created an undesirable situation in the village, the Val Upa, who is the leader among the bachelors in the traditional Mizo society and the head of the Zawlbuk,7 along with other bachelors, warned the culprit not to repeat his actions, which otherwise would result in severe punishment to that individual. This simply means that in the traditional Mizo society, abuse of Zu was uncommon. It was used moderately, positively, and was regulated.8 Before the advent of Christianity in Mizoram in 1894, there was no counter-action against the drinking of Zu. However, with the introduction of Christianity, Zu began to be considered as “social evil” and “moral and ethical sin in the sight of God.”9 This immediately prompted the church to take steps against the consumption of Zu from a very early period. Upon the evangelization of the Mizos, the drinking of Zu which had occupied an intrinsic place in the everyday life of the Mizos was proclaimed as “unbecoming of a Christian.” A famous Mizo Pastor, Challiana, in his book Pi Pu Nun wrote, chuvangin zu hi sual anga lang chauh pawh ni lo, suala lang sa a ni (Zu not only appears

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to be a sin, but is a sin in itself).10 The converts did not allow any indulgence of Zu in any form, rather they regarded it as a sin. Therefore, they refused to participate in any function where Zu was involved, and they set up a separate fellowship among themselves. Since they stopped consuming Zu, they began to have a separate fellowship among themselves and took tea in place of liquor. It was no surprise that they were hated, despised and even persecuted by the village authority as their new lifestyle was a total deviation from their existing culture.11 Christianity progressed and shortly after Mizoram attained statehood in 1987, churches in Mizoram felt the need to have an effective legislation against drinking liquor which prompted the State Government to pass the Mizoram Liquor Total Prohibition Act (1995) – proscribing total prohibition of import, transport, manufacture, possession, sale and consumption of liquor in the state of Mizoram. Though it was once an integral part of the culture and tradition of the Mizos, the prohibition was said to be supported by all major Non-Governmental Organizations of the State. It is effective to date with the exception of a short lifting of the ban during 2015–2018. The prohibition of Zu in Mizo society was no doubt the impact of the teachings of the missionaries and the influence of Christianity among the Mizos. The fact that Zu was pronounced as sin is now a major factor for the cause of numerous chaos faced by the Mizo churches and society today. Though the sale and consumption of alcohol have been banned, the banning only increased demand as it is hard to procure. In this way Zu, which was once a part of the core values of Mizo culture, came to be considered abhorrent in the present-day Mizo society. Corruption of Mizo Language The Mizos have a rich poetic language. Ironically, the early Mizo Christian hymns translated from English to the Mizo language by the missionaries rarely had poetic diction because of the unfamiliarity of the missionaries with the Mizo poetic language. Spoken language and poetic language are completely different and prose is never regarded as a song or lyric. When the missionaries came, they did not realize that the Mizos had both spoken language and poetic language to compose songs, solos and hymns. They translated and composed hymns and songs in prose and taught the first-generation Mizo Christians to sing those songs. But the first Mizo Christians could not consider themselves as singing songs, rather, it gave them a feeling of singing prose. Nevertheless, the newly converted Mizo Christians, totally unaware of the situation, thought that this was the way the Mizo gospel songs had to be sung – wholly distinctive in tunes and compositions, and they passively accepted it.12

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With the advent of Christianity came the assertion that everything associated with the Mizo traditional religion and culture was profane, pagan and unfit for the new Mizo converts. The newly converted Mizo Christians were firmly under the impression that Christianity had nothing to do with the then-Mizo culture. They even thought that the material aspect of Mizo culture like the Mizo musical instruments were also not suited for worshipping God. The Mizos were very obedient to the teachings of the missionaries. They welcomed the translation of the English hymns into Mizo with great joy. When an attempt was made by Mizo converts to compose their own songs, they never used poetic language because they were influenced and guided by the missionaries and using poetic language in their hymns was considered paganistic.13 The Mizo language has separate poetic words to describe a person or a thing. For example, the poetic word for Ni (Sun) is Chung tur ni; Thla (Moon) is Chhawrthlapui; Arsi (Star) is Siar; Nu leh Pa (Parents) is Chun leh Zua, and so on. These beautiful poetic words do not have a place in the Mizo Christian songs, hence losing their poetic charm, beauty, literary depth and even spirituality. The so-called “love songs” which were once regarded as the anti-thesis of Christian songs have now inherited all these poetic words. Many of the existing Christian songs look more like a mere narrative or assemblage of ordinary words or general language with a tune, typical of Western music pattern.14 Till today this has an impact on the style of composition of Mizo hymns and this is a great downfall for Mizo literature. Christianity was further projected as opposed to Mizo cultural or folk songs including its tune. B. Lalthangliana, a prominent Mizo historian states that all the Mizo traditional songs were rejected in the name of Christianity and even the singing of such songs was strictly prohibited for the converts.15 However, there was one tune which was sacred according to the missionaries, that is, the Tonic Solfa. For a long period, the Church Hymn Book comprised of songs only with the tune of the Tonic Solfa.16 The Mizos, being very modest and having the highest regard for the whites, were completely influenced to believe that none of their culture had anything to do with Christianity, and therefore, the tune of the Mizo folk music came to be completely disregarded for composing worship songs.

QUESTION OF CIVILIZATION AND IDENTITY European colonization in the nineteenth century carried with it the altruist notion of civilizing responsibility. This concern for the progress of the native people and promotion of the ideas of advantages of civilization was figured in the Congo Conference in Berlin in 1885, which was attended by almost all European colonial powers.17

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Being an oral culture without written records, studies on the Mizo culture and history are based mainly on written records of the white missionaries and British administrators. But it is important to note that these written records are not without prejudice, misconceptions and cultural biases. In contrast to the general belief that the Mizos had been civilized from their state of savagery, enlightened from their darkness through the endeavours of the white missionaries, it should be propagated that the Mizos were not “savages” because they had a well set-up society and had certain noble perceptions of life which could be perceived to be very civilized in the native perception.18 The encounter with the whites intensely provoked identity questions among the Mizos with far-reaching effects. The attitude of the whites to the natives can often be considered as negative. Some of the identities given by the whites to the tribals were marauders, head hunters, barbarians and savages. Missionaries too had a polemic attitude; this is clearly evident through a school textbook prepared by one of the most affectionate missionaries D. E. Jones (known as Zosaphluia by the Mizos). In A Lushai Primer book it is written, Mihring hnam nga ropui tak an awm a, mi dum te, mi sen te, mi buang te, mi eng te, mi ngo te. Nimah-sela, chi khat kan ni a: mi eng an tam ber a, mi ngo an fing ber a an lal ber bawk.19 (There are five great human races – the Blacks, the Reds, the Browns, the Yellows and the Whites. But we are all one. The Yellows are the most populous, and the Whites are the wisest and the most superior race).

Learning such an idea “by heart,” an inferiority complex about oneself and admiration for the West had been internalized.20 Even though the missionaries transformed the society by being the first to set up modern institutions and impart knowledge to the Mizos, they, however, considered themselves superior and consistently maintained an exclusive attitude towards the Mizo tradition and culture. It is unfortunate that the Mizos have uncritically accepted the negative constructions imposed on them by alien cultural forces thereby losing their self-esteem and identity yet glorifying the culture of the West. Christianity is hardly considered as a disturbance to their culture. In this way, the missionaries can be projected as successful in destroying the Mizo set of cultural values to impose a brand-new set of their own. Several changes took place in the Mizo society as a result of colonialism and Christianity. Major among them is the abolition of chieftainship, loss of many old establishments and institutions such as the Zawlbuk, substitution of traditional Mizo festivals by Christian festivals and banning of the use of drum in the church for a considerable period mainly because drums were

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one of the most important instruments used during the traditional festivals. All these made it evident that Christian missionaries came to Mizoram with stereotyped opinions. They came without any knowledge of the Mizos and their social system. They brought along with them Western culture, Western lifestyle and Western Christianity, effecting changes in every aspect of the Mizos’ lives. Naturally, the so-called ardent followers of Christ began to think that everything practiced and believed by them before they embraced Christianity was wrong while all new things taught by the new religion and the missionaries were right. The period saw psychologically traumatic times under the impact of foreign rulers whose religion they had come to accept. With the British annexation of the country and the introduction of Christianity, the late nineteenth century therefore marked the beginning of a new era for the Mizos in their socio-economic, political and religious life. Anthropologically minded British administrators of Mizoram such as Major A. G. McCall and N. E. Parry who both served as Superintendents of Lushai Hills (Mizoram) during the colonial period were concerned about the traumatic cultural changes that had come upon the Mizos as a result of the impact of Western culture through activities of both the government and Christian missions.21 The Mizo culture and tradition had their own beauty and distinctiveness and they were hardly mixed with the outside world.22 While admitting that it was the advent of British power that “staggered” and “bewildered” and “paralysed the people,” they were convinced that the most active, dynamic and sustained instruments of change were the missions. In fact, they tended to see government as the upholder and preserver of the customs of the people over against the “full-scale assault” on those customs launched by the missionaries whom, Parry believed, were denationalizing the people. Both McCall and Parry shared the concern to preserve the pristine nature of the Mizo culture. While admitting that change was inevitable, McCall pleaded that it should be indigenously ignited and properly guided and not forced on the people by “over-zealous” outsiders.23 The process of cultural change and modernization had begun, and the old culture began a slow process of disintegration.

DEVELOPING A NEW MISSION: CONFRONTING THE EMPIRE AND CONSTRUCTING A LIBERATING CHRIST The missionaries propagated the belief in Christ as a tool to conquer and degrade the Mizo culture. They have been said to advocate that a believer should no longer retain native Mizo cultural practices like consumption of

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Zu, use of drum and singing traditional songs, and they considered almost everything that the Mizo culture has to offer as paganistic. They imposed the belief that involving in such activities is disloyalty to Christ. Christ became a colonial invader to the Mizos. The Christianity that the missionaries brought was a Christianity that was established from the perspective of the cultural and religious norms of the West. It was projected as originally owned by the West and later imparted to the Mizos. There was a cancellation of the Mizo cultural practices in the understanding of God brought about by the new religion. The problem with “dichotomistic concept of reality” developed mainly among the educated or enlightened people is that their religious conviction and moral teaching are meant only for the purpose of religion and had nothing to do with their day-to-day life. This dualistic concept of reality, separation of secular from religious and body from soul is partly responsible for the rampant increase in social evils in the Mizo society today. This theology, although it was inherited from missionaries, gained momentum since the 1960s and penetrated the whole Christian community in Mizoram.24 Scripture is understood more in terms of prioritising the attainment of eternal life and not on living a good life during one’s lifetime. Scripture is interpreted mainly with an emphasis on the salvation motif. The world is denounced as corrupt while heaven is romanticized as the real home. The importance of good conduct in life is often neglected. A new focus on mission which stresses the necessity of an alternative reading of scripture to highlight the presence of Empire in the biblical texts is therefore required today. The Mizos need to see scripture not just as a narrative but as a text which contains numerous evidences about the existence of empire and how people of God battled against it. The British imposed upon the Mizos the identity of a “subject race, dominated by a race that knows them and what is good for them better than they could possibly know themselves”25 and enforced upon them the identity of Christianity along with certain other stereotypical identities. Being submerged in the standards and way of life of their colonizers, the Mizos became more and more alienated from their cultural purity and became largely drawn to their new identity. In the words of Bakhtin,26 Mizos continue to become blurred copies of their former colonial masters. This current state of indifference or sightlessness to their situation is where a reimagining of mission is required to bring about a desirable transition. Looking at the consequential effects of colonialism, there is a need to reimagine mission after more than one hundred years of Christianity among the Mizos today. There are questions that need to be asked when studying the impact of empire upon the Mizos and their passive acceptance of it: Why is reverence for Western culture so normalized in Mizo society? What

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do the Mizos learn out of the missionaries? Is God’s will being fulfilled in this process? As Empire sequestrates humanity of its citizenship in God’s economy of life, the Mizos have to reimagine and develop their own mission and construct a liberating Christ that actively went out against the empire to fight and deliver them from it. In order to deconstruct the British imperialism or colonial mission in Mizoram, Homi Bhabha’s concept of “hybridity” or the “third space of enunciation” can be an appropriate tool. Hybridity allows for a convergence of two oppositional ideologies. In this case, the two oppositional ideologies are Christianity and Mizo culture. Hybridity allows two cultures to come together and exist harmoniously together in the so-called “third space” and in this case allows the pollination of the good of Christianity and the beauty of Mizo culture. As these two traditions merge together, the binary structure of centremargin diminishes. The conjunction of these two traditions in the “hybrid” or “third” space develops a new Christianity that moves from just being a Western Christianity to a Christianity that embraces new interreligious and intercultural resources. In such a situation, the Mizos can also construct a liberating Christ from their own perspective and develop a local Christianity that is not tainted by colonial epistemology and ideology that reinforced the superiority of Western religion and culture but one which will take seriously the local resources and traditions. For example, the neglected Mizo cultural festivals after the advent of Christianity can now be revived and incorporated to the religious realm. In doing so, the Christianity of the twenty-first-century Mizos will cease to be a borrowed Christianity27 and become a culture-based Christianity. Though colonialism and evangelization can be credited as the primary reasons for modernization of the culture and society of the Mizos, it is equally important to note that they too had ended many cultural events and practices which are impossible to revive today and in the near future. For an effective resistance to colonialism and its attendant attitudes, tackling the values and notions of human life by the imperial logic, taking Jesus out of century-old commentaries that projected him as a soft, tender-hearted Saviour based on dominant euro-centric perspectives and accepting a change in their understanding of Jesus as a fearless Christ who found space for debating with the authorities and challenging the empire can serve as helpful approaches for confronting the empire in the Mizo context. This calls for the church to actively engage with the social, cultural, economic, political and contextual realities in order to bring about social and theological transformation. The church has to situate the right theology and ethics in the light of Biblical teaching and focuses on teaching the right understanding of God and the values of the Reign of God. This will help the Mizos to grasp the real meaning and significance of what Jesus’s dealing with the Empire is all about.

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Confronting and resisting the empire that surrounds us by building a lifeaffirming community should constitute the most integral part of the church’s mission and ministry today. The Mizos must put an end to the colonial Christ as presented by the missionaries and develop their very own liberating Christ who will deliver them from the empire (past or present). Jesus came to earth so that human beings may have life, life in abundance. His resurrection brings hope and fullness of life, and the church is to celebrate God’s gift of life. Therefore, the Mizos must effectively work towards carrying out confrontational measures such as retrieving any significant lost culture and tradition and reviving them, rewriting Mizo history in order not to overtly celebrate colonialism, fighting against social vices, serving the interest of the community, sharing resources with one another thereby promoting humanizing relationship and proclaiming Jesus’s mission which stands against dehumanization and colonial subjugation.

NOTES 1. The Mizos, formerly known as Lushais by the British, live in the southern area of Northeast India with Myanmar to the East and Bangladesh to the West. 2. Zairema, “The Bible in Mizo,” in Mizo Studies VI/3 (July-September, 2017): 686–687. 3. Andrew Porter, Religion versus Empire? British Protestant Missionaries and Overseas Expansion, 1700–1914 (Manchester/New York: Manchester University Press, 2004), 289. 4. Vanlalchhuanawma, “Revival Movement and Mizo Society,” in Ground Works for Tribal Theology in the Mizo Context, edited by Rosiamliana Tochhawng, K. Lalrinmawia, L. H. Rawsea (Delhi: ISPCK, 2007), 70. 5. Zairema, “The Bible in Mizo,” 689. 6. F. Hrangkhuma, “The Mizos: A People Transformed by the Gospel,” in Ground Works for Tribal Theology in the Mizo Context, edited by Rosiamliana Tochhawng, K. Lalrinmawia, L. H. Rawsea (Delhi: ISPCK, 2007), 5 & 13. 7. Zawlbuk was the most important social institution in the pre-British era for the Mizo society. It can be defined as a “Bachelors’ dormitory” or a club house for men in the village. It was the largest building in the village and was usually located at the centre of the village near the Chief’s house. 8. T. Lalremruata, “Impact of Colonialism on the Traditional Beliefs and Practices of the Mizo,” Mizoram University Journal of Humanities & Social Sciences V/1 (June 2019): 145. 9. H. Lalrinthanga, Church and State Relationship in the Mizo Socio-Political Life: 1952 to 2006 (Delhi: ISPCK, 2013), 197. 10. Challiana, Pi Pu Nun (Aizawl: Trio Book-House, 1969). 11. H. Lallungmuana, “Mizo Culture and Christianity,” in Kum Za Mel Lung, edited by Vanlalnghaka Ralte (Aizawl: Aizawl Theological College, 2007), 174.

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12. Liangkhaia, “Hla Thu” in Hranghluite Sulhnu, edited by B. Lalthangliana (Aizawl: RTM Press, 1996), 99. 13. Lalhlimpuii, “Post-colonial View on Mizo Literature,” Mizo Studies II/3 (JulySeptember, 2013): 307. 14. Lallungmuana, “Mizo Culture and Christianity,” 175. 15. B. Lalthangliana, Ka Lungkham: Introduction to Mizo Literature (Aizawl: MC Lalrinthanga, 1989), 16. 16. Lalhmingchhuanga Zongte, Savun Kawrfual (Aizawl: Ophel, 2017), 119. 17. Von Fritz Blanke, “Mission and Kolonial-Politik,” in Europa und Kolonialismus (Zurich and Stuttgart: n.p., 1962), 91. 18. Zothanchhingi Khiangte, “Civilizing the Savages: Reference to the Mizos,” https://www​.academia​.edu​/31805387​/CIVILIZING​_THE​_SAVAGES​_REFERENCE​_TO​_THE​_MIZOS, accessed on 1st November, 2021. 19. David E. Jones, Duh-Lian Zir-Tirh-Bu, Zo Sap Siam: A Lushai Primer (Duh Lian Dialect), (Aijal: The Welsh Presbyterian Mission, 1921 [1915]), 32. 20. Rosiamliana Tochhawng, “Identity Question in North East India: Challenges for the Church,” Mizoram Journal of Theology I/2 (January–June, 2010): 96. 21. Cf. A. G. McCall, Lushai Chrysalis (London: Luzac, 1949) and N. E. Parry, The Lakhers (Mizoram: Tribal Research Institute, 1932). 22. Lalremruata, “Impact of Colonialism on the Traditional Beliefs and Practices of the Mizo,” 142. 23. Mangkhosat Kipgen, Christianity and Mizo Culture (Aizawl: Mizo Theological Conference, 1997), 9. 24. Lawmsanga, Theology of Mission: Postcolonial Perspective (Aizawl: Lalmuanpuii, 2016), 227. 25. Kipgen, Christianity and Mizo Culture, 9. 26. M. M. Bakhtin, The Dialogical Imagination: Four Essays, edited by Michael Holquist, translated by Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990), 60. 27. Synonymous with V. S. Naipaul’s “borrowed culture.” V. S. Naipaul, The Middle Passage (London: Penguin, 1975), 45.

Chapter 8

Deposing “Massa Jesus” “Magnificat” Moments among a Colonial Mission Archive Peter Cruchley

Council for World Mission (CWM), through its Legacies of Slavery project, unmasks white Christian supremacism in its archive as it holds its forebear – the London Missionary Society – to reparatory account. This work provides an uncomfortable mirror for CWM’s self-reflection.1 This chapter arises from this work and its core critique which is that the Christian mission is rooted in a white colonial racist public theology. CWM emerged in 1977 as a manifestation of its mission after Colonialism, shaped by the contesting leadership of those demanding an end to the dominance of white European empire. Even in our so-called post-colonial period, Christian mission has not uprooted the systems and pre-sets of Whiteness from its life. As a result, the rhetoric, urges and aims of mission remain the most public way that the Christianity constructed and globalised by Whiteness continues to publicly foment and flourish.2 Thus, the Christian mission needs to publicly deconstruct the hulk of Whiteness. This points us to press further in the constructing of mission after (and against) colonialism, as well as mission after (and against) Whiteness. CWM lives after and through a public mission theology which urged and agitated for an outcome where the whole earth would kneel before Jesus; who was unquestioningly represented as white. Salvific entry into Christ’s kingdom looked like receiving the “benefits” of white Christian empire. And so, in the conceit of Whiteness, Colonialism, Christianity and Commerce mutually reinforce the construction and occupation not just of the public space but make that public space the global space. In this way LMS and its contemporaries furthered not just salvation history, but salvation geography. Jennings exposes how Whiteness sought and seeks to “convene” the world, claiming a position of speaking to and for the rest of the world: [they] 87

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“imagined they could see the peoples of the world better than the peoples of the world could see themselves, and that their insight was key to forming institutionalising processes that were crucial to global well-being.”3 White missionary election claimed the world for itself and privileged its desires and interests as the standards for a world it sought to judge according to and create in its own image. In their zeal at the Lordship of Christ the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European missionaries created a Christ who was, we must acknowledge, in fact, anti-Christ. There have been so many church statements denouncing racism as a sin, without deposing the divine figure misconceived at its heart.4 As Cone demonstrates, denunciation of racism as sin surely sends us to address the idol of Whiteness at its heart,5 an idol this chapter names as “Massa Jesus.” This name and title encapsulate the Christology pressed upon enslaved and colonised people by the missionaries whose work and witness were aimed fundamentally at racialising salvation, even as it sought to universalise it.6 Massa Jesus ironically represents a kind of divine indentureship, whereby those who sought to share the Gospel pressed Jesus of Nazareth into their service with an offer to him of eventual global dominance, on the basis that he upholds enslavement and empire and guaranteed the profitability of the church in return for the promise of future salvation. The CWM legacies of slavery project has reached a point where we seek to nuance the underlying narrative of missionary complicity in constructing the racism we struggle against still, with stories of resistance and this chapter highlights early steps in that direction. This resistance is against Whiteness and is embodied, for the most part, by people of colour, rather than white people moving against the sin of Whiteness. The upstarts described here found in Christianity a means to navigate the colonial space while simultaneously discovering a vision which sustained and heightened their counter Whiteness. In this way they publicly agitate for a world after the Whiteness they were called to adulate and emulate.

IMPOSING MASSA JESUS The LMS produced a great deal of material intending to occupy the public space. There are many publications, there were public meetings, festivals and deputations. And LMS sought political patronage and influence. But LMS was particularly concerned to address children and rooted much of its work in the Sunday schools movement so important to educating nineteenth-century Britain. The Juvenile Missionary Magazine (JMM) ran from 1844 to 1887 and was a monthly periodical that contained missionary “intelligence” and news, interspersed with illustrations. It was a powerful mouthpiece for the

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racist colonial anthropology LMS cultivated, seeding racist worldviews for generations. In 1845, JMM published this article: Judy Campbell was a slave on one of the sugar estates of the island of St Vincent. She had been a member of a Christian church for several years and had been a steady and consistent Christian. In the year 1834, she was taken very ill, and the Missionary who visited her was much pleased with the peaceful and happy state of her mind. On being asked how she felt, she said: “Oh! me Massa! Me long to go home.” To what home, Judy? “Oh! To me Jesus, to me home above!” Are you satisfied as to your pardon? “Oh yes, me Massa! Me know me Jesus forgive me all my sins long, long ago. God is love, me feel him here, he warm me heart” Are you afraid to die? said the Missionary. She answered “Oh no! Me go when Blessed Massa Jesus take me” Now my dear children, are you not glad to think you are helping to send out Missionaries to the poor Heathen, since you see how useful they are, and how happy the Heathen become when God has changed their hearts. Will you not try to do more and more for them? Yet remember, that unless you give your hearts to Jesus and love him as this poor negro did, you will not be happy when you come to die.7

By 1845 the actual slave Massa’s were in process of being compensated for setting free the people they enslaved and from whom they had profited. However, the Massa who “baptised” the systems and attitudes of enslavement remained ever present, reigning supreme in the shape of the Missionary Massa Jesus. The roots of this JMM story lie in the LMS deep desire to reassure the powers of the Establishment, that Christian mission could save the world without changing anything or threatening the Establishment’s interests, indeed it could even profit them by turning unruly surly slaves into civilised obedient good slaves. According to the British Parliamentary Record, Hansard, on 13 April 1824, The London Missionary Society went to petition the British Parliament enquiry into the death of its missionary John Smith following the Slave Uprising in Demerara in 1823. At the start they confirmed that the petitioners are the officers of a Society established in 1795, including clergymen and members of the Established Church, and ministers and laymen of different denominations among Protestant Dissenters; that the sole object of that Society is, to spread the knowledge of Christ among heathen and other unenlightened nation.

In this petition the directors also confirmed to parliament that these instructions were given to John Smith in 1816: Not a word must escape you in public or in private, which might render the slaves displeased with their masters or dissatisfied with their station. You are

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not sent to relieve them from their servile condition, but to afford them the consolation of religion.8

The JMM story follows a familiar type in which Judy’s “heart-warming” testimony is just an object in the LMS strategy to raise funds for its work and propagandise its worldview, especially among the young working classes who were present in its Sunday School movement.9 The appeal of this “Massa Jesus” for white missionaries was his usefulness to bending the world to the wishes of Whiteness. However, there were those who discovered in the Christ that missionaries introduced an encounter not with the Massa Jesus but the Maroon Jesus, a runaway rebellious Jesus whose person inspired their resistance of empire.10 The CWM archive indicates that some made public their witness to a counter Christ, in ways which were contested by the missionaries, and so this chapter moves to highlight some of these. Cupido: “Poor Boy” Cupido Kakkerlak was a Khoi man, and one of the LMS earliest “local” evangelists in South Africa.11 Cupido appears first in the LMS Directors Report 1805, where he was described as a “man uncommonly notorious for vice and distinguished above all pagan fellows for the enormity of his crimes.”12 Vanderkemp, the LMS missionary in Bethelsdorp, reported some of Cupido’s testimony telling that he inquired of all he met for means to deliver him from drunkeness . . . when he heard Jesus could save sinners from their sins, he cried out to himself “That is what I want, that is what I want! . . . he was then brought earnestly to seek an interest in Christ, and has now become one of our most zealous fellow labourers.”13

Cupido’s drinking may have been rooted in (systemic) sin. He appears in the Landroost register as a farm labourer brought up on Boer farms as the property of the settler farm owner. (The surname he bears is a sign of the racist scorn of his “owner,” who names him Kakkerlak which means cockroach). An etching of Cupido was published by LMS in 1816 (figure 8.1).14 He is presented in fine Western dress, looking composed and dignified. The image makes public LMS’s claims that the Gospel civilises even the most savage and further proof of Cupido’s dramatic conversion from drunkenness. Following this conversion, he was paraded and celebrated by LMS and Cupido sought diligently to serve the mission project in all ways, so that 17 years later

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Figure 8.1  Cupido.

he was the first ever Khoi LMS missionary in sole charge of a frontier mission station in the Cape. In the same year that this etching was made, Cupido wrote to the LMS: My very dear brother Read I go now to Mackoons Kraal, I have prayed to the Lord Jesus, and now the Lord had at last acknowledged me, and now I am in the field and so I came to Mackoons Kraal with Brother Corner. But I must say that I never met with such persecution as here and all my endeavours are vain and the difficulties are so great that sometimes my hope cannot sustain them, and when this is the case, then comes my Lord Jesus Christ as a father of mercy. And now I am thankful in my Jesus, infinitely great is his faithfulness, which he daily opens to me and his love is infinitely great and his mercy. I am not able to describe as the fears all the burdens so that I came from nothing for he is my Father, my family and refuge. O how lovely is the Lord Jesus Christ for a poor creature as I am. I have been several times out among the Griquas and I gave a revival, but afterwards I met with some discouragement from those from whom I was least to expect. We should have been away to Mackoons Kraal but we can get no provisions. Mr Anderson has twice nearly fled since I have been here, but what the danger was I know not. I see no danger. we are in great want of Powder and Lead. I cast all my care on my Lord Jesus, otherwise I aught to write a great deal more of

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how it goes at Griqua Town but I hope you see and speak to Mrs Read herself soon. My kind love to all the little children and to all the brothers and sisters at Bethelsdorp.15 (Cupido 29 May 1816)

The text is testimony to the change wrought by his conversion and speaks eloquently to the new life he discovered in Christ. However, beyond this is his testimony that the LMS needed to convert too. The persecutions and discouragement he referenced came, on the one side, from white settlers who were shooting at him and from fellow white missionaries, on the other, who refused to treat him as an equal. Given this disrespect, it is not surprising that his South African biographer reports that Cupido was never paid by the LMS for his service.16 Cupido was a convert from the Bethelsdorp mission station, and the racial equality practised there scandalised a new generation of conservative LMS leadership, who ordered an inspection.17 Robert Moffat was sent to take charge of the LMS mission and took against Cupido, writing: “The appearance of his house and family seems strongly to indicate that he does not intend to rise a hair’s breadth in civilisation above them whom he pretends to instruct.”18 Finally, Moffat ordered his sacking in a letter to the LMS on 24 January 1823: “I have heard from unquestionable authority many things which make me abhor the idea of Cupido remaining in the Society’s service.”19 A month later Cupido had to leave the mission station and had taken up with a fugitive slave Joseph Arend. The reason for this brutal and shameful end lies in Cape Colony race policies. As a Khoi man Cupido needed a pass to move about the colony and to find work. This pass law, an early form of Apartheid’s pass laws, was imposed on the Cape Colony and Khoi people by Lord Claredon in 1809 and termed the “Hottentot Code” (which is a term of racist abuse). This was the first of a series of pass laws initiated by the British authorities, and it aimed at helping the Afrikaner farmers by way of controlling the mobility of the labour force. It “decreed that every Hottentot (or Khoikhoi) was to have a fixed ‘place of abode’ and that if he wished to move he had to obtain a pass from his master or from a local official.”20 The Code sealed the fate of the Cape’s indigenous population. They were legally transformed from Khoesan into “Hottentots.”21 The 1837 Parliamentary Select Committee on “aboriginal tribes” confirmed “the Caledon code did much towards riveting their chains, as it had the effect of placing them under the control of any inhabitants of the colony.”22 The 1809 code presumed the relationship between white and Khoikhoi people as between master and servant, and Lord Claredon, who framed this legislation, was invited by LMS to be its patron in 1812.23

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The archive reports Cupido’s death: As it respects poor Cupido, Joshua writes that he was attended to by the Backhouses family with the greatest kindness possible, in every respect and that he was with him every day until he died, and that the poor Boy, manifest very great patience and resignation, that his gratitude to those that attended to him was very great, so great that it was impossible to be exceeded and that there is good ground to hope that Cupido has gone to Heaven. (From J Blossom 26 September 1846)24

Can the LMS valediction really just be: poor Boy . . .? J. Blossom may remark upon Cupido’s resignation, flattened as he was by the LMS public theology of Massa Jesus demanding all with no return. Moffat removed Cupido’s “pass,” figuratively and literally, and cast him off as a disappointment and a disgrace, his ire stung by all that effort wasted to “civilise” him. But Cupido’s letter speaks of his confidence in Jesus, not just to save the vulnerable but to challenge the powerful, and this questions where the shame and disgrace lies. Quamina: “Mouse” Cupido’s letter foreshadows another letter to the LMS from a local evangelist in their service, who found in Jesus an alternative “master.” Quamina was a deacon in the Bethel chapel of Demerara, Guyana. Letter from the negroes at Demarary. 14 Dec 1817– Dear Master happing these few lines may fine you and your family in good health. We bless God for his goodness in enabling the [thee] to send out a minister to us, we find that you have endeavourd to oblige us, and he jest swith [?jests with] our subject if he was ever a native of the country he cold [could] not explain his word better to us the first day he preach to us the congregation was able to repeat all most half of his sermon he spoke so plain and now he fall upon a plan every sabbath morning before service those that can read go teaching the congregation and we find that improve a great deal because we have no other time in the week days night to attend the teaching of the catechism, our masters and managers says that they have no objection of our attending to the teaching of the catechism but we find they try every means to stop it in working us [o?] so late at night through all our distress we try to oblige them as far as we can they are more strick [strict] now than ever they was for they are watching us as a cat would for a mouse, blessed be to God that there is not an estate as far as can attend but what have one or two persons that can teach the rest but they are obliged to go thro [through] a great deal of difficult We bless and praise God for his goodness in adding a certain number in our sosiety [society] lately, and we

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hope the Brothers and Sisters that are with you will not ceace [cease] in praying for us, for we are continually praying for the spread of the Gospel and we hope in a short time God will enable you to send out some more ministers to us how joyfull are we to hear how gladly the people in africa receiving the gospel, we are shriveing [striving?] to build up another house of worship and all the people that can attend our meeting give as much as they can to assist in building it, and we have lately lost one of our brother which is a very great lost to the church for he was the singer/ Dear minister your most humble and obedient servants in Demerary East Coast (Success Dec 14th 1817) P..S.. All the brothers and the sister[s] are very uneasy of hearing that Mr Wray which was our first master going over water the second time on the occation [occasion] of wicked men we all are praying for him that by the power of God through Christ Jesus he might be the concourer [conqueror] of all his enemies remember us to him hopping [hoping] to see him again if it is pleasing to God who had given him to us and remember us also to Mr Campton and Mrs also Your most humble and obedient servants Quamina x Satin x Bristel x Asaar x (By your humble servant Moses Chisholm)25

Quamina exposed the Plantocracy who are watching us as a cat would for a mouse. This is his purpose for writing to the LMS. Couched within his testimony to Satin, Bristel, Asaar and his work and witness for the Gospel is the plea that the LMS side with the mice, not the cat. Quamina, like Cupido is testifying to the sincerity of his faith and commitment to Christ. But questioning if LMS were equally committed. LMS emphasis on self-sufficiency required either the Plantocracy to pay for missions or the enslaved. Quamina exposes that this means he works in two plantations: Success Plantation where he was enslaved and the Bethel chapel where he was a deacon. History next records Quamina’s actions leading a non-violent uprising against the planters and being executed by the governor general following the Demerara Rebellion in 1823. However, it is the LMS missionary, John Smith, who is remembered as the “Demerara Martyr.” The abolitionist movement saw the huge publicity value to their case of highlighting the death in custody of the white missionary, Smith, and used it to garner greater support for their movement.26 Quamina, the true martyr, was ignored and Smith lionized, even though he

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had in fact told the rebel leaders to go home and do as the law commanded.27 In this way, the higher public value of Whiteness betrays itself again, even and especially among the allies for emancipation. Caffre Chief Tzatzoe: “Wild Beast” LMS theology was made public through the “road shows” they took around the UK, where they could talk up the achievements of the LMS and parade successful examples from among the converted. They were a refined missionary version of the nineteenth-century “Freak” shows, where women like Sarah Baartman were paraded to lurid and profitable effect.28 On deputation this was Tzatzoe’s testimony: When the word of God came amongst us, we were like the wild beasts. We knew nothing! We were so wild there was nothing by war and bloodshed. I thank the English nation for what we have received at their hands. You are our friends and we are your children. I am like one of your own children. I have been brought up under the law of England and I have enjoyed all the privileges of your missions.

However he continued: If we are the children of England, and if one with you, let us share with you the privileges of Britons. Many of the Englishmen in the colonies are bad, but I will hardly believe these Englishmen belong to you. You are a different race – they are South Africans – they are not Englishmen. I have now seen the English nation, I have travelled a little in this country, I have met with a friendly reception wherever I have gone; and I can say now you are my friends. I know my friends. Do not forget us. Our eyes are upon you.29

His address was carried in full in the LMS Missionary magazine but, in the report for the Board of the same year, only a small part was recorded: “When the word of God came amongst us, we were like the wild beasts. We knew nothing!”30 Even more disturbingly the meeting where Tzatzoe spoke was chaired by William Hankey, the ex-treasurer and plantation owner who testified to the British parliament that he was in favour of enslavement and against emancipation. By virtue of LMS sponsorship Tzatzoe testified on behalf of his people before the British Parliamentary Select Committee on Aboriginal Tribes (British settlements). He became an important advocate of reform in the Cape Colony, navigating the colonial and tribal realities of his home, and endorsing LMS plans for the Cape. However, like Cupido, the LMS leadership turned away from figures like Tzatzoe in favour of their own missionaries and left him unpaid for his work.

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Emma Martin: “That Woman” The last figure to introduce here was a vocal contemporary critic of the LMS, Emma Martin. She surfaces in the LMS story because of the LMS Jubilee in 1844. LMS took to the road organising a series of public meetings to celebrate 50 years of work and to create a spring board for pressing forward further. This was an opportunity to celebrate, fund raise and recruit. Emma Martin breaks into the LMS story because of a meeting in Manchester on 4 October 1844. She “breaks in” because she has no voice in our materials; the LMS sought to silence her at the time, and so we know of her through newspaper reporting and her own pamphlet, published to rebut the claims made by LMS at this time. Her pamphlet is entitled The Missionary Jubilee Panic and the Hypocrites Prayer.31 Emma Martin was a devout Christian who became disillusioned with the church and renounced her faith. “From being an Evangelist in Christ’s cause she became one of the leading evangelisers of infidel Socialism.”32 She is remembered now as one of the feminist vanguard leading the way to the Suffragettes, and one of the most vocal nineteenth-century humanist activists. Emma Martin had achieved some public notoriety by 1844, and having heard of the LMS meeting, made public her desire to go to it and to address the directors with her critique. The LMS was so concerned that they called the police to arrest her. They refused to allow her to address what was supposed to be a public meeting. She remained throughout and following the meeting issued her pamphlet as a riposte and left a placard which read: “Run for Police. Arouse the Army! Christian Missions are in danger at Tahiti from the French! At home from a Woman! To Arms! To arms against them both!”33 Martin wrote: Friends, large sums of money are constantly passing through your hands, which have been contributed by benevolent peoples, for the promotion of human happiness. How do you discharge the important duty of its appropriation? You expend immense sums annually upon the circulation of the Bible, at home and abroad, but this is done to the injury of the fair tradesman, and the oppression of the workman, and still worse of the women employed in the manufacture of the word of life. You grind the faces of the poor to propagate God’s truth, and there is no doubt that many of the women employed in binding Bibles have endeavoured to supply the necessities of life, which the wages you provided would not furnish, by prostitution. You have also formed missionary societies, to send the Gospel abroad to heathen nations, who are, you say perishing for lack of knowledge. The obliquity of your mental vision enables you to see clearly the smallest evils abroad, while you can scarcely discern the appalling miseries at home.

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The Philanthropic Lady, who weeps in the most approved style at Exeter Hall at the dreadful tale of Chinese ignorance of God, wears at the moment a splendid dress over which the weaver’s curse has been poured – over which the sigh of the poor girl expiring in its making, has been expended, over which the anxious glance of the half bankrupt tradesman has been cast, who dare not ask for the amount of his bill, though the money would probably save him from ruin. The people perish for want and you cry “more churches,” they ask for bread and you give them a stone. Let it be your grand object to abolish poverty and crime, by promoting industrious occupation and education, and then I will say you are, what I most want to be, the friend of the whole human race and of the undisguised truth.34

In addition to summarising her critique, she also offered her commentary on the meeting. It should be read as a victim statement (like all of these documents), as well as polemic riposte.35 The Rev Dr Vaughan next addressed the meeting at great length and at the conclusion was much applauded. Before the applause had subsided up rose Mrs Martin, the Socialist lecturer, a woman of rather corpulent dimensions [who has never compressed her chest and waist to the destruction of the viscera within, nor sought to cut off communication between her head and her heart, since she wants lungs for use not a waist for admiration] She sought to make an amendment to the report in a public meeting and the police were called. She was refused an opportunity to speak. At the end of the meeting Rev JW Massie spoke “Could you have imagined a more pitiful – amore painful object which presented its claim of a hearing from the chair this evening. There could not be a more humiliating spectacle of human form and of woman’s character than was exhibited there.” [Oh it was pitiful! It was a painful object this undaunted woman. It was painful to discover that even the police could not relieve us from the scrutinising eye, which while it staid here fixed its paralysing gaze upon us. For what is women’s most glorious character? Is it not to kiss the hand that strikes her, to honour and obey her master, and to be the tame slave of the priest? Is it not dreadful when one of these begins to think for herself? Why others will follow her example? And where will it end? I saw a more pitiful object than myself that night! I saw Cowards and Bullies, Impostors and Dupes! I saw you Mr Massie and hundreds thought you looked wondrous pitiful when you said ‘I expect Mr Livingstone to take Mrs Martin away and that woman defied him and you to do it. Hundreds thought you looked most pitiful when the policeman’s staff was your only answer to such charges as those I brought].36

LMS archive maintains a stony silence about Emma Martin. But despite the attempts to silence her in the meeting and expel her from the archive, Martin’s

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critique of LMS breaks out still. Emma Martin shone a light on LMS missionary capitalism and their patriarchy and reminds us that the power play of mission movements has been contested abroad and at home. Her exposure of Victorian respectability politics as a veneer for profit grabbing is breath taking, as is her insouciant defiance of body shaming. At the same time, we notice the lack of solidarity between Martin’s class analysis and her race analysis, and this has to be reflected back to white radicals and progressives today. One should note that it was thanks to African Americans, like Remond37 and Douglass, rather than Martin, that cotton workers refused in 1862 to touch raw cotton that was picked by enslaved people in the American South.38

ARISING WITH CUPIDO, QUAMINA, TZATZOE, MARTIN AND JUDY The white – Christian, colonial – missionary constructs of human identity built around race, gender, class and profitability to empire continue today. They are in a nexus which militates against any claim one might make for the power of the Gospel to bring forth a new creation in Christ unless these columns are shaken at the idol it brought down. Without this, they remain embedded in systems, designed to produce clones of and drones for the Massa. Attempts to de-colonise this (in)humanity through the vision of “mission from everywhere to everywhere” or of “partnership around a table” have failed to root out the seeds of racist supremacist anthropology today or repair the damage done by a theology so public it enslaved upwards of 12 million people and robbed them of their humanity and freedom. It also constructed theories and theologies of race which all humanity has to navigate, whether black or not. These stories expose the simultaneous construction (and subversion) of the colonial personae at the heart of the missionary movements under Massa Jesus. The “poor Boy,” the “Mouse,” the “wild Beast” and “that Woman,” singly and together testify to the disparagement of the other that underlies mission’s claim to transform the world. As LMS set out on mission it sought to occupy the hearts, souls, bodies and lands of those it already knew; without meeting them, the mission is lost to darkness. LMS baptised these folk into an anthropological vision which triangulated race, gender, class and power in the figure of Massa Jesus. This points to the place that race, gender, class and power have as the key pillars in constructing the Massa’s house and his plantation which supports it, and the idol erected at the heart of it. Thus, mission’s public task is to redress its colonial anthropology and the legacies of the colonial personae which play out still today.

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These four figures call mission to subvert and expose the Christian colonial personae. Two of them (Cupido and Tzatzoe) are paraded as exemplars of the new creation in Christ that black people “can become human” through the power of the Gospel. (This is until their profitability fades and they are discarded.) But Cupido and Tzatzoe call into question and for account, the mission organisation so willing to literally capitalise on them. The other two (Quamina and Martin) are ignored and expected to remain compliant to the silence expected of them. Both, however, favour uprising as the basis for claiming their true de-colonial personae. Quamina and Martin live out a rebellion demanded by the denial of a humanity they know is theirs by right and that of others around them. The four come from different directions reflecting their different locations in the colonial space. Cupido, Quamina and Tzatzoe find Christianity a mechanism for navigating colonial space and use it to secure some foothold in the territories LMS, with others, stole from them. They embody the double consciousness that becomes so symptomatic of life under empire, especially in an empire so motivated by white supremacism and so intent on personal, religious and cultural conversion. Martin exposes how mission(aries) dissemble to offer liberation and civilisation as a distraction from their complicities in systems which capitalise power, race and gender. These historical figures offer testimony for today, alerting those whose decolonial humanity threatens the anthropological vision of the Christian mission today, still wedded to supremacist instincts and desires. This is particularly the case for LGBTQI+ human beings. There continue to be those who in being invited to respond to the Massa’s Jesus, find in him someone radically other, as radically other as them. This is the work of the Spirit made all the harder by the work of the Massa’s Church. Perhaps Judy, whose story began our reflection, also met this radically other Jesus, and her affirmation of his “Massa-ihood” was an affirmation of the rising up of the slave Jesus and a coded call for the casting down of the Massas from their thrones, pulpits, mission strategies and whip handles. Perhaps like Quamina, Judy’s prayers were not expressions of resignation, but determination, like Mary’s that “by the power of God through Christ Jesus [s]he might be the conqueror of all her enemies,” all pointing not just to mission after Whiteness but Whiteness after Magnificat. NOTES 1. For a further explanation of the project’s outline, intentions and findings see Peter Cruchley, “Silent No Longer: The roots of racism in Mission,” Ecumenical Review 72.1 (January 2020): 98–107. 2. For a further discussion of mission as enacted white gaze see Peter Cruchley, “Ecce Homo: Beholding mission’s White gaze,” Practical Theology (2022, forthcoming).

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3. Willie Jennings, After Whiteness (Michigan: Eerdmans, 2020), 137. 4. For example, Pope Francis made pronouncements that racism is a sin, following the murder of George Floyd in July 2020 (https://press​.vatican​.va​/content​/ salastampa​/en​/bollettino​/pubblico​/2020​/06​/03​/200603a​.html); Church of England made a similar statement in its report From Lament to Action in April 2021 (https:// www​.churchofengland​.org​/sites​/default​/files​/2021​-04​/FromLamentToAction​-report​ .pdf); The Lutheran world Federation made such a statement in 2015 (https://www​ .lutheranworld​.org​/content​/resource​-public​-statement​-sin​-racism); The Reformed Tradition made statements predating even these in the Belhar Confession from 1982 (https://www​.pcusa​.org​/site​_media​/media​/uploads​/theologyandworship​/pdfs​/ the​_belhar​_confession​-rogers​.pdf). 5. “Christ dies not to ‘save’ [White Christians] but to destroy them so as to recreate them, to dissolve their Whiteness in the fire of judgment, for it is only through the destruction of Whiteness that the wholeness of humanity may be realized.” James Cone, A Black Theology of Liberation (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1970), 142. 6. James Perkinson, White Theology Outing Supremacy in Modernity (New York: Palgrave, 2004), 69. 7. The Juvenile Missionary Magazine (London 1845), 127. 8. https://api​.parliament​.uk​/historic​-hansard​/commons​/1824​/apr​/13​/conduct​-of​ -rev​-j​-smith​-at​-demerara. 9. For an extended treatment of this text see Carol Troupe, “Engagement with Mission Magazine Archives: A Black Laywoman’s Perspective,” Black Theology (2021). doi: 10.1080/14769948.2021.1948712. 10. The term “Maroons” described enslaved Africans and persons of African descent who ran away or escaped from their masters to acquire and preserve their freedom. The word maroon is commonly believed to be derived from the English equivalent of the Spanish word Cimarron (wild). The origins of the Maroons date back to 1655 around the time when Tainos and Africans who were freed by the Spanish took to remote parts of the island for refuge from the English invasion and to establish settlements. From the second half of the seventeenth century to the mideighteenth century, the Maroons developed into a formidable force that significantly challenged the system of enslavement imposed by the English. Though great controversy surrounds the terms of the treaties that they signed with the English, their role in undermining institutionalized slavery and cultural traditions are prominent parts of the history and heritage of Jamaica. See http://www​.nlj​.gov​.jm​/history​-notes​/The​ %20Maroons​%20edited​%20final​.htm (accessed 30/11/21) and also W. Zips, Nanny’s Asafo Warriors: The Jamaican Maroon’s African Experience (Kingston: Randle, 2011). 11. For the main biography of his life see V. Malherbe, “The Life and Times of Cupido Kakkerlak,” The Journal of African History 20.3 (1973): 365–378. doi: 10.1017/S0021853700017369. 12. London Missionary Society Reports to the Directors 1805. 13. R. Lovett, History of the London Missionary Society Vol 1 (London, 1895), 504. 14. See https://digital​.soas​.ac​.uk​/AA00001571​/00001 (accessed 30 Nov 2021).

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15. CWM/LMS/Africa/South Africa/Incoming correspondence/Box 6 (my italics). 16. See Malherbe, “The Life and Times of Cupido Kakkerlak,” 375. 17. J. Wells, “The Scandal of Rev James Read and the Taming of the London Missionary Society by 1820,” South African Historical Journal 42.1 (2000): 136–160. doi: 10.1080/02582470008671371. 18. See Malherbe, “The Life and Times of Cupido Kakkerlak,” 373. 19. CWM/LMS/Africa/South Africa/Incoming correspondence/Box 9. 20. B. Lapping, Apartheid: A History (London: Grafton/Collins in association with Granada Television 1986), 36. 21. Etherington, “Indigenous Southern Africans and Colonialism: Introduction,” in Limb et al. (eds), Grappling with the Beast 50 (210 HCPP, 1835): 4. 22. W. Dooling, “The origins and aftermath of the Cape colony’s Hottentot Code 1809,” Krono 31 (November 2005), 50–61 (https://www​.jstor​.org​/stable​/41056535). 23. London Missionary Society Reports to the Directors 1812 (London), 4. 24. CWM/LMS/Home/Incoming correspondence/Box 9. 25. CWM/LMS/British Guiana. Demerara/Incoming correspondence/Box 2. 26. C.D. Rice, “The Missionary Context of the British Anti-Slavery Movement,” in J. Walvin (ed) Slavery and British Society 1776–1846 (London: Palgrave, 1982). M. Jones, The Mobilisation of Public Opinion Against the Slave Trade and Slavery: Popular Abolitionism in National and Regional Politics, 1787–1838 (pp. 165–173; https://etheses​.whiterose​.ac​.uk​/14169​/1​/286110​.pdf). 27. http://www​.guyana​.org​/features​/guyanastory​/chapter43​.html. 28. See comparative study: Sara Baartman and Andries Stoffels, “Violence, Law and the Politics of Spectacle in London and the Eastern Cape, 1809–1836, Elizabeth Elbourne,” Canadian Journal of African Studies 45 (2011). 29. LMS Missionary Magasine 1836 (London), 58. 30. LMS Report to the Board of Directors 1836 (London), 231. 31. Emma Martin, The Missionary Jubilee Panic and the Hypocrites Prayer (London, 1844). 32. Barbara Taylor, Eve and the New Jerusalem 1983 (London: Virago, 2016), 134. 33. Martin, The Missionary Jubilee Panic and the Hypocrites Prayer, 19. 34. Martin, The Missionary Jubilee Panic and the Hypocrites Prayer, 3–4. 35. Emma Martin’s commentary on the newspaper report recording the LMS speakers in the meeting in square brackets. 36. Martin, The Missionary Jubilee Panic and the Hypocrites Prayer, 16–17. 37. http://www​.lihnnhs​.info​/Christielibrary​/2020​ /10​ /31​ /black​ - history​ - month​ -sarah​-parker​-redmond/; https://libraries​.udmercy​.edu​/archives​/special​-collections​/ index​.php​?collectionCode​=baa​&record​_id​=1400​&item​_id​=1651. 38. https://citiesmcr​.wordpress​.com​/2011​/10​/24​/manchester​-abolitionism​-and​ -frederick​-douglass/.

Chapter 9

Brit(ish) Public Liberation Theology An (Im)migrant’s Proposal Raj Bharat Patta

In an editorial comment published by New Blackfriars, Fergus Kerr remarked that “it is Liberation theology that Britain needs.”1 This requirement has called on some serious discussion, and David Jenkins’s 1985 public lecture on “the God of freedom and the freedom of God” pioneered a theological enquiry into this project. Reflecting Bishop Jenkins’s lecture Mark Corner explains that British liberation theology will certainly be different from that of the third world, for it will address the particular needs of the British context. However, he remarks that those British needs cannot be isolated from the needs of the other nations, as issues are interrelated and interdependent. Corner therefore explains that “it would be reasonable to expect a British theology of liberation to adopt terminology familiar from elsewhere, as it sought systematically to think through the implications of God’s identification with the poor and deprived in British terms.”2 This chapter discusses the Brit “ish” ness, where diversity of identities is affirmed in the context of post-Brexit. As an (im)migrant from India, now living in the UK, I bring in my theological locale of Dalit theology as a public theology of liberation, for it offers certain signposts in terms of epistemology and methodology in the pursuit of explaining a public liberation theology for Britain today. Before I do that, I bring in public theology in the UK context, which is the theological context in this “new” context I now live. It then brings in the context of hunger and xenophobia, as issues that need public theological engagements and propose Brit(ish) public liberation theology as an anti-hunger theology and as an anti-empire theology. This is one of the proposals from the perspective of an (im)migrant, and it is invitational for further theologising.

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THE “ISH” IN BRIT(ISH) At the welcome week of our university in 2020, I was standing at the Chaplaincy’s promotion tent, and I was wished by a student by saying Salaam, and I replied Walekum Salaam and introduced to him that I am Raj from India. Immediately he said, so are you a Hindu and I replied to him that I am a Christian, and his further reply was much more annoying for he raised his brows and asked – Are there Christians in India? This encounter led me to reflect on the multiple identities that I carry, and which are intrinsically overlapping and inseparable in my construction of my being. Who am I? I am Dalit, I am Christian, I am Indian, I am male, and so on. This constructs my being (see also Aruna Gogulamanda, “This is my country”; chapter 2). What do I become? I live in Manchester, so I become Non-Resident Indian (NRI) from Indian perspective, and as a member from Commonwealth countries by living in the UK, I am given the right to vote in the UK, enjoying the partial citizenry of being British. Therefore, I have become a person of Indian origin living as a citizen in the UK. Where do I belong? Territorially, do I belong to the UK or because of my passport – India? and religiously do I belong to Indian Dalit Christianity or British Christianity? My being, my becoming and my belonging have very blurred lines to define and construct my identity and my “self.” This takes religious identity to be interrogated in the public sphere. On the other hand, can an (im)migrant offer a theological reflection to a context to which he has moved? This question raises an important methodological question where do I belong and how does my belonging affect my doing theology? I recognise my location in the Brit(ish) public sphere as authentic for I keep offering ministry through my work, contribute to the society through my work and participate in strengthening the ethic of an inclusive society by my being and by my contributions. I also need to mention that my multiple belongings, Indian–British, Dalit–Christian, Methodist–Lutheran and theology–ministry are all part of who I am, and I am here in this context as a “global citizen” concerned about the transnational public sphere and therefore venture to do a public liberation theology for the UK. On the discussion of race, identity and belonging, Afua Hirsch explains that today, a core component of “British values” is the notion of fairness, which directly contradicts societal attitudes to immigrants, to refugees and to Islam.3 Hirsch writes eloquently about situations where she has felt “othered” – be it on her first day as a journalist at Sky News, where she was told by a senior colleague that “you can’t get a promotion around here if you’re white these days,” perpetuating the myth that diversity exercises are about replacing one monocultural perspective with another. This is only to explain the kind of xenophobia that is growing in the context and therefore calls all the more to

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engage in an (im)migrant’s theological proposal, which is the Brit(ish) public liberation theology.

PUBLIC THEOLOGY IN A POST-SECULAR BRITISH PUBLIC SQUARE In order to explain the theological context and to find a theological location in the Brit(ish) public sphere, I engage in the writings of Elaine Graham, who offers public theology as a relevant theology for our times and also provides a space for margins, in my case the migrant’s voices to be heard. So, I bring in her public theology as a starting theological companion and then in the next section will bring in Dalit theology as a migrant’s offering to this context. Elaine Graham envisages the Church as a “public Church” speaking the language of post-secularism in order to communicate the values of the gospel, relevant for the times. She discusses post-liberal and radical orthodoxy as streams of public theological articulations, benefiting public theological discourse: “Public theology espouses middle axioms or strategies of bilingualism as attempts to embody a synthesis of Christian theology and broader political principles.”4 Public theology is accountable equally to the Church and the society, the sacred and the secular. A public theologian grounds themselves in that oscillating site and is committed to both those vertices. Public theology’s bilingualism marks its specialisation, as it explains its amphibious characteristic. Graham states that public theology as Christian apologetics comes with novelty and with a greater relevance to the present-day Church and postChurch contexts. Her “apologetics of presence” presents a re-reading of apologetics and recovers it from the evangelical wrappings that it has come to have. Reclaiming apologetics for Christendom and for secularism is a bold venture. Graham identifies three motifs of post-secular public theology. First, it is concerned with “the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare” (Jer 29:7). This explains the purpose of public theology. Second, the motif of “speaking truth to power,” which explains the hermeneutics of public theology. Third, in the context of the Church, she speaks of “the secular vocation and formation of the laity.” This explains the praxis of public theology as Christian apologetics.5 Her presentation of public theology for “non-persons” is of great relevance for the publics on the margins. Graham explains the implications of public theology to “non-persons” (from liberation theology) and for the “godless and god-forsaken,” thereby establishing justice and advocacy as important public theological issues to be considered in these discourses.

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Graham also expresses the importance of the excluded and powerless, and explains “a ‘preferential’ public theology placing itself in an explicitly partisan role, as an advocate, whose objective in seeking solidarity, is not to silence the voices of dissent but to hear the cry of the poor.”6 Her preferential options of those on the margins in the public in seeking solidarity with those marginal publics provides a locus for public theology today. She further says that “public theology’s objective must be to speak about God-in-the-world, to the world.”7 This is how I find the need and relevance of a Brit(ish) public liberation theology. Public theology is essentially a performative discipline, measured, for example, by its engagement with marginalisation. Public theology recognises the connection between modernisation processes and marginalisation, the paradox of wealth-creating processes. It links local, national, and global dimensions of living today. Marginalisation invites public theology to be problematic based and contextually located, for it is in relation to that, that we best develop critical theories.8 Marginalisation therefore provides an important context of doing public theology. In this process, theology is also liberated from the clutches of the epistemologies of the privileged and powerful. Taking the clue from Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s category of “nonbeliever” and also the clue of Latin American Liberation theology’s “non-person” (poor, excluded), Graham engages in deciphering the epistemology of theology from the perspective of margins. In this process, she recognises how knowledge has been constructed from the perspectives of power and finds out the conscious absence of the powerless in the enterprise of knowledge construction and therefore claims authority and agency from “little ones” or from “those on the underside of history.” Such a recovery shifts the perspective of theology as “theology for the poor to theology of and from the poor.” Her presentations on public theology for “non-persons” is of great relevance for publics that are on the margins. As in the liberation theological context, public theology is also for “non-persons” and for the “godless and god-forsaken” and takes justice and advocacy as serious public theological issues to be considered. Her preferential options of those on the margins in the public provide a locus for public theology today. She further says that “public theology’s objective must be to speak about God-in-the-world, to the world.”9 Graham utilizes theologies of liberation and explains that it is a political imperative to recover the hidden lives and experiences of people on the margins, and it is high time that theology speaks and communicates in the “vernacular” of the poor. In bridging the gap between power and bringing the voices from the underside to the public domain, Graham brings to the fore the questions of representation, for there has been either misrepresentation or over romanticization of those on the margins. Public theology’s task therefore

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includes analysing who represents whom, and whose versions of events are projected in the public and ensuring a preferential option to the experiences of those on the margins in the given public space. A theological epistemology of margins for public theology can be expressed in the “personal testimony of margins as vehicle of speaking of God in public.” The autobiographical experiential narratives of those on the margins have been silenced by the powerful and remained “unheard.” She says, Public theologians might explore using journaling, or narrative, or the creative arts, either with individuals or groups, as ways of giving voice to experience, or in forging what we call the “living human document.” This expression may also reinforce the conviction that theology may not necessarily find expression in academic treatises but in other, more “performative” styles, such as liturgy, creative writing, drama or music.10 Graham also recognizes that commitment to the perspectives and experiences of poverty becomes an integral vision of public theology, and public theology is also seen as “linking social capital.” By this “linking,” she thinks marginalized voices find expression and there will be a committed connection established with the powerless communities in the public domain in making public opinion and in constructing public knowledge. “So questions of who speaks from where, who speaks for whom, and how experience can be trusted and authenticated, let alone the uses to which our knowledge is put, are all essential questions of good public theology.”11

OPENING AN (IM)MIGRANT’S THEOLOGICAL TRAVEL BAG: DALIT THEOLOGICAL OFFERINGS The question that has been asked time and again in the Brit(ish) public sphere is what do I offer or what are my contributions? Living in the “new” context in the UK, and as we open up our travel bags, we as a family share our food, snacks, crochet, spices and so on with our neighbours, which they thoroughly enjoy. On the same vein, I open up my theological travel bag: I bring with me Dalit theology – the theology of our ancestors who as Dalits, being born outside of the caste system, explored faith and spirituality from the epistemic sites of oppression and discrimination. As (im)migrant I bring this specific theological contribution to offer its global relevance to trans-contextual settings. Taking cognisance of the Dalit realities in the Indian Church and in the Indian public sphere, Dalit theology emerged as a counter theology, contesting the dominant publics of casteism. It emerged as a protest theology, as a resistance theology and as a resilience theology, against the forces of marginalization, domination and oppression done in the name of caste and on the

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notions of purity and pollution. For A. P. Nirmal, the ultimate goal of Dalit theology is not simply the gaining of rights, the reservations and privileges. The goal is the realization of full humanness or conversely full divinity, the ideal of the Imago Dei, the image of God in us.12 Dalit theology as a voice of resistance and resilience of Dalits is made visible, for it has emerged in critique of the classical Indian Christian theology which used Brahminical philosophical categories in theologizing Christian faith in India. It has also emerged as a critique against the liberation theology of Latin America, for most of its social analysis has been Marxist, and never considered the caste analysis which is imbedded in the Indian society. Dalit theology has created seismic and systematic changes in the very act of theologizing, for it has recognised and reclaimed subaltern epistemic experiential sites as locus of doing theology and has recovered historical consciousness as a hermeneutical key in the whole enterprise of theology. Dalit Theology Enables Contested Epistemologies Dalit theology stands as voices of resistance to the colonial projects of knowledge and has been on the go in employing de-colonial methods of reading/ hearing/listening texts, contexts, events, histories, theories and theologies and therefore this can be a pointer in seeking its relevance in the West, specifically in the UK. In Dalit theology, Dalit “body” constitutes a hermeneutical key in the process of deconstruction, for their “bodies” are the sites where violence, violation and scars of oppression are imprinted. Therefore, the hermeneutic of “body” provides a method to review the episteme of oppression that has prevailed in history and helps subalterns to reconstitute self with new symbols and meanings. Subalternity as “deconstructive hermeneutics” is a space to rearticulate the subjected self, a space to revisit the other, a space to reinterpret the text by deconstruction and a space to rediscover the hermeneutics of transformation utilizing subaltern symbolic interpretants. The challenge Dalit theology poses to the euro-centred epistemologies is “learning to listen to the voices from below,” the voices from margins as contested epistemologies and “hearing to speech” such knowledge forms. It calls to sufficiently theorise power and its dynamics from the perspectives of those on the margins and to address situations of oppression. Dalit Theology Exposes Hypocritical Silence on Exclusion Felix Wilfred in his essay “Subalterns and Ethical Auditing” explains the “hypocritical silence on caste.” He explains that “like the proverbial cat that has nine lives, caste takes on ever new avatars which makes it difficult

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to censure and bring under ethical auditing.” By comparison, “Dalits speak about caste without inhibition, because they want to exorcize this demon. On the other hand, upper castes want to be silent on caste in public and derive all the benefits and power through it.”13 The dominant castes enjoy the benefits of and from caste and remain silent. It is a convenient choice for people to remain silent and thereby see that caste and its ramifications are alive igniting and inviting violence and oppression on Dalits. Bonhoeffer says, “Silence on the face of evil is sin.” Caste is practised across all religions and has permeated into all structures and functions of Indian societies. Caste is also practised in the West. Look at the associations of South Asian Diaspora in the West – most of them are named and based on their caste identities. Recognise the systemic oppressive practice of caste as discriminatory and as inhuman. This therefore calls to incorporate caste discrimination in the legislation of the UK Equality Act 2010 and ensure justice and equality. Caste is one of the forms of discrimination and exclusion in the British context, alongside race, gender, class and so on. Dalit Theology Envisages a Shift to Subalternity In drawing Spivak’s relevance to theology, Indian Dalit theologian Y. T. Vinayaraj calls for the shift towards subalternity as an important theological location from Euro-centricism and other colonial locations. In theological locations like Euro-centricism where the “self” is constructed based on the episteme of privilege, subalterns are the “other.” Subalternity is a radical theological location, signifying a process of theologizing where the question of othering is transgressed and transcended. It is here that the self is deconstructed and the other is revisited. Spivak affirms the subaltern as her teacher through which she is invited to reinvent herself. It is this possibility of reinvention of the theologian, for Vinayaraj that makes subalternity/marginality/planetarity a radical theological location, where a theologian learns from below, making subalterns their teachers. Spivak constructs the concept of planetarity to counteract global capitalism and globalization, as a “sheer space of alterity,” where the global is deconstructed. In most theological enterprises, there has always been a practice of representing the other and speaking for the other by dominant theories of privilege in their epistemologies, languages and paradigms. Vinayaraj observes that by shifting to subalternity as a radical theological location, it is an invitation not to represent anyone, in the process of theologizing but allowing the subaltern to speak for themselves and to “learn to re-present oneself” in dialogue with the subaltern. It is to “unlearn one’s privilege as loss.”14 Such a shift rediscovers and reconfigures self and other.

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TOWARDS A BRIT(ISH) PUBLIC LIBERATION THEOLOGY: AN (IM)MIGRANT’S PROPOSAL I now attempt a public liberation theology for the UK from an (im)migrant’s positioning and perspective. As an (im)migrant I recognise two issues which I connect with, one is hunger and the other is xenophobia. Having come from India, where the majority of the global poor reside, to notice hunger in the context of the UK startled me. And with regards to xenophobia, we encounter those unfriendly stares in the society for the way we look different, jeopardising the very understanding of our belonging. Both these public issues need public theological response and as an (im)migrant I offer anti-hunger and antiempire theologies as ingredients to the Brit(ish) public liberation theology for the twenty-first century. This proposal does not discount other proposals, but it is invitational for people of faith to engage deeply and strive towards a liberative public square in the UK. Dalit theology’s contested epistemology, shifting to the sites of subalternity and exposing the hypocritical silence on the issues of the public sphere provide a theological method in that process. Anti-Hunger Theology It has been twenty years since the food banks came into existence, and today it is said that there are more food banks in the UK than McDonald’s. A disturbing statistic and a desperately sad indictment of the inequalities within our society noted in the “House of Good” report commissioned by the National Churches Trust.15 Recognising hunger as the deeper translation of conflict, we now need to unpack hunger in our context today. The UN reported in 2019 that 690 million people in the world are undernourished, which is about 8.9% of the world population. In the UK, 8.4 million people struggle to afford to eat – 4.7 million of these people live in severely food-insecure homes. This means that their food intake is greatly reduced, and children regularly experience physical sensations of hunger, explains Fairshare, an organisation in the UK fighting hunger and tackling food waste.16 Children from black, Asian, minority ethnic communities in the UK are more likely to be in poverty, which is about 46% compared to 26% of the other communities. At another level, hunger could kill more people than the COVID pandemic in 2020, pushing another 132 million people into hunger. COVID has exposed that we live in a world filled with inequalities, including who gets food and who is not able to get food. The number of children going hungry during holidays in the UK has also been on a phenomenal rise. Charles Roding Pemberton’s book Bread of Life in Broken Britain: Food Banks, Faith & Neoliberalism17 provides a Christian narrative to the public

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sphere on food, and a political narrative on food to Christians. Pemberton explains “precariousness” as the growth of risk in the context of food banks. He alludes to Isabell Lorey’s explanation: precarious is not only work that is precarious and dispersed, but life itself. In all their differences, the precarious tend to be isolated and individualized, because they do short-term jobs, get by from project to project, and often fall through collective social security systems. There are no lobbies or forms of representations for the diverse precarious.18 Precariousness is, in the context of the foodbank conversation, “living with the unforeseeable, with contingency.” This is a huge public issue that needs a careful theological engagement. Are food banks the solution to the growing hunger in the UK? Pemberton would argue otherwise and ask why hunger is increasing. Are the welfare state measures working? Drawing from Dalit theology of contested epistemology, it is important to understand “precariousness” from the perspective of those people in the margins, contesting the dominant narrative that food banks are sufficient. Pemberton brings in the conversation of neoliberalism as opposed to theology, where he contests the epistemology of neoliberal market ideologies in the context of food. It is important to engage with these questions: Does the food banks depoliticize hunger, by relieving the government of its basic duty to its citizens?19 Pemberton proposes “participation”20 in addressing precariousness in the context of hunger by focussing on Christian attitudes to food. For example, ritual participation in Eucharist – at its heart is sharing. In order to contest the neoliberal market which promotes consumerism, it is important to understand that anti-hunger theology strives for participation of all agencies. God in Jesus participates in Eucharist as living bread and meets people in their hunger. In making space for others by sharing food Christians are imitating God making space for the world, God’s hospitality. Masao Takenako, a Japanese theologian used the phrase “God is rice,” where rice serves as a symbol of God’s gift of life.21 The living bread of life is willing to be broken to be shared with the broken people. In Matthew 25:35 and 25:40, Jesus says, “For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me. . . . Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” In this compelling scripture, Jesus includes even those we do not know among those with whom we must share our food, our water and our welcome. He does not distinguish between the “deserving or undeserving” poor, nor does he make a distinction between those who live close to us and those who may live in other places. He calls all his followers to share what we have and to work towards a time when all people have enough food and water for their needs.

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An anti-hunger theology as British public liberation theology finds its locale on the three vertices as proposed earlier by Dalit theology. First, it pitches on the contested epistemology, for a theology of food has to be understood from the perspectives of those people who are hungry and not from the episteme of policymakers encouraging food banks. Contested epistemology will challenge its citizenry to call on the accountability of the governments in exercising justice with people-friendly welfare measures. Constant advocacy for justice is a way forward. Churches and faith communities are called to address the issue of hunger, for it is a public issue that calls for public faith responses. Second, hunger exposes the hypocritical silence of the people whose tummies are full in advocating for food justice. Charity has been another way of expressing people’s corporate guilt, for they assume that by bringing a few food items their guilt is thereby absolved. The anti-hunger theology calls to exercise faith from the perspectives of justice, where Eucharist provides a clue in offering a theology of hospitality, where everyone is equal and just at the table. It calls us to interrogate the politics of food. Pemberton argues that there are theological problems in dealing with a theology of food: feeding the socially marginalised on food produced by degrading the soil, polluting the water, homogenizing plant and animal diversity, driving local communities off the land at home and abroad through industrial farming practices is a theological problem. Sanctifying oneself by addressing the immediate needs in front of one and not contemplating or where necessary one’s complicity in the economic and political whole is a theological problem.22 The anti-hunger theology calls for confession and commitment to eat and share food justly. A sensitivity to the creation and doing justice will be at the centre of an antihunger theology today. Third, Dalit theology compels us to shift to the hospitable sites of subalternity. It is important in the public sphere to acknowledge that the poor and the hungry are not objects of doing mission but are partners in God’s economy of justice, where we share and care for one another. We have examples from poverty truth commissions involving Christian charities like Church Action and Poverty, who have advocated for food justice through their expressions of “food pantries,” where they work with people in need as partners. Allow me to conclude with a harvest reflection relevant to the UK context: When you reap the harvest of your land, do not reap to the very edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest. Leave them for the poor and for the foreigner residing among you. I am the Lord your God (Lev 23:22). This Levitical law reminds the community to know that God provides food for all, with a special provision to those people who are poor, migrants and foreigners living in your locality. At the heart of God, all people are equal and deserve food.

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I bring to your attention three things from Leviticus 23:22. First, this verse emphasises a preference to the people on the edges – the poor and the foreigner residing among you. Reading it in the UK context, those people are on the margins of society – as asylum seekers, refugees, migrants; people on food vouchers, who have lost their jobs, who cannot afford to eat a proper meal a day – they are the people to be given preferential option. For among such people and communities, God comes alive. Second, this verse is a call to build peace bridges with a definite provision. The law reminds people not to reap to the very edges of a given field or gather the gleanings of the entire harvest. Rather, they are to leave portions of the harvest for the people on the edges, which is an act of building bridges of peace. If hunger is a deep translation of conflict, then harvest time reminds us that we are called to build bridges by sharing our fruits, harvest, gifts and care with those on the edges and thus address this conflict called hunger. These people of the edges are likely to go on hunger as they can’t afford a harvest, but as a faith community, we need to provide food for them. Building bridges of peace is God in Jesus’s activity, and the divine invites us to join with Jesus in building peace bridges with those on the edges. Third, this verse is a call seeking a pledge to practice just compassion towards the poor and the hungry and proclaim food as a faith issue. This Levitical law demanded a pledge, a commitment from that wandering community to put it into practice in its fullest sense. Harvest demands a preference, a provision, and a practice of sharing food with the poor and hungry. The pledge is not limited to one crop or a certain crop in the year, but to every harvest in the field. Harvest calls for just compassion. The one who works hard in the field can ask since I have been working hard, I need to enjoy all the fruit of the harvest. But this verse counters such arrogance of selfishness and calls for a compassion based on justice, with a preferential option to the least and the last. Harvest challenges us to ensure that there is food for all. Food serves as an important factor in community building, and harvest demands an unequivocal pledge and commitment in addressing hunger and food insecurity. Harvest today is about sharing food and tackling hunger and inequalities. In the context of climate change, this harvest invites us to care for our planet, overcoming all those “dominion” narratives against creation. We are called to be with our local communities in challenging poverty and in demanding our governments to accountability to ensure welfare of all people and not just a few. With nearly 6 million people in the UK struggling to pay their household bills during the COVID pandemic, the call for #resetthedebt is a campaign23 we can as a Church join. In reimagining Church today, I envision churches to be hubs of serving food for all, addressing poverty, tackling hunger and sharing our resources.

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Anti-Empire Theology With the onset of Brexit, the fear of the stranger, xenophobia, has been rampantly growing. In the post-Brexit context, the Equality and Human Rights Commission reported an alarming picture of the status of black and ethnic minority communities in the UK, for hate crime against these communities have increased by leaps and bounds, and they are underpaid and under-represented in positions of authority and power.24 In such a context, the identities of ethnic minority groups have come under more scrutiny than ever, for the post-Brexit UK society has embarked on creating a rhetoric, ideology, narrative and identity of “Britishness” for our times. Humayun Ansari, in constructing a historical account of British Muslim identities, mentions that with the rise of “English” nationalism in the 1980s, when “Britishness” was perceived as homogenous, white and Christian, the British Muslims were “excluded” and seen as “outsiders.” In such a context, the British Muslims are called to “celebrate their differences and to construct their new formed hybrid-identities.”25 In a way “othering” people who did not look like the majority in the UK, who did not believe in the majority faith in the UK, has always been on the rise, and Brexit has added fuel to hatred and xenophobia. Anthony Reddie’s theological analysis of Brexit explains that the British identity is no longer white and Christian, and there is no theological exceptionalism to such notions.26 With the onset of Brexit, the facets of anti-empire in the context of Britain are the growing forces of xenophobia on the one hand and the promotion of white nationalism in their quest for making Britain, “Great” Britain again on the other hand. Reddie, in analysing the exceptionalism in the writing of Shakespeare, articulates that the outworking of this exceptionalism was the desire to export the superiority of the British across the world. Empire and colonialism found much of their intellectual underscoring based on White, Eurocentric supremacy, which marked the clear binary between notions of civilised and acceptable over and against uncivilised and transgressive.27 Anti-empire theology addresses racism and the colonial episteme on their heads. There are many threads that need attention in this regard, however, the understanding of citizenship has been contested in the UK, and I propose “global citizenship” in the context of people who are finding it difficult with their belonging. The recent Windrush scandal, people crossing the oceans and the English Channel expose the gravity in the understanding of citizenship today. A colonial understanding of citizenship is based on territory and an anti-empire theology works on “transnational territory” where we are all citizens in the creation of God. Citizenship has been understood as that which is given to people who qualify to live in a given territory born in that province, speak like the majority

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and look like the majority. The number of people without documents has been increasing, the denial of documents to people applying for naturalisations as asylum seekers has been increasing in our contexts today, for they look different from the rest of the “locals.” And since these people do not have the right papers, they are denied the right to work and to earn their bread, rice and curry. Poverty among these people has been on the rise as they don’t qualify for foodbanks nor able to work to earn their living. What is an anti-empire theology in such a context? I propose “global citizenry” as the “broken body of Christ,” which is not determined by territorial nation states but bound by life concerns, seeking solidarity with the people and offering hope to all people of all nations. Citizenship from a Christian discipleship perspective is based on love, dignity and respect to one another. In this “broken body of Christ,” we are different members called to care for the least parts of the body. Christian faith, in its anti-empire episteme, offers hope to people who are struggling to cope with documentations and the right to live. Our faith in Jesus Christ is transterritorial and so should our love be. In arguing for the agency of self in the global era, Gnanapragasam expresses the need and relevance of a “global civil society” and argues for a “universal citizenship” to all people for the emancipatory identities of subaltern communities. He expresses hope in the mechanism of global civil society, for it will provide a negotiating space for the subalterns, contesting the oppressive systems by agreed global policies and laws. He says, “representing similar efforts like feminist movements, the global civil society, as a normative ideal, would help interrogate oppressions at different layers of the global world and negotiate the oppressive borders for the sake of the emancipation of the subalterns.”28 Public theology offers “the body of Christ” as the global liturgical public, for injustice done to one part of the body affects the entire body and particularly honouring and respecting the least organs of the body explains the political efficacy of the body of Christ. Anti-empire theology forges a global solidarity of subalternity within the body of Christ, constructing an “epistemology of solidarity” based on “if one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honoured, all rejoice together with it” (1 Cor 12:26). Anti-empire theology contributes towards a global solidarity, which James Cone calls as “rainbow coalition of all disadvantaged people throughout the globe,” for he says, “there will be no freedom to anybody until all are set free.”29 Empire was built on the principles of homogenization of power and authority, and anti-empire theology contests such homogenisation and celebrates the difference in solidarity with the powerless.

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On another occasion, Gnanapragasam argues for a “universal citizenship,” which according to him would instil confidence among subaltern communities. He says that a citizenship recognised in a global space is in the direction of freedom as far as the closed societies are concerned. A traditional society like ours (India) where caste and patriarchy have determined a rigidly closed social system, where the current phenomenon of cultural nationalism (Hindutva) is either reinforcing or creating further fetters of a closed society, the possibility of a global citizenship is liberating. It instils a new self-confidence and assertiveness.30

This proposal of “global citizenship” might sound too utopian, but it is the aspiration of the subaltern communities, for this proposal expresses on the one hand a lack of confidence on the territorial nation state to liberate them from the bondage of injustice and on the other hand articulates a subaltern vision to overcome forces of oppression and discrimination. In the context of the UK, with the rise of xenophobia, when divisions and hatred among people based on their identities are increasing, celebrating the idea of “global citizenship” is a way forward for peace and love in the public sphere. Citizenship is liturgical in at least two interrelated ways, explains Charles Mathews: first, in its civic sense, which is that the civic order is “work of the people.” Second, in its theological sense, citizenship is liturgical for the citizen’s performance of work is a continuation of the liturgy of the “blessed in heaven that is our eschatological destiny.”31 Going by it, “global citizenship” is a liturgy of the eschatological destiny, which is the hermeneutic in understanding Paul’s phrase “for our citizenship is in heaven” (Phil 3:20). Therefore, Brti(ish) public theology as anti-empire theology contests xenophobia in a public sphere, contests the soteriology of state, which pre-tends to be a saviour to all its citizenry. The prospect of “global citizenship” as a subaltern liturgy emerges in protest against the false salvation offered by state. By affirming “global citizenship” to subalterns, anti-empire theology runs a risk of branding its theology as “anti-national” or “anti-patriotic” for the sake of its liturgy, which is courageous to envision an eschatological hope of liberating subaltern communities from all forms of oppressions. “Global citizenship” of anti-empire theology contests the colonial project of territorial nation states, for it recognises the “bio-political” nature of life, offering life in all its fullness to the citizens of the entire transnational public sphere. In other words, anti-empire theology engages in de-colonial projects like on citizenship, exposes the hypocritical silence of people who are content with their own status and finds sites of subalternity as sites of hospitality where racism and xenophobia are contested. “Global citizenship” offers hope in contesting white supremacy and colonial epistemology of territorial powers.

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CONCLUSION What the British public needs is a liberation theology, and as an (im)migrant living in the UK, drawing on my Dalit theological contribution to global contexts, I have argued for an anti-hunger and anti-empire theology for our times. This is a proposal and invitational for people of faith to engage in these theological offerings and strive to make our public sphere a place of welcome, a place of hospitality, and a place of food for all. In the context of COVID, the stranger Jesus is opening our eyes and hearts to see the reality around us. Outbreaks often create fear, and fear is one of the key factors for xenophobia (fear of stranger) and racism to thrive and spread. COVID is not merely a medical issue but a racial issue requiring justice solutions; this begins by overcoming “othering” by offering hospitality. Infectious diseases in history have been associated with “othering.” In the recent past, discrimination against Chinese people has increased, (mis)branding and othering them as the cause of this pandemic is unsolicited. (Mis)branding the Muslim community as the ones spreading the virus in India is very unfortunate and inhuman. Black and Asian ethnic minority communities are more vulnerable to severe illness due to COVID because they are more likely to be among the poorest socioeconomic groups, living in insecure and overcrowded housing and in low-paid and precarious essential work. They now say that the colour of COVID is black and brown, for it is the black and Asian ethnic minorities across the world who are on the higher side of the risk. These stranger communities today need the disciples of Jesus to stand with them in overcoming “othering.” These stranger communities lament that the pain of this virus is not shared equally, and they need the disciples of Jesus Christ whose hearts are burning with a commitment in offering hospitality to strangers. In the context of lockdown, Christian discipleship calls us to support stranger communities who are homeless and poor through initiatives like New Pantry Friendship Scheme to avert food shortages of the Church Action on Poverty.32 It is time to build Easter communities, where othering the stranger is overcome by building friendships and love. Gospel comes from the stranger communities, and we are called to celebrate the contributions of black, Asian and ethnic minority groups, by being open to their perspectives, their reflections and their actions of love for our multicultural society today. The divine is around us in and among our stranger communities; may we experience the “burning of our hearts” by welcoming and offering hospitality to the stranger communities. Hospitality today is in respecting the stranger communities’ contributions; in advocating for adequate housing, employment and health care; and in supporting communities of lower income groups. Hospitality today is in joining the Debt Jubilee campaign of the Christian Aid,33 in voicing for debt cancellations

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to poorer countries who can then spend it on public health and protection of their people. Hospitality today is voicing for global ceasefire, for communities in conflict are at increased risk from this virus while war continues. Hospitality is by affirming “global citizenship” of all people, recognising the “bare life” in all people irrespective of their identities. By such acts of hospitality, Brit(ish) public liberation theology will find its relevance.

NOTES 1. P. Fergus Kerr, “Editorial,” New Blackfriars 68 no. 807 (1987): 319. 2. P. Mark Corner, “Liberation Theology for Britain,” New Blackfriars 69 no. 813 (1988): 70. 3. Afua Hirsch, Brit(Ish): On Race, Identity and Belonging (London: Jonathan Cape, 2018). 4. P. Elaine Graham, Between a Rock and a Hard Place: Public Theology in a Post-Secular Age (London: SCM, 2013), 100. 5. Graham, Between a Rock and a Hard Place, 213. 6. Elaine Graham, “Public Theology in the Age of Voter Apathy,” in Public Theology for 21st Century, ed. William.F Storrar and Andrew.R Morton (London: T & T Clarke, 2004), 397. 7. Graham, “Public Theology in the Age of Voter Apathy,” 399. 8. John Atherton, Chris Baker, and Elaine Graham, “A Genius of Place? Manchester as a Case Study in Public Theology,” in Pathways to the Public Square: Practical Theology in an Age of Pluralism, ed. Elaine Graham and Anna Rowlands (Munster: Lit Verlag, 2005), 64. 9. Graham, “Public Theology in an Age of Voter Apathy,” 399. 10. Elaine Graham, Words Made Flesh (London: SCM Press, 2009), 239. 11. Graham, Words Made Flesh, 240. 12. Aravind. P Nirmal, “Towards a Christian Dalit Theology,” in Indigenous People: Dalit Issues in Today’s Theological Debate, ed. James Massey (New Delhi: ISPCK, 1994), 222. 13. Felix Wilfred, Asian Public Theology (New Delhi: ISPCK, 2010), 30–32. 14. Y. T. Vinayaraj, Intercessions: Theology, Liturgy and Politics (New Delhi: ISPCK, 2015), 62. 15. https://www​.houseofgood​.nat​iona​lchu​rche​strust​.org/. 16. https://fareshare​.org​.uk​/what​-we​-do​/hunger​-food​-waste/. 17. Charles Roding Pemberton, Bread of Life in Broken Britian (London: SCM, 2020). 18. Pemberton, Bread of Life in Broken Britian, 4. 19. Pemberton, Bread of Life in Broken Britian, 15. 20. Pemberton, Bread of Life in Broken Britian, 10. 21. Masao Takenaka, God Is Rice: Asian Culture and Christian Faith (Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2009).

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22. Pemberton, Bread of Life in Broken Britian, 13. 23. https://resetthedebt​.uk/. 24. http://rightsinfo​.org​/ethnic​-minorities​-britain​-face​-entrenched​-racial​-inequality​-says​-uks​-national​-equality​-body/. 25. Humayun Ansari, The Infidels Within: Muslims in Britain since 1800’s (London: Hurst Company, 2004), 1. 26. Anthony Reddie, Theologising Brexit (London: Routledge, 2019), 90. 27. Reddie, Theologising Brexit, 16. 28. Patrick Gnanapragasam, Wings of Faith: Towards Public Theologies in India (New Delhi: ISPCK, 2013), 43. 29. James Cone, For My People: Black Theology and the Black Church (Mary knoll, NY: Orbis books, 1984), 204. 30. Gnanapragasam, Wings of Faith: Towards Public Theologies in India, 92–93. 31. Charles Mathews, A Theology of Public Life (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 146. 32. https://www​.church​-poverty​.org​.uk​/new​-pantry​-friendship​-scheme​-to​-avert​ -food​-shortages​-for​-thousands/. 33. https://www​.christianaid​.org​.uk​/campaigns​/debt​-jubilee​-petition.

Chapter 10

Rising to Life A Syrophoenician Woman Invites Jesus to Do Public Theology Ericka Shawndricka Dunbar

Public Theology may be a contemporary phrase to describe a present-day approach of critical and reflective engagement of theology in society. However, the concept of theology in public can be observed in biblical texts and ancient contexts. Jesus, the disciples, and others, including gentiles, bore witness to and engaged in dialogue about God’s presence and role in humanity’s life, in the life of the Church, and, in society in the public domain. They theologically engaged social, political, and religious institutions as well as wider communities within society. An example of this type of consciousnessraising public theology can be found in the story of the Syrophoenician woman in Mark 7:24–30. In this chapter, I build upon Mitzi Smith’s hermeneutical framing of “sass” to illustrate that the Syrophoenician woman is not solely resisting interlocking systems of oppression through sass, but she also invites Jesus to do public theology. As a result of this powerful exchange, not only is her daughter granted an opportunity to rise to life but so are other gentiles and Jesus himself: Jesus meets the daughter’s physical needs, he welcomes the gentiles into God’s reigndom (instead of kingdom), and the Syrophoenician mother raises Jesus’s god-consciousness which enables him to abandon the interlocking demonic forces of ethnic, class, and gender supremacy. In this way, public theology, in this context, is inclusive of and honors the humanity and divinity of all and contributes greatly to the welfare of all, but especially, the marginal and oppressed within society. Public theology is not singularly defined. For the purpose of this chapter, I define public theology as the intentional placement of faith in the public sphere, as an invitation to engage in creative and liberative dialogue about the intersections between theology and social phenomena. In other words, 121

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public theology is a dialogue that gives witness to values, ideologies, and practices that are important for and contribute to the common good/welfare of all people. Specific emphasis is on marginalized and oppressed persons that are and continue to be prioritized in the reigndom of God. Theology is our understanding of God and what God requires of us. It shapes our worldviews, values, ethics, and identities which, in turn, shape public and political spheres and how we relate to others and God. Public theology, therefore, helps us to discern how we are to relate to God and one another—collectively, how we are to live, what we should believe, what values we should have, what ethics we should practice, and how we can build just societies. It should advance freedom and create conditions for members of the collective to experience the abundance of life that has been promised.

JESUS GOES TO TYRE As I reflect on the Mark 7:24–30 text, it becomes apparent that it is the struggle for life, safety, and optimal health that causes a Syrophoenician woman to cross paths with Jesus. She is a woman in the region of Tyre, a region outside of Jerusalem, the religious center. Jerusalem is the place where the temple is located and where many religious customs and traditions are carried out. Tyre is an area prized in ancient times as an established harbor that was the primary source of food, water, wood, and other living essentials.1 As well, the inhabitants, whom the Greeks named Phoenicians from the Greek word for purple because they developed the ancient world’s purple dye industry by extracting fluid from a Mediterranean mollusk,2 benefitted greatly from trading; also, their coins were so valuable and pure that their currency was acceptable for temple offerings. Even though they were subdued by the Romans (imperial, colonizing forces) the indigenous communities in that region continued to flourish and live an advanced cultural life. In addition, according to the gospel of Mark and the book of acts, both Jesus and Paul found supporters among its inhabitants. Interestingly, although this region is known for flourishing, the narrator opens the story centering Jesus being met by a beggar, a woman (whom little is given about her background). What is clear, however, is that she is in desperate need of transformation although she’s living within this thriving community. Just before this encounter, at the beginning of chapter 7, Jesus and the religious leaders, the Pharisees and scribes, are presented as engaging in a debate over the traditions of the elders versus the commandments of God. The Pharisees and scribes, who are responsible for developing the oral traditions of the elders, which served to supplement the law of Moses, were advocating to uphold traditions that Jesus challenges because he recognizes

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that the traditions are no longer relevant for the context in which they find themselves embedded. Traditions are long-established customs or beliefs that are passed on from generation to generation. One such set of traditions for the elders and people of Israel was purity codes. Legislation regarding purity and impurity in ancient Israel was both orally transmitted and detailed in the books of Leviticus and Numbers, delineating what is considered clean/unclean, pure/ polluted, and profane/holy. This debate centers on purity codes for processing and eating foods. The temple leaders call out some of Jesus’s disciples for not washing their hands, which is the custom and tradition of that culture. Moreover, the text details that other traditions include washing meat before consuming it, washing cups, pots, and bronze kettles, all utensils that are used to prepare and or consume meals. Thus, the story depicts a wealthy, privileged class of people that are focused on upholding traditions of how people prepare to eat and how people prepare their food. Both of which focus on and necessitate the use of hands. After seeing Jesus’s disciples break a tradition, not washing their hands before eating, the temple leaders challenge Jesus asking, “Why do your disciples not live according to the traditions of the elders but eat with defiled hands?” (Mark 7:5). Jesus quickly replies, one-upping them with scripture, quoting a passage from the book of Isaiah which reads, “This people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me; in vain do they worship me, teaching human precepts as doctrine” (7:6–7). In this instance, Jesus critiques the temple leaders, rejecting their focus on hands and calls them out on their own impurities, uncleanliness, and heartlessness. If I could paraphrase, Jesus says “you have a fine way of rejecting the commandment of God in order to maintain your traditions.” Although the narrator doesn’t explicitly state whether the debate is in a synagogue, we know that this exchange is among the religious leaders (7:1). However, according to verse 14, the conversation shifts from a private debate with religious leaders to public theology when Jesus invites the crowd of followers into this theological exchange and offers a theological critique that bears witness to values that are important for the common good.

A SYROPHOENICIAN WOMAN COMES TO JESUS After the heated debate with the elders about their traditions, Jesus leaves Jerusalem and travels through the region of Tyre, a place where, according to other stories in the gospels, Jesus had been approached as the people of the region had a great spiritual hunger, wanted to see him, and needed to be healed. In a world where masses migrated to temples and synagogues to

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present themselves to God and focus on temple obligations and duties, Jesus does the opposite, migrating away from the religious buildings to bring people hope and good news in public spaces, gathering in persons’ homes (although considered private, open, and accessible to people thus, transformed into public spaces) and out in nature. He breaks traditions by creating alternative gathering spaces that focuses on addressing the needs of the people while others gathered in designated sacred spaces to focus on addressing the needs of the deity. In a religious society that privileges that which is holy, clean, and pure, it could be quite intimidating and may produce shame to interact with those considered unclean and defiled. Yet Jesus possibly takes on shame in the public square in order that he might reach people that experienced societal shame because of demonic forces of privilege, of marginalization, and of exploitation. Not only did he encounter persons on the margins but, after he leaves them, their shame is transformed into honor as they gain new social statuses and standings in God. In his exchange with the Syrophoenician woman, the transformation is made possible through the means of public theology. Crowds play a major role in the ministry of Jesus. Everywhere he goes he is met by crowds. They gather to listen to his teachings and to have their lives transformed by him. Most often heavily populated by the most vulnerable and marginalized in the communities, these crowds are central to the public and itinerant ministry of Jesus. They represent commoners in contrast to religious leaders such as those with whom Jesus debates at the opening of the chapter. The text states that he entered the house and did not want anyone to know as he was attempting to escape the crowd. Yet, the narrator points out that he could not escape notice. The woman heard about him and came and bowed at his feet. Thus, members of the crowd or public intrudes this private space and transforms it into a context for public theology. She asks him to come to transform her daughter’s life because she recognizes his power and authority over demons and demonic forces, forces that destabilize, debilitate, and destroy individuals and communities. Jesus’s initial response to the woman was, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and give it to the dogs” (7:27). His response is indicative that, in his humanity, he too embodies idiosyncrasies. He absorbs aspects of his culture that cause him to respond in a way that perpetuates the type of intersectional oppression that many persons are challenging in the twenty-first century: ethnic superiority and discrimination, exclusion and marginalization based on one’s gender and class embodiments. Dr. Wil Gaffney, who identifies contemporary audiences as Gentiles as well, reflects on this exchange: Initially, Jesus did not seem to understand his ministry to be to the Gentiles, to us. He says to his disciples earlier in this same gospel (Matthew 10:5–6): Do

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not go any way leading to Gentiles, and do not enter any Samaritan town, but go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. All of the ministry that follows is to be to his people. Not us. Jesus has decided who will receive the gospel and we are not on the list.3

The children that Jesus refers to are the Israelites. He euphemistically asserts ethnic superiority equating the Israelites with children and Gentiles with animals, to be specific, dogs. According to Israelite traditions as outlined within the purity codes, meat from sacrifices was considered holy. Holy meat was food meant for the priest and worshippers; thus, if holy meat was given to dogs, it would be considered sacrilegious, profane, a violation of the food purity code. Moreover, according to Exodus 22:31, meat that was torn by beasts in the field was to be thrown to dogs. So, during this exchange with an outsider, Jesus cites a tradition of the temple leaders like the one that he had just challenged and critiqued. He refers to a food tradition, in response to the woman’s plea for help, and in doing so, he metaphorically reduces her, her child, and her ethnic group to animals. Dog is from the Hebrew kelev (BDB, 3611) and is an animal that Israelites often abhorred and regarded with contempt. In some of the Hebrew Bible material, Israel depicts dogs as despicable creatures who should be avoided. D. Winton Thomas writes that Israel viewed the dog as a vile, contemptible animal, the most ignoble and contemptible of animals, lowly, despised, and generally wretched.4 In other instances, persons are called dogs to imply low social status (Exod 22:31; Prov 26:11; 2 Sam 3:8; 2 Sam 9:8). Similarly, the psalmist refers to an evil man as a dog (Ps 22:20). Thus, Jesus in this very exchange, perpetuates a social hierarchy that diminishes the social value of this Syrophoenician woman and her cultural/ethnic group. Some might posit that this is an instance where Jesus fails to practice what he preaches. This exchange brings to mind another foreign woman in Israel’s history, a Phoenician princess Jezebel, who became the Queen of Israel (1 Kings 16:31). Jezebel endeavored to institute pagan worship in Israel and was consequently thrown from a high window by three eunuchs and her flesh devoured by dogs (2 Kings 9:30–37; see also 1 Kings 14:11; 16:4; 21:19, 23; 2 Kings 9:10). Accordingly, we see that dogs are also associated with and used to facilitate violence against religiously and ideologically transgressive persons in Israel. When we assess this public theological exchange, it becomes evident that Jesus is willing to converse with those whom he leads and is open to critique from them. The nameless woman who prioritizes the health and well-being of her nameless, faceless daughter quickly replies to Jesus, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs” (7:28). While the NRSV reads “sir,” the Greek kurios can be translated as master or lord. Even though she is socially diminished by Jesus’s framing of who is to be helped/healed/fed, she

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still engages him with a reverence and regard for who he is and the power that he possesses. Through her words, she recognizes and affirms his humanity and divinity. As well, she recognizes Jesus as a person within this community who has the power to make decisions that can change her daughter’s life. She regards him as the person that can evict demonic forces from her daughter’s physical body and, as the Messiah, the savior of all humankind. Instead of accepting how Jesus defines her and her cultural/ethnic group; instead of walking away defeated or giving up hope of a brighter future for daughter, this woman takes an opportunity to use logos (words) to speak into, enlighten, and raise the consciousness of The Logos. Ncumisa Manona maintains, Despite the insult embedded in Jesus’ saying the woman is not put off. She is similar to the persistent widow of Luke 18:1–8. Jesus’ willingness to talk to and help this woman is proof of his rejection of the rabbinic teachings concerning the discourse with women and the uncleanliness of Gentiles.5

This woman not only affords Jesus an opportunity to model what he has just challenged the elders to do in the preceding verses. But she also affords him the opportunity to reject other traditions that facilitated harm and spiritual injury, namely gender and ethnic oppression.

SASS Mitzi Smith interprets this story through a womanist hermeneutical lens of sass, which she defines as a legitimate contextual language of resistance to multiple and interlocking systems of oppression. Smith avers, sass is a “mother tongue,” a subversive, defiant, grown woman’s speech that enables black women to know, seek clarification, or refuse to be silenced or dismissed.6 Accordingly, the woman resists this triple marginalization with her logos, her word, her sass; she draws upon “inner resources” left to the reader’s imagination.7 She resists as a woman, as a mother with a sick child. Jesus invoked a text, an oppressive text—oppressive for mother and child.8

Smith further maintains that through sass, the woman asserts “the dogs do not have to wait until the children are fed first; the dogs are treated with compassion as beloved household pets.”9 She relies on her reason (logos) as she is up against something unreasoned. Manona adds that the woman reasons with Jesus that Gentiles can be served with no loss to the Jews. In other words,

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they can be attended to although they are non-Jews, and that the Markan Jesus decides that she is right.10 According to Smith, who draws upon Alice Walker’s definition of womanist—womanish sass is embodied by a woman who “behaves and talks like a grown and capable woman who assumes responsibility for her own well-being, and is ‘committed to the survival and wholeness of entire people, male and female’.”11 She is committed to a pursuit of justice and freedom from disease and oppression.12 The Syrophoenician woman employs sass, which Smith claims is culturally determined and subversive improvization13 to combat marginality and invisibility. Her child’s need for wholeness draws her to Jesus. She intentionally places faith in the public square as an invitation to Jesus to engage in dialogue that prioritizes the experiences and perspectives of those marginalized and oppressed, while speaking truth to power. This type of public theology is characterized by commitments to wholeness, justice and shared resources, power, voice, and agency. It identifies ideological perspectives that justify and perpetuate oppression while at the same time communicating ideals of inclusion and social justice. The focus of this conversation is on systemic and intersectional oppression which threatens the physical and spiritual lives and livelihood of members within the society. The woman has informed knowledge of policies (laws, rituals, traditions, assumptions, and so on) and issues that negatively impact members with certain constellations of social identity and offers an analytic evaluation and theological critique. This is public theology. According to Claudia Setzer, in the gospel of Mark, Jesus praises the woman for her word or logos and credits it as the reason for her daughter’s healing.14 While many biblical interpreters celebrate this woman for her faith, Jesus does not act on account of her faith. Rather, he acts because of this woman’s word, her wit, her willingness to invite him to do/practice public theology, and her audacity to hold him accountable. In this exchange, the woman raises Jesus’s God consciousness. In doing so, Jesus’s ministry is expanded and becomes more inclusive. She helps him to perceive the need to recognize and affirm all of humanity as God’s people. He is invited to ensure the safety of each person in the community and that all are provided for. Consequently, Jesus defeats the interlocking intersectional demonic forces of ethnic, class, and gender supremacy. Because Jesus is not only open to engaging in public theology with the woman but also has the courage to receive critical feedback from a woman who, against his claim, perceives he was sent to serve and help her people, each of their lives are transformed: her daughter, other members of the ethnic group, and Jesus. Because of Jesus’s choice to accept the Syrophoenician woman’s critique, because of his willingness to affirm the agency and dignity of this woman, a member of an ethnic group that he previously referred to as dogs, he is empowered to transform the lives

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of members of the public that he initially professed he was not called to serve. Hee Sun Kim adds that the woman came to Jesus with the most urgent problems in life, talked to him while expressing her emotion such as frustration and anger. She finally got her solution through dialogue with Jesus.15 Not only does this woman critique Jesus, but she critiques him in a public setting. Being critiqued by a non-Israelite woman would have certainly diminished his honor in the ancient context. However, instead of further shaming the woman, which would have served to increase his honor, he increases her honor by expanding God’s reigndom to include her ethnic/cultural group and others, by publicly commending her for her “words,” and by healing her daughter. He is open to hearing and learning from this woman, open to critique, and he is moved by her refusal to be denied and defined as an outsider to God’s reigndom because of his limited views and perspectives. Gaffney points out: She left that place with her daughter (whom we never see and don’t know was even present) restored to wholeness, and Jesus left that place walking towards a whole new understanding of his ministry. The closing words of this gospel, “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations .  .  .” teach us that Jesus has made room at the table for everyone, Jew and Gentile alike, because, I believe, of this woman.16

This woman raises Jesus’s consciousness by communicating values that are important for manifesting the common good. Although she was initially dismissed by him through a derogatory statement, the woman rebuts, offering logos, words in a language that is accessible and makes God more accessible to all members of the society. Hee Sun Kim interprets this story from a postcolonial feminist perspective that investigates and exposes the intersections of sexism, cultural, and religious pluralism embedded within the text and within the history of the text’s interpretation. Building upon the work of postcolonial feminist Musa W. Dube, Kim foregrounds and explores the relationship between colonialism and Christianity.17 In this essay, Kim outlines the multiple and varied voices and interpretations of the Syrophoenician woman given from different contexts but warns against prioritizing colonial and missionary interpretations of the text and colonizing ideologizes that are often cited in missional/conversion efforts.18 Kim further cites Dube who argues that there is a relationship between gender, mission, and empire.19 Accordingly, Kim understands this story as one that reflects and articulates relationships of domination and subordination in a colonial context and that must be decolonialized.20 Kim maintains that the colonial interpretation focuses on the following: the Gentile woman received the Gospel. One Gentile woman’s humble attitude

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enabled the Gospel to be spread to the Gentile people and to all over the world.21 However, Kim argues, the Gentile woman cannot be interpreted as proclaiming the universality of the Gospel of the inclusion of Gentiles without exploring the issues of Christian imperialism: she is objectified, experiences sexism, her speech displays unequal positions of men and women, and her body language, bowing and kneeling demonstrates her subordinate position.22 According to Kwok Pui-lan, like the Gentile woman, colonized peoples were expected to be as obedient and loyal as a devoted dog.23 This illustrates the correlation between a lowly or colonized status and dogs. Moreover, Kim maintains that the Syrophoenician woman who belongs to another faith group illustrates religious pluralism existing in Jesus’s time.24 The woman is symbolic of a multi-faith context which is the type of context that is healthy for engaging in public theology. Kim’s attention to intersectionality and polyvocality opens the text in ways that illustrate that the Syrophoenician woman is subjected not only to gender oppression and ethnic discrimination but to colonialism as well. Kim’s attention to colonialism also demonstrates how contemporary readers and interpreters, too, have often modeled Jesus’s behavior of invoking oppressive texts and/or texts with oppressive and colonial ideologies when engaging members of their communities. These practices invite and result in feminist, womanist, postcolonial, and other interpreters committed to liberation to employ sass to resist such marginalization and oppression. It is in these exchanges that we, contemporary readers, hearers, and interpreters of these texts, engage in and model public theology. This story, and our various interpretations of it, illustrate that public theology requires polyvocality, active listening, collaboration, and raised consciousness so that collectively, members of the public can assess whether beliefs, practices, traditions, and sacred texts are vehicles toward oppression or liberation. Moreover, public theology provides tangible hope and solidarity by shifting consciousness, shifting cultures, shifting theological content and convictions which ultimately shift the choices we make. Public theology enables us to create space for others as God’s reigndom is advanced.

NOTES 1. See, “Ancient Tyre.” Accessed at: https://www​.wmf​.org​/project​/ancient​-tyre. 2. See, “Tyrian Purple.” Accessed at: https://www​.worldhistory​.org​/Tyrian​_Purple/. 3. Wil Gafney, “The Woman Who Changed Jesus” (sermon; August 20, 2017). Accessed at: https://www​.wilgafney​.com​/2017​/08​/20​/the​-woman​-who​-changed​-jesus/. 4. D. Winton Thomas, “Kelebh ‘Dog’: Its Origin and Some Usages of It in the Old Testament.” VT 10 (1960): 410–427.

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5. Ncumisa Manona, “The Perspective of Women in Parables: An Afrocentric Womanist Perspective.” Scriptura 81 (2002): 413. 6. Mitzi J. Smith, “Race, Gender and the Politics of ‘Sass’: Reading Mark 7:24–30 Through a Womanist Lens of Intersectionality and Inter(con)textuality.” In Womanist Interpretations of the Bible: Expanding the Discourse 85 (2016): 95. 7. Appealing to Emerson B. Powery, “The Gospel of Mark.” In True to Our Native Land: An African American New Testament Commentary, edited by Brian Blount (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007), 136. 8. Smith, “Race, Gender and the Politics of ‘Sass,’” 104. 9. Smith, “Race, Gender and the Politics of ‘Sass,’” 104. 10. Manona, “The Perspective of Women in Parables,” 413. 11. Smith, “Race, Gender and the Politics of ‘Sass,’” 96. 12. Smith, “Race, Gender and the Politics of ‘Sass,’” 96. 13. Smith, “Race, Gender and the Politics of ‘Sass,’” 98. 14. Claudia Setzer, “The Syrophoenician Woman.” Bible Odyssey. n.p. [cited 5 May 2022]. Online: https://www​.bibleodyssey​.org​:443/​​peopl​​e​/rel​​ated-​​artic​​les​/s​​yroph​​ oenic​​ian​-w​​oman.​ 15. Hee Sun Kim, “The Many Faces of the Gentile Woman: A Postcolonial Feminist Hermeneutics of Mark 7:24–20.” Madang 34 (2020): 145. 16. Wil Gafney, “The Woman Who Changed Jesus.” 17. Musa W. Dube, “Postcoloniality, Feminist Spaces, and Religion,” Postcolonialism, Feminism, and Religious Discourse, eds. Laura E. Donaldson and Pui-lan Kwok, 100–122 (New York: Routledge, 2002). 18. Kim, “The Many Faces of the Gentile Woman,” 125–148. 19. Dube, “Postcoloniality, Feminist Spaces, and Religion,” 168–169. 20. Aruna Gnanadason, “Jesus and the Asian Woman: A Post-colonial Look at the Syro-Phoenician Woman/Canaanite Woman from an Indian Perspective.” Studies in World Christianity 7.2 (2001): 164. 21. Kim, “The Many Faces of the Gentile Woman,” 138. 22. Kim, “The Many Faces of the Gentile Woman,” 139–140. 23. Kwok, Pui-lan, Discovering the Bible in the Non-Biblical World (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1995), 78. 24. Kim, “The Many Faces of the Gentile Woman,” 142.

rereading (across) broad technologies

Chapter 11

Technology, Caste-Bodies and Labour Thinking with Dr B. R. Ambedkar on Leisure Shiju Sam Varughese

In the intellectual discourse on science and technology (S&T) in India, Mahatma Gandhi’s perspectives often get leverage as the alternative vantage point to the progressive views on Western S&T with the potential to modernize India from the clutches of tradition and feudalism. In the first half of the twentieth century, the decolonisation movement in the country (the national struggle) that strived for Indian independence from British colonial rule had the debate on the role of Western S&T at its core. Despite the presence of several standpoints in this debate, eventually two positions which were diametrically opposite to each other transpired; there were the perspectives of Jawaharlal Nehru (the first prime minister of India) and Mohan Das Karamchand Gandhi (known as the “father” of the nation). Gandhi’s perspectives on S&T inspired social movements and thinkers to chart sustainable alternatives to Nehruvian developmentalism that promoted state-owned technoscientific projects as the path towards national progress. The crystallisation of these two positions grew stronger after Indian independence in 1947, when the nascent nation state finds it convenient to follow the path of modernisation and progress as envisioned by Nehru and his cohorts. The Nehruvian perspective continued to be the dominant paradigm into the 1990s, strongly shaping the developmental trajectory of the country. The Gandhian views were largely marginalised by the former, which became the official ideology of the developmentalist state. However, the Gandhian perspectives continued to inspire alternative developmental imaginations and practices throughout the history of Independent India. Especially with the advent of the appropriate technology movement in the 1970s, Gandhian perspective of decentralised and sustainable technologies and indigenous knowledge traditions got a fillip from socialists in general. 133

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In the Indian context, even the Marxists fell in love with Gandhi as in the case of left-leaning People’s Science Movements (PSMs), which tried to blend Marxist views on social revolution with the Gandhian vision of a socialist society.1 In order to envisage alternative possibilities of a democratic and sustainable future, Gandhian thought in general and his thinking on technology in particular continue to be a rich source.2 In other words, the discourse on development and sustainability in India is still predominantly revolving around the axis of Nehru and Gandhi. The Nehruvian pole represents the embracement of centralised planning for development of the country with the help of heavy industrialisation and big, state-controlled technological projects and the Gandhian pole promotes decentralised and participatory developmental process with the help of indigenous knowledge and technologies available with the grassroots. For example, when the Nehruvians highlighted the importance of Green Revolution as a statist project for increasing the produce with the help of high-yielding varieties of crops and chemical fertilisers and pesticides, the Gandhians campaigned for indigenous farming practices and conservation of crop diversity to ensure the livelihood of the people in rural India. In this chapter, my attempt is to look at the debate beyond this axis from a third, largely unexplored vantage point – the relationship between technology, labour and body proposed by Dr B. R. Ambedkar, who shared the historical plain of discourse with Nehru and Gandhi.3 Though Ambedkar actively participated in the debate on S&T and modernisation, his view on the subject is not yet adequately explored by scholars; often his perspectives on technology and mechanisation are casually described as supportive of the Nehruvian pole, as promoting heavy industrialisation. Scholars like Meera Nanda played a key role in creating this false image of Ambedkar. She portrayed Ambedkar as a Deweyan-Buddhist pragmatist who upheld scientific reason against the Brahminical Hindu ideology that legitimised casteism.4 Ambedkar appears here as a champion of scientific reason and the Enlightenment values, which catalysed subaltern (especially Dalit) social movements in South Asia. Such readings contributed to the misinterpretation of Ambedkar as belonging to the Nehruvian pole of the debate. On the contrary, in this chapter, I will argue that Ambedkar was originally proposing a new theoretical approach to understanding technology, a standpoint he developed by critiquing both Nehru and Gandhi. I shall explicate his standpoint that goes beyond an appreciation of the Enlightenment values to argue that “leisure” is a central category in his thinking that connects technology with castebody while Nehru and Gandhi never problematised the relationship between technology and caste-based labour practices. I will then develop some clues into the prospect of developing a political theology of technology based on the Ambedkarite standpoint, which would help us understand the complexity

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of the relationships between technology and body in today’s technologically saturated world. AMBEDKAR’S CRITIQUE OF TECHNOLOGY Ambedkar gave his opinions about technology when he became a member of Viceroy’s Executive Council during 1942–1946.5 In his speech on the need to develop electric power in India (1943), for instance, Ambedkar suggests that poverty in India is due to its heavy dependence on agriculture and hence there is a need for industrialisation.6 And in a later occasion in 1955, a year before his death, he brought to public attention the possible potential of atomic power to regulate the flow of rivers and hence control the floods.7 These opinions that he made in different contexts as a statesperson might force us to misconstrue Ambedkar as a “Nehruvian” who blindly trusts the power of modern S&T. However, his philosophical writings help us realise that these mundane remarks were embedded in his thinking on annihilation of caste and thus offering a new vantage point that challenged the Nehru–Gandhi axis of the technological debate. Ambedkar’s political philosophy is committed to annihilation of caste and the creation of associated life that nurtures endosmosis between different strata of the Indian society. Trained at Columbia University (where he was deeply influenced by John Dewey’s pragmatic philosophy), he upheld the values of democracy but believed that democracy is not simply about government. For Ambedkar, democracy was the foundational practice of life. What efficiency can there be in a system under which neither men’s hearts nor their minds are in their work? As an economic organisation caste is therefore a harmful institution, inasmuch as, it involves the subordination of man’s natural powers and inclinations to the exigencies of social rules.8

Therefore, he strongly emphasised that without establishing the practice of democracy in social life of the people (by annihilating caste, in the main), democratic practices in the political domain (in terms of citizenship rights and political representation of the marginalised social groups and communities) could not be sustained. He strongly argued that the marginalised in Indian society demand social democracy as the prerequisite for establishing political democracy.9 According to him “[y]ou cannot build anything on the foundations of caste. You cannot build up a nation, you cannot build up a morality. Anything that you will build on the foundation of caste will crack and will never be a whole.”10 For him, the annihilation of caste from the social body was the first step towards decolonisation. He envisaged the establishment of a political community based on “associated life” after caste relations being

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replaced with the ethical disposition of each person to others, which he called “Dhamma” in his later writings such as The Budha and His Dhamma (1957). This general understanding about his perspective is essential to engage with his political thought. He was developing his critique of the Nehruvain perspective of technological modernisation, in the same period that he was a member of the Viceroy’s council (1942–1946), in the book What Congress and Gandhi Have Done to the Untouchables (1945). In the sixth chapter of the book (titled “A Plea to the Foreigner”) Ambedkar asks the question, “What is to be the fate of the servile classes of India under this governing class?” The governing class of India on the eve of independence, according to him, belonged to Brahmin-Bania castes, replacing the earlier Brahmin-Kshatriya caste composition.11 Metaphorically, Nehru and Gandhi, a Brahmin and a Bania respectively, represented this emergent caste dynamics in India, he quips.12 He further argues that Swaraj (independent India) will not be a true democracy for the presence of this ruling class that is going to grab political power after India’s decolonisation. He suggests that without “a complete destruction of Brahminism as a philosophy of life and as a social order,” “a sovereign and free India” cannot be accomplished. It is in this context that Ambedkar refers to the social reformist agenda of modernisation of the country as flawed for its callousness to address the casteist foundations of Indian society. What will the governing class do when India becomes a sovereign and independent state? Some hope that they will undertake reform of tenancy laws, enlarge factory legislation, extend primary education, introduce prohibition and train people to ply charkha, construct roads and canals, improve currency, regulate weights and measures, open dispensaries and undertake other measures to ameliorate the condition of the servile classes. No one from the servile class can be very enthusiastic about such a programme. In the first place, there is nothing very great in it. In the world of today, no governing class can omit to undertake reforms which are necessary to maintain society in a civilized state [. . .] Most people forget that what leads the Congress today to mouth such a programme is the desire to show that the Congress is better than the British Bureaucracy. But once the bureaucracy is liquidated, will there be the same incentive to better the lot of the masses? I entertain very grave doubt on this point [. . .] Speaking for the servile classes, I have no doubt that what they expect to happen in a sovereign and free India is a complete destruction of Brahminism as a philosophy of life and as a social order. If I may say so, the servile classes do not care for social amelioration [. . .] Not bread but honour, is what they want. The question therefore is: Will the governing classes in India having captured the machinery of the State, undertake a programme for the reform of the social order as distinguished from a programme of social amelioration?13

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For Ambedkar, the agenda of modernisation with the help of technology (“social amelioration”) will be defective if the ruling class takes it up as an agenda, for the power is concentrated on the dominant castes and that Brahminism still continues to be the hegemonic ideology that defines political and social life. From this point of view, Ambedkar clearly suggests that technological modernisation should be embedded in a radical project of demolishing the Brahminical philosophy that supports casteism in the country. He points out that the untouchable castes in India are not looking forward to “social amelioration” but a radical social reconfiguration to annihilate caste and create a true democracy. Ambedkar’s opinions conspicuously indicate that the Nehruvian confidence in the sheer emancipatory potential of big technologies and heavy machinery is naïve for the latter’s inability to understand that technology is embedded in caste relations in India. Ambedkar implicitly indicates that technology has to be decoupled from caste. In other words, annihilation of caste shall inaugurate a new paradigm of technological modernisation which can assist the social and political emancipation of the untouchables. It should also be noted that Ambedkar did not consider Gandhian and Nehruvian perspectives on modernisation as diametrically opposite to each other. Whether it is charkha14 or roads, canals and medical dispensaries, technological modernisation without the establishment of radical democracy via annihilation of caste is futile, Ambedkar maintains. This perspective becomes forceful and philosophically nuanced in his critique of Gandhian perspectives on technological modernisation as an evil. After quipping that there is nothing original in the Gandhian economics, he contends: The economics of Gandhism are hopelessly fallacious. The fact that machinery and modern civilization have produced many evils may be admitted. But these evils are no argument against them. For the evils are not due to machinery and modern civilization. They are due to wrong social organization which has made private property and pursuit of personal gain matters of absolute sanctity. If machinery and civilization have not benefited everybody the remedy is not to condemn machinery and civilization but to alter the organization of society so that the benefits will not be usurped by the few but will accrue to all.15

The basic position Ambedkar is talking about technology is that its outright condemnation for the alienation and miseries it created is misplaced because technology is embedded in a certain social organisation. What is important is to address the question of decoupling technology from its caste relations, which is a precondition for technological modernisation that can assist the establishment of associated life. Ambedkar seems to be taking a position different from the views of Joseph D. Bernal, a Marxist thinker who theorised the social function of science. His theorisation had greatly influenced the debates on the Indian S&T system in

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the 1940s and 1950s.16 Bernal argues that modern S&T has an inherent potential to lead us in the path towards a socialist society, though it is employed by Capitalism to make a profit. What is important is to snatch modern S&T from the Capitalists and use it as a means for social revolution.17 Although Ambedkar was not directly engaging with Bernal’s standpoint, it is possible to read his position as indicative of a subtle departure from Bernal. This becomes clear only when we further examine Ambedkar’s critique of the relationship between caste, labour and technology. Ambedkar philosophically develops this position when he further analyses the Gandhian standpoint on technology. According to Ambedkar, Gandhi proposes “a return to nature, to animal life.”18 Here he makes a crucial differentiation between the two lives of human beings, between “merely living” and “living worthily.” The former denotes the satiation of our physical wants by catering to the needs of the biological body (zoe) which we share with other animals. Unlike animals, what makes human beings unique is culture because reason is “[t]he distinctively human function.”19 It is the reason that helps us “to observe, meditate, cogitate, study and discover the beauties of the Universe and enrich life and control the animal elements of [our] life.”20 Such a cultivation of mind, and not a mere satisfaction of physical needs, defines human beings. The purpose of collective life, according to Ambedkar, must be the ensuring a “life of culture” (bios), where everybody can lead a life that is worthy of living.21 Nevertheless, if someone has to struggle to attend to the physical wants of the biological life, a life of culture will not be possible. Ambedkar’s contention is that Gandhi attempts to focus on “mere living,” that is, the animalistic life instead of a life worthy of living, a life of culture: Under Gandhism the common man must keep on toiling ceaselessly for a pittance and remain a brute. In short, Gandhism with its call of back to nature, means back to nakedness, back to squalor, back to poverty and back to ignorance for the vast mass of the people.22

According to Ambedkar, this clearly indicates that Gandhian philosophy does not have democracy as its ideal. It has a reductive understanding of collective life as catering to the biological needs of human beings. On another occasion, Ambedkar points to the fact that Brahminical Hinduism always considered life as “merely living” with reference to the dogma of predestination (Karma theology). In Annihilation of Caste (1936) Ambedkar writes: It seems to me that the question is not whether a community lives or dies; the question is on what plane does it live. There are different modes of survival. But all are not equally honourable. For an individual as well as for a society, there is a gulf between merely living and living worthily [. . .] It is useless for a Hindu to take comfort in the fact that he and his people have survived. What he must

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consider is what is the quality of their survival. If he does that, I am sure that he will cease to take pride in the mere fact of survival. A Hindu’s life has been a life of continuous defeat and what appears to him to be life everlasting is not living everlastingly but is really a life which is perishing everlastingly. It is a mode of survival of which every right-minded Hindu, who is not afraid to own up the truth, will feel ashamed.23

In Gandhian philosophy, Ambedkar sees the same theological undercurrents of Brahminical Hinduism. Gandhian social reconstruction is hence a biopolitical project that is preoccupied with the harnessing of animalistic energies of the caste-body in the form of labour. This aspect of Gandhian opposition to technology becomes clearer in its emphasis on labouring body. According to Ambedkar, Gandhi was a thinker who never contradicted the theological premises of Hinduism which linked the idea of predestination with labour. Each caste has a predestined and fixed occupation, and this cannot be altered, he points out. Therefore, labour is metaphysically bound to your caste-body. Ambedkar opines that caste system is not merely division of labour. It is also a division of labourers [.  .  .] [I]n no civilized society is division of labour accompanied by this unnatural division of labourers into water-tight compartments. The caste system is [. . .] an hierarchy in which the division of labourers are graded one above the other.24

Individuals cannot select an occupation of their personal interest in the casteist society. Ambedkar suggests that Gandhi also follows the same theological position regarding caste-body and labour while extolling caste occupations as organic practices upon which his self-sustainable village republics are thriving. Gandhism reveals itself as a version of Brahminism in its promotion of caste labour as a cultural value. “All that Gandhism has done is to find a philosophic justification for Hinduism and its dogmas,” Ambedkar contends.25 He quotes Gandhi’s view on scavenging to illuminate this point. Scavenging is not a choice; it is imposed on certain Dalit communities by the caste system (see also Aruna Gogulamanda, “This is my country”; chapter 2). A scavenger’s son also will be a scavenger. Gandhi, by idealising labour, seeks “to perpetuate this system by praising scavenging as the noblest service to society!!”26 Quoting Gandhi’s exaltation of scavenging as a noble job, Ambedkar asks: What is the use of telling the scavenger that even a Brahmin is prepared to do scavenging when it is clear that according to Hindu Shastras and Hindu notions even if a Brahmin did scavenging he would never be subject to the disabilities of one who is a born scavenger? For in India a man is not a scavenger because of his work. He is a scavenger because of his birth irrespective

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of the question whether he does scavenging or not [. . .] . [W]hy appeal to the scavenger’s pride and vanity in order to induce him and him only to keep on to scavenging by telling him that scavenging is a noble profession and that he need not be ashamed of it? To preach that poverty is good for the Shudra and for none else, to preach that scavenging is good for the Untouchables and for none else and to make them accept these onerous impositions as voluntary purposes of life, by appeal to their failings is an outrage and a cruel joke on the helpless classes which none but Mr. Gandhi can perpetuate with equanimity and impunity.27

Gandhian discontent about modern Western technology and machines and his attempt to promote the simple machines and technologies from rural India (Charkha, the spinning wheel for example) embody a political theology that justifies the predestination of human beings being born into different castes and their purpose being defined accordingly, devoid of any hope for emancipation. Because of this theology of Karma informs the Gandhian perspective that the tools and technologies used in these caste occupations become the appropriate ones for Gandhi, against the Western technologies and machines. While dissociating himself from the Nehruvian appreciation of Western technologies, Ambedkar is extremely cautious about the Gandhian alternative as well. Technology, whether Western or indigenous, is not emancipatory in itself. We should be able to understand it as embedded in social and metaphysical relations. Only those technologies and machineries which are decoupled from caste relations will be the appropriate technologies that would be emancipatory for the marginalised social groups. After building this strong premise to think about emancipatory technologies, Ambedkar attempts to conceptualise leisure as a key concept for his critical theory of technology. In his perspective, “leisure” should be the foundation of building a democratic form-of-life; leisure is pivotal to a life worthy of living. How then can a life of culture be made possible? It is not possible unless there is sufficient leisure. For it is only when there is leisure that a person is free to devote himself to a life of culture. The problem of all problems which human society has to face is how to provide leisure to every individual. What does leisure mean? Leisure means the lessening of the toil and effort necessary for satisfying the physical wants of life.28

Ambedkar’s problem with the Gandhian perspective of labour is that the latter idealises the biological body and its labouring potential as the solid biopolitical foundation of the village republics. The naked, animalist body is but the product of casteist social structure that Gandhi endorses via his philosophy. In the casteist society, leisure is the prerogative of Brahmins. Castes

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in the lower rungs of the hierarchy cannot avail leisure and their existence is reduced to be that of animals. For Ambedkar, therefore, the caste system is artificial in its compartmentalisation of human beings into different varnas and castes, and its ascription of the purpose of living based on the caste one belongs to. To break this, he proposes an equitable distribution of leisure in society, something which can be accomplished by the use of technology: “Leisure is quite impossible unless some mea[n]s are found whereby the toil required for producing goods necessary to satisfy human needs is lessened.”29 Only when machines take up this burden, human beings can enjoy leisure. “Machinery and modern civilization are thus indispensable for emancipating man from leading the life of a brute, and for providing him with leisure and making a life of culture possible.”30 Therefore, a truly democratic society is possible only when leisure is equally available to all of its citizens. Appropriate technology aids the project of creating a new society based on an associated mode of living wherein human creative possibilities are not reduced to and restricted by one’s caste. Ambedkar’s position on technology hence has two important aspects: on one hand, it abhors the attempt to adopt technology without breaking the caste system and its metaphysical and theological foundations. There should be a critical understanding of the technologies and machineries we live with. What is important is to develop appropriate technologies which are emancipatory. On the other hand, such appropriate technologies can liberate caste-body from brutal existence by cancelling its purpose defined by casteism – human beings can be free (sans purpose) only in a society that has advanced appropriate technologies. To put it differently, technology cannot liberate the humans from their casteist predestinations unless it is untethered from the casteist social order in which it is embedded as a practice. Annihilation of the caste system is possible only by attacking its philosophic and theological foundations and with the help of conscious efforts to build a new collective mode of living – the associated life. Appropriate technologies can assist this process by freeing the body from caste-based labour.

TECHNOLOGY AND SALVATION The relationship between form-of-life and technology has a long history in the West. The thinking on technology and labouring body in connection with human redemption goes back to the Benedictine order’s endeavour to include work as an important component of monastic life.31 Eventually, “useful arts” (artes mechanicae) became well accepted as a means of meditative life for the monks. However, a proper theological interpretation regarding the use of technology started developing only from the ninth-century ce when

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John Scotus Eriugena (c. 800–877) attempted to develop a critique of the Augustinian soteriology. Augustine of Hippo (c. 354–430) considered technology as an evil practice that resulted from the Fall and hence sinful. For him, human beings after the Fall can only long for the grace of God while living a pious, meditative life. John critiqued this dominant theological view about human redemption by suggesting that knowledge of nature was part of the real essence of human beings before the Fall. Therefore, he proposed that practising useful arts would lead us in the path of redemption under God’s grace. This new theological insight eventually grew stronger and by the eleventh-century ce, God was portrayed as a master craftsman. By the advent of Millenarian thought and the development of scholasticism in the twelfth century, useful arts were perceived as important, although the seven liberal arts continued to enjoy a higher status. Millenarianism proposed that redemption is possible within time with the help of action that consisted of a wide range of activities such as knowing nature and practising useful arts. It is proposed that the technological revolution in the Middle Ages (10–13 centuries ce) was a result of this new theological understanding of technology as redemptive. By the sixteenth century, it was theologised that knowing the divine creation with the help of natural philosophy is important for regaining the Adamic knowledge before the fall. The completeness of knowledge (Adam named all the creatures in Eden) which had been lost by the Fall can now be restored through natural philosophy and useful arts. This theological understanding catalysed the scientific and technological revolution in the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century ce. An emphasis on labour as means of redemption was a strong ideal that defined the protestant ethic of modernity as Max Weber propounded. Such a theological take on the religious significance of technology and labour in the medieval and early modern Europe helped the development of a positive attitude to technological development, although until the seventeenth-century ce technological practices were considered “vulgar” as they were practised by lower classes.32 Elites, like the Brahmins, were the custodians of abstract knowledge. This knowledge divide, according to Edgar Zilsel (1942),33 was mended during the scientific revolution, from which modern science emerged as the perfect blend of abstract and practical knowledges of the scholarly and artisanal classes, respectively. Nevertheless, as we have seen earlier, since the ninth-century ce itself practising useful arts was considered as part of piety and hence acquired a divine status. On the contrary, in India, artisanal practices continued to be caste ridden. Practising of useful arts was a caste occupation for the artisans and crafts persons. While in the Western context, labour accrued a special theological and social significance with the changed understanding of the relationship between technology and salvation, in India, technology had never been perceived as with

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emancipatory potential as it was practised by lower castes. Karma theology linked the dogma of predestination with labour and technology. Despite the Judeo-Christian and Brahminical theologies diverged in their understanding of technology, both accepted labour as a key concept. The former construed it as a positive notion but for the latter it was negative. Therefore, labour is linked to social emancipation in the West, but labouring bodies are still treated with disgust in India. According to Ambedkar, Caste System is not merely a division of labourers which is quite different from division of labour – it is an hierarchy in which the divisions of labourers are graded one above the other. In no other country is the division of labour accompanied by this gradation of labourers [. . .] This division of labour is not spontaneous[;] it is not based on natural aptitudes. Social and individual efficiency requires us to develop the capacity of an individual to the point of competency to choose and to make his own career. This principle is violated in the Caste System in so far as it involves an attempt to appoint tasks to individuals in advance, selected not on the basis of trained original capacities, but on that of the social status of the parents.34

In sharp contrast to the Judeo-Christian and Brahminical political theologies of technology, which accepted labour as a central concept, Ambedkar brings in a new concept to think about the relationship between body and technology – leisure. His thinking about a new form-of-life which is the foundation of a casteless, democratic society dissociates with both the Judeo-Christian theological understanding of labour as salvific and the Hindu theological dogma of predestination. Leisure is a new theoretical concept employed by Dr B. R. Ambedkar to build a radically new political theology of technology that breaks away from these dominant theological trends. TOWARDS A NEW POLITICAL THEOLOGY OF TECHNOLOGY Labour gives humans purpose. A labouring body is oriented towards goals to be achieved; it has a productive purpose. While being engaged in labour, the energies of the body are harnessed to actualise its potential in the form of a product or in performing the act. Its emphasis is on the potentiality of the body – its ability to be purposeful. This is what happens when a labourer works in a factory or when an artisan makes an artefact. The dressage – body’s skilful coordination to achieve a goal while at work – is what labour refers to. The concept of leisure is often theoretically understood in its relation to labour. Leisure is understood as rest from work (which also includes entertainment),35 which physically and mentally rejuvenates the worker and prepares her for the next day’s labour.36

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In contrast to this, leisure according to Ambedkar’s conceptualisation entails the permanent suspension of labour: the potentiality of a body is preserved in leisure from being actualised in an act. Giorgio Agamben refers to this as impotentiality – it is “the potentiality to not-be”; “a potentiality that conserves itself in actuality.”37 This is the ability to suspend the potential to be actualised and thereby open up new possibilities of being. To put it differently, it is the suspension of one’s potential-to-do. Therefore, according to Agamben’s interpretation of the Aristotelian theorisation of human potentiality (dynamis), “Being that exist in the mode of potentiality are capable of their own impotentiality, and only in this way do they become potential. They can be because they are in relation to their own non-Being.”38 Unlike animals that possess only their specific potentiality, we human beings are capable of our own impotentiality. A similar attempt to conceptualise leisure independently of labour is made by young Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels in the oft-quoted passage on the communist society in The German Ideology (1845/6): For as soon as the distribution of labour comes into being, each man has a particular, exclusive sphere of activity, which is forced upon him and from which he cannot escape. He is a hunter, a fisherman, a herdsman, or a critical critic, and must remain so if he does not want to lose his means of livelihood; while in communist society, where nobody has one exclusive sphere of activity but each can become accomplished in any branch he wishes, society regulates the general production and thus makes it possible for me to do one thing today and another tomorrow, to hunt in the morning, fish in the afternoon, rear cattle in the evening, criticise after dinner, just as I have a mind, without ever becoming hunter, fisherman, herdsman or critic.39

For Marx and Engels, once the production process is delinked from class relations and generalised, labour ceases to exist and leisure turns out to be socially distributed to everyone. In the communist society, consequently, labour does not exist to cause alienation. The possibility of cultivation of the mind is available to everyone in this utopia, wherein one can live “as not” (hōs mē) as St. Paul notes (1 Cor 7:29–32).40 One does not have to limit oneself to act or to be lost in the act. This creates the prospect of doing the act of hunting or writing a poem without oneself ever becoming a hunter or a poet. Leisure substitutes labour. Work itself becomes leisure when it does not subsume and expend the actor in the act. While mature Marx backtracks from this position in The Capital,41 Ambedkar explores the philosophical potential of the concept of leisure to understand the relationship between technology, labour and social emancipation. In Ambedkar’s postulation, “leisure” denotes the lack of any attributed essence (as with a certain potential to be actualised or with an ascribed purpose – a body oriented towards a goal or

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predestined to perform caste occupation) for human beings, so that she can be free, preserving her potential not-be. Leisure hence is important to preserve one’s potential without being expended in the act of labour. While leisure is a transcendental, utopian possibility in Marxism, it can be achieved here and now for Ambedkar with the help of (appropriate) technology. Leisure hence is an interesting category to develop a political theology of technology that liberates human body from its predestined essence. It also redeems us from the danger of being consumed in the act itself, which Karl Marx calls “alienation.”42 The availability of leisure made possible by technology hence suspends the purposefulness of human body and opens it up to a multitude of possibilities. Technology, in this sense, reveals the true potential of human beings not-being-lost in labour. We need to critically assess contemporary technologies to decouple them from the grid of inequality and exploitation and transform them to be facilitators of human liberation and harbingers of a new earth and heaven.43 Leisure as inoperativity, according to Ambedkar, is the foundation of a new political theology of technology that might help us think about our collective form-of-life (associated life) that is not anchored on our naked, brute body but on its very suspension that discloses our potentialities. NOTES 1. Kerala Sasthra Sahitya Parishad (KSSP) was the largest among them. For more on PSMs and their engagements with Marxist and Gandhian ideologies, see KSSP, Science as Social Activism: Reports and Papers on The People’s Science Movements in India (Trivandrum: Kerala Sastra Sahitya Parishad, 1984). 2. See, for example, Knowledge Swaraj: An Indian Manifesto on Science and Technology (Secunderabad: Knowledge in Civil Society (KICS) and Hyderabad: Centre for Knowledge, Culture and Innovation Studies, University of Hyderabad, May 2011. https://steps​-centre​.org​/anewmanifesto​/manifesto​_2010​/clusters​/cluster5​/ Indian​_Manifesto​.pdf. 3. Ambedkar was a partner in dialogue with other national leaders such as Gandhi and Nehru. Instead of pitching them as representing three incommensurable vantage points, I consider them as deeply but critically engaging with each other, collectively shaping the decolonisation discourse in India in the twentieth century. There is a common contemporary tendency to show Ambedkar and Gandhi as archrivals, which is misplaced. Gopal Guru rightly asks, “What was the collective project of Gandhi and Ambedkar: Freeing India from different configurations of power, or redeeming India with its affirmative energy which, for example, is internal to Buddhism? If it was the project of redeeming, then what was at the core of its realisation – the need for practical ethics or the push of conceptual politics? Arguably, in both the thinkers it was ultimately the ethical that was important for redemption, wherein conceptual politics was only the initial condition to realise the redemption of India” (Gopal Guru, “Ethics in Ambedkar’s Critique of Gandhi,” Economic and Political Weekly LII.15 (April 15, 2017): 100).

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4. Meera Nanda, Breaking the Spell of Dharma and Other Essays (New Delhi: Three Essays, 2002). 5. Many of his views on technology and industrialisation from this period are collected in Volume 10 Part I and Volume 17, Part II, Section-III of Babasaheb Ambedkar’s Writings and Speeches (hereafter BAWS). 6. Ambedkar, BAWS Vol. 10: 120–128. 7. Ambedkar, BAWS Vol. 17, Part II: 387–389. 8. B. R. Ambedkar, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches Vol.1 (New Delhi: Dr. Ambedkar Foundation, 2014 [1936]), 48. 9. For his views on annihilation of caste, see Ambedkar Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches (2014), 23–96. For a selection from his vast oeuvre, see Valerian Rodrigues (ed), The Essential Writings of B.R. Ambedkar (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2002). 10. Ambedkar, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches, 66. 11. In India, there are a multitude of castes and sub-castes which are organised into a hierarchy as per the philosophically legitimised Varna system that consists of four major divisions or “varnas.” Brahmins are considered to be at the top of the case hierarchy and have the right to perform rituals and possess knowledge of the scared texts. Kshatriyas are below Brahmins and are of the royal lineage. Vaisyas (merchants and traders) are below Kshatriyas and above Sudras (servants). Dalits and many of the Other Backward Castes (OBCs) are outside this four-fold hierarchy and hence are considered as untouchables. Nehru was a Brahmin from Kashmir (“Pandit”) and Gandhi, a Vysya from Gujarat (“Bania”). 12. Ambedkar, BAWS vol. 9: 454. 13. Ambedkar, BAWS Vol. 9: 212. 14. Charkha is the spinning wheel used in rural India by certain castes. Gandhi used it as a symbol of simple indigenous tools and technologies used by people and as a symbol it denotes self-reliance of India. 15. Ambedkar, BAWS Vol 9: 283. 16. J. D. Bernal was a British scientist and historian of science. He was a selfproclaimed Marxist and developed a unique Marxist perspective on S&T, described in his book The Social Function of Science (London: Routledge, 1939). Jawaharlal Nehru was an admirer of Bernal’s perspectives on S&T and took his advice in developing the S&T system in independent India. Bernal was actively involved in the science policy debate in India. 17. This perspective heavily influenced the People’s Science Movements (PSMs) in India in the second half of the twentieth century. For example, Kerala Sastra Sahitya Parishad (KSSP), one of the largest PSMs from Kerala (a provincial state in South India), formulated the slogan “Science for Social Revolution” in the 1970s from its Nehruvian-Bernalist vantage point. For a detailed discussion, see Shiju Sam Varughese, Contested Knowledge: Science, Media, and Democracy in Kerala (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2017). 18. Ambedkar, BAWS Vol 9: 283. 19. Ambedkar, BAWS Vol 9: 283. 20. Ambedkar, BAWS Vol 9: 283.

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21. Ambedkar, BAWS Vol 9: 283. 22. Ambedkar, BAWS Vol 9: 284. 23. Ambedkar, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches, 66 (emphasis mine). 24. Ambedkar, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches, 47 (emphasis in the original). 25. Ambedkar, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches, 296. 26. Ambedkar, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches, 292. 27. Ambedkar, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches, 292–293. 28. Ambedkar, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches, 284. 29. Ambedkar, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches, 284. 30. Ambedkar, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches, 284. 31. David F. Noble, The Religion of Technology: The Divinity of Man and the Spirit of Invention (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1997). 32. Steven A. Walton, “An Introduction to the Mechanical Arts in the Middle Ages” (AVISTA: Association Villard de Honnecourt for Interdisciplinary Study of Medieval Technology, Science and Art, 2003; http://www​.chass​.utoronto​.ca/​~avista​/ PAPERS​/mecharts​_walton​.html accessed on 24.09.2021) 33. Edgar Zilsel, “The Sociological Roots of Science,” American Journal of Sociology 47.4 (1942): 544–562. 34. Ambedkar, Annihilation of Caste, BAWS Vol. 1: 47. 35. This idea has theological roots, going back to the creation story where God rests after work (Gen 2:1–3). See also, Giorgio Agamben, The Kingdom and the Glory (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2011). 36. For example, article 24 of The Universal Declaration of the Human Rights (UN) states, “Everyone has the right to rest and leisure, including reasonable limitations of working hours and periodic holidays with pay.” Similarly, in Vol. 1 of The Capital, Karl Marx says that capitalist employers cannot exploit surplus labour time from the worker beyond the limits set by the physical and social limit to labour. The time the worker gets for herself due to these limits is leisure. However, Marx acknowledges that if only “necessary labour” (the labour sufficient for the worker to meet her daily requirements) is expended there will be social distribution of leisure which is otherwise enjoyed by the elites alone. See “The Working Day” (Chapter 10) in Karl Marx, The Capital (New Delhi: Fingerprint Classics, 2016). For more on the Marxist conception of leisure, see Chris Rojek, “Did Marx Have a Theory of Leisure?” Leisure Studies 3.2 (1984): 163–174; Chris Rojek, “Is Marx Still Relevant to the Study of Leisure?” Leisure Studies 32.1 (2013): 19–33. 37. Giorgio Agamben, “On Potentiality” in Potentialities: Collected Essays in Philosophy, 177–184 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 183, 184. 38. Agamben, “On Potentiality,” 182 (emphasis in the original). 39. Marx, The Capital Vol. 1, Part 1 (emphasis is mine). 40. For a detailed discussion on the concept of hōs mē, see Giorgio Agamben, The Time that Remains: A Commentary on the Letter to the Romans (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005).

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41. Especially in Volume 3 of The Capital, where he proposes “[t]he shortening of the working week” as the “basic prerequisite” for “the development of human energy which is an end in itself, the true realm of freedom.” He but suggests that the realm of (im)potentiality “can blossom forth only with [the .  .  .] realm of necessity [the realm of production] as its basis.” For details, see Rojek, “Did Marx Have a Theory of Leisure?” 42. Lest we forget that under the Nazi and Stalinist regimes alike, extracting labour from the prisoners was a strategy to exhaust them and kill. “Arbeit Macht Free” (work sets you free) was the slogan that welcomed the inmates of concentration camps. They were even assigned to do meaningless labour which normally killed the worker in four months; this strategy was known as “extermination through labour.” 43. This indicates that an uncritical eulogising of advanced technologies for their transhuman potentials is dangerous. Such a political theology of technology warns us against the flat ontologies being proposed today to theorize our technoscientific cultural existence today.

Chapter 12

Political Theology of Inter-carnation Being-Human in the Development of Science and Technology Iljoon, Park

The pandemic has let us know that we are already cyborgs. Although philosophers like Donna Haraway and Andy Clark have said that we humans are natural-born cyborgs, many of us have not recognized enough that our life has already been entangled with artificial devices and mechanical body embedded in the virtual realm via digital networks, through which we connect our nerve cells to the digital world. As a matter of fact, cyborg life is not a possibility in the future. But a reality now. CYBORG’S EXISTENTIAL CAPACITIES Haraway defines human “beings” as cyborgs, the hybrid or “chimera” of organism and machine. For her, cyborg is our “ontology” and at the same time our “politics.”1 That is, cyborg refers to our contemporary exploitive structure of digitalized capitalism, in which humans become cyborgs for labor machines and, at the same time, a possibility of our response-ability through our intra-action with other beings, crisscrossing the binary boundaries of human/machine, nature/culture, living beings/nonliving beings, and so on, a response-ability for our com/passionate sympoiesis, which is our capabilities for existence. Our capabilities for existence lie in our extendibility over other beings which is none other than our response-ability to other beings. In this all-connected society of network, we need this capacity for existence more than ever, but we are isolated behind monitors and smartphones. It is a real irony that the more we are connected through the digital networks, the more isolated and lonelier we are. 149

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Cyborg is a compound word for organism and cybernetics, and it refers to a cybernetic organism. It is a hybrid being. Hybrid may mean a corruption or contamination of the original pure being, but it can at the same time refer to a possibility to crisscross the existing boundaries of beings for creating a new assemblage. Andy Clark names this as “natural-born cyborgs.”2 As homo faber (toolmaker), humans do not live alone but always already with artificial tools and devices that the human body is extended over and coupled with. For example, the blind does not tap the ground just to hear tapping for guessing the surroundings, but s/he sees the world by utilizing the stick as a bodily extension and by utilizing his/her tactile sensation in addition to the tapping sounds. The blind reconstructs the surrounding worlds by combining the auditory sense and tactile sensation. The difference between the so-called normal and the blind is that the so-called normal can utilize five senses, while the blind is deficit in vision. Anyhow, our experience of the world is possible through reconstructing the incoming information from our bodily senses. When one or more of the bodily senses are deficit, other senses can substitute it, and it is called sensory substitution experimentally proved by Paul Bach-y-rita.3 Later, Clark terms this as “the extended mind”4 in a broader context. It means that the mind emerges when mental capacities are extended beyond bodily boundary by appropriating external devices and props. The mind is an emergent property of the coupling of mind and devices via body. Here, the meaning that the mind is an emerging property is that it is none other than the formation of a cognitive network allowing its extension over other devices and props. In this sense, we are living in an extended embodiment. The critical difference from the existing understanding of embodiment is that, whereas the prevailing understanding of embodiment is confined to the biological boundary of the concept and thus quite organism-centered, the extended embodiment includes artificial devices and machines in the extended network of cognition. Clark with David Chalmers presents an example of the virtual patient Otto with his Alzheimer’s disease. Otto knows his memory deficit due to the disease so well that he always makes notes of what he will have to do next. Then, he puts notes in a place he easily sees, for example, on the refrigerator door. So, Otto follows his supposed normal life by catching up according to what he wrote before, although he does not remember what he wrote in his notebooks. In this way, Otto can make up for his memory deficit. It is like Otto utilizing his notes as his external memory device. With the external notes, his brain can compensate for his memory deficit and follow his quotidian routine. Thus, the external notebook and his brain are coupled to make an extended network of cognition emergent. In this case, cyborg refers to the extended network of cognition, and the hybridity the cyborg generates

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is none other than the capacity to connect with other beings and response to them. Another example is people wearing eyeglasses. The eyeglasses are not simple auxiliary supplement but a part of the body. The eyeglasses are coupled with the retina to form a cognitive network. Indeed, without the external eyeglasses, the retina cannot have its normal function, and, in this sense, eyeglasses are part of his visual system, not just auxiliary devices. In this context, cyborg does not refer to a future fantasy but a reality in our actual living. The point in this cyborg discourse is that any being does not live alone but always with other beings by forming a coupling of cognition and existence. In other words, being is never singular but always already multiple, living with other beings, sympoiesis as “making-with.”5 The definition of being-human as homo faber can be reinterpreted to mean that humans live by coupling their existence with other beings organic and inorganic. Although one has recognized our relational feature of being since our awareness of climate change and the ecological crisis, our prevailing recognition of rationality has been confined only to the realm of living organic beings. However, the climate system, for example, is not any living being but an inorganic system which has a massive influence on all living beings on the planet, although it functions like an organism. It means that our co-relationality is always already entangled with material beings beyond just living or organic beings. Thus, the concept of humans as cyborgs refers to the reality of being that consists of living and nonliving beings, artificial and natural, human and machine, and so on. Being is not confined to the living. As a matter of fact, virus is not a living being, although it is not a nonliving either, in the sense that it does not have its own metabolism within itself. It parasitically lives in the organic host. It exists on the border between the living and the nonliving. This quasi-living being is now threatening the entire human civilization on the planet. It is a very negative example of the entanglement of beings on the earth. This entanglement is not only a important feature of living but also “the very nature of materiality.”6 Entanglement is always with the other(s), that is, “matter itself always already open to, or rather entangled with the ‘Other’.”7 Put differently, matter is always already entangled with mind/meaning. Indeed, meaning emerges through this material entanglement or, in other words, one can say that the meaning of the world is “intra-activity in its differential mattering.”8 The differential mattering in the intra-action of things including humans is meaning-making. In this context, “[w]e (but not only ‘we humans’) are always already responsible to the others with whom or which we are entangled, not through conscious intent but through the various ontological entanglements that materially entails.”9 Thus, our material ontology necessarily entails an ethics of intra-action, requiring a paradigm shift from responsibility to response-ability in that responsibility is always already “the

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ability to respond to the other”10 and in that it as response-ability has to be extended over beyond human boundary. Theologically, this existential capacity to couple with other beings can be depicted as “inter-carnation”11 in the sense that the “in” in the incarnation refers to the “inter-” which means “in-betweenness” among beings and in terms of which humans can be hybridized with other beings. In this context, this cyborg age is none other than that of the extensive incarnation over materializations, that is, inter-carnation.

CYBORG AS OUR PROBLEM The actuality of the cyborg age is none other than that in which humans are exploited as working machines without realizing it. What is exploited in this cyborg age is our human capacities for existence, and their extendibility of being over others. Part of the reason lies in modern individualism, in which every form of being is counted as individual-based. In the modern times, philosophy and humanism have talked about human rights as individual-based. Although the movements for human rights have been meaningful and significant contributions to human civilization, what we are facing these days is the entanglement of beings organic and inorganic. Climate change and the ecological crisis are the most evident examples. The climate system of the earth is not a living organism, although it works as if it is an organism responding to other beings. The climate system interacts with beings on earth, but it is not just a background or passive environment; rather the active material entanglement itself via “intra-action.”12 In this hyperobjective intra-action, there is no exception. It witnesses that we always already coproduce things together The source of the problem in our age lies in the fact that the interests produced by co-working are monopolized by a few humans. To defend this monopoly structure, the few exploit the many. This cyborg economy can accelerate this monopoly structure by connecting it to a digital network and by digitalizing the capital so that the latter can cross borders without any restriction. It is none other than the globalization of the economic monopoly, and, in this sense, all-connected society may mean all-exploitive society. This all-exploitive society has been justified in terms of the naturalization of pseudo-Darwinian interpretation of the survival of the fittest with infinite competition and the monopoly of the winner. This “naturalization effect”13 can work only if one can see the world consisting of competing individuals. However, nature is not a jungle for the survival of the fittest. In nature, nothing exists alone. Every being lives and dies in respective entangled ways. The life and death of a being is entangled with those of other beings. When a living being dies, it is not going to be the end of its being. Rather, its body

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will be decomposed by other animals and microbes so that its energy will be recycled for other beings. Dying and decomposing are different ways to constitute “being in the world.” Living and dying are crisscrossed by eating. In his description of English worms in Formation of Vegetable Mould through the Actions of Worms with Observations on Their Habits (1881), Charles Darwin “claims that worms inaugurate human culture and then, working alongside people and their endeavors, help preserve what people and worms together have made.”14 Worms eat organic materials deep in the soil and excrete them known as casts near the surface of the soil. The earthworm castings are organic fertilizers that provide nutritional substances for the healthy growth of plants and crops. In this way, worm makes plants and crops grow well, and people harvest crops from the soil where worms refine mineral nutrients, digest, and excrete them (surface castings) as organic fertilizers for crops and plants. Human civilizations have heavily depended upon good harvests from the soils where worms refine. In this way, Darwin says that worms inaugurate human civilization. The chains of eating and being eaten construct the whole recycling of energy in being. Haraway proposes “sympoiesis” (which means “making-with”) at the place where F. Varela and H. Maturana proposed the idea of autopoiesis. The autopoiesis concept describes organism as a system of self-production, which many see as the hallmark of living being. However, for Haraway, organism is always already that of making-with other beings, not self-production because organism is a relatively open system. All beings are entangled with each other, as the life cycles of worms are entangled with plants, crops, and further with animals and humans, as well as human civilizations. Even death is not the end of being but a recycling process of energy for other beings. Thus, entanglement is not static but a flux of intra-action in mattering or materialization. Here the point is that, in the viewpoint of autopoiesis, human capabilities for existence and human extendibility are regarded as auxiliary characteristics of being-human, as interaction is regarded as auxiliary to the subject and the object. For this capacity for extension seems to be based on human subject and/or objects. However, climate change and ecological crisis show that this extendibility asks us to turn our scheme of being upside down, just as Haraway emphasizes sympoiesis over autopoiesis. Being is not individual but collective mattering via intra-action, which is the recognition of the inseparability of entities in contrast with “interaction, which relies on a metaphysics of individualism (in particular, the prior existence of separately determinate entities).”15 However, the system of empire with the modern invention of capitalism turns the cyborg reality into the cyborg exploitation. That is, cyborg has become a means to exploit our neuronal energy for the current semiocapitalist system because we work through digital networks. Ironically in an age

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of artificial intelligence (AI) or an age of homo deus, we eke out scanty livelihoods under this dire predicament. In the name of human rights, we are exploited as cyborgs. In other words, we are regarded not as humans. However, they don’t say we are not humans, but they call this age that of homo deus.16 Those who are not able to become homo deus would simply be relegated to losers in infinite competition. As a matter of fact, those who are not able or cannot afford have never been humans but non-beings or ta me onta (“thing that are not” [1 Cor 1:28]). Although the pandemic did not cause the gap between those who are and those who are not, between homo deus and non-beings, the age of human rights ironically has led to the age of cyborgs, in which digital laborers are treated as cyborgs whose human rights are cunningly denied. As a matter of fact, the loophole in the concept of human rights lies in its conceptual foundation itself. Human rights legitimately protects only those with citizenship. So, the semiocapitalism twists human rights and finds a way out by turning human citizens into cyborg workers being called illegal workers. As we maintain our daily lives with the help of digital networks, which are the driving force of semiocapitalism, in which the exchange of digital signs produces the capital, and as the so-called humans work by connecting their nerves to digital networks, we are not humans but nodal points in a digital network. Where Andy Clark sees a brilliant expectation for his idea of the extended mind, we as ta me onta experience an upgrade of inequality. Working conditions have been worsened by the semiocapitalist systems of infinite competition and the monopoly structure of interests despite the sweet promises by capitalism for a better future. Technological applications of AI, robots, and digital networks take relatively decent jobs away from human laborers. Except for less than 1% of the human population on the earth, most are relegated to the status of being less than humans. Thus, people are divided into homo deus, who are the superrich, and the less than humans who work like machines. Thus, most of us feel being impotent in an age of meritocracy. People without merits financial or intellectual are treated as nonhuman cyborgs that are made to work like slaves.

UPGRADING INEQUALITY, AUTOAMPUTATION, AND POLARIZATION OF SENSIBILITY AND SENSITIVITY The so-called posthuman age is at the same time the age of “upgrading inequality.”17 Harari paradoxically terms this age homo deus, in which some super elites upgrade their biological bodies with digital devices and mechanical bodies, whereas most people are relegated to the status of the less than human. Atrociously, it is happening or more intensifying during critical crises

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like the Covid pandemic. For example, Harari describes what would happen in some unbearable disasters: When Ebola erupted in West Africa in the summer of 2014, what do you think happened to the shares of pharmaceutical companies that were busy developing anti-Ebola drugs and vaccines? They skyrocketed. . . . In the Middle Ages, the outbreak of a plague caused people to raise their eyes toward heaven, and pray to God to forgive them for their sins. Today, when people hear of some new deadly epidemic, they reach for their mobile phones and call their brokers. For the stock exchange, even an epidemic is a business opportunity.18

This is our self-portrait of the all-connected world, in which capital freely moves in and out of the territorial boundaries, but people are sieved according to whether they have legal documents for citizenship or visa. It is a free world only for “those who are” (ta onta), whereas it is the most inequitable world for “those who are not” (ta me onta). Everyone tries harder, but the winner is predetermined by the division between homo deus and ta me onta, although this stratum is not absolutely fixed. Catherine Keller terms the people of ta me onta, who are “humans forever slipping beneath the status of the human,”19 the “undercommons” in a way to refer to “a public that has lost hope in politics but that persists in resistance and self-organization.” Here, the persisting emotion of resistance can go wrong unless uncontrolled anger and hatred find their way to an organized expression of solidarity and sympathy with the dehumanized. However, in this semiocapitalist system, one cannot easily find a hope of solidarity, for capitalism evolves in a way to make a division between laborers. A worker belonging to a labor union is not the same laborer as one who cannot organize any labor union. As a matter of fact, more and more workers are more like part-timer or the temporarily hired for a project in this postindustrial capitalism. One of the reasons why the world economy relatively adapts to this pandemic lockdown situation is that capitalism with digital network already establishes a system of work-from-home. The capitalist trick lies in the promise they or the system made that we would have a better life with “work-from-home,” but it turned out that the work-from-home system does not make workers have more time for rest and better quality of life. Rather, workers turn on computers and connect to the digital network, waiting for work orders. Product does not generate capital anymore. Rather, digital network becomes a locus to produce capital so that all of us connect our nerves to the digital network for work. In the meantime, they cannot leave the office because their homes are already their offices. One thing the promise kept is that they don’t have to go to work, simply because they are already in the office. They are all the time connected to the digital network, working 24 hours a day. What is ironic in this cyborg world, which is none other than

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all-connected world, workers cannot make any solidarity because our work is fragmented and cellularized by part-time jobs and temporary projects.20 Labor unions do not fight for them. They become an institution for regular workers, who have become a kind of noble worker, a few in number among the contemporary proletariats. What is common to them is precarity that is the living condition of everyone in this endless infinite competition. Thus, we have become precariats instead of proletariats. We are helpless and alone. None can have my back. The age of impotence is the name Franco “Bifo” Berardi calls this age.21 People have been educated to be the subjects of their lives, but they would never have a chance to be a winner in the infinite competition of semiocapitalism. Education has been corrupted as a social mechanism to sieve losers. Justice is an empty slogan only for winners who are very few. The term “marginalization” is very ironic in that the marginalized today are the majority in number, as the majority are the minority in number. This means that most people are marginalized and treated as cyborgs deprived of human rights. In this situation, they are depressed with anger for being destined to be losers. Their unexpressed anger can be burst with the antidepressant, Prozac, which can trigger off unreleased rage against other losers who are themselves on the face of the others. This is our very negative self-portrait of all-connected society. One of the main reasons for this negative effect of all-connected society derives from the crucial feature of being-human as extendibility, which is the main feature of humans as cyborgs. Marshall McLuhan expresses this cyborg extendibility as “media.”22 In other words, for him, media is the extension of human being. As technologies have given birth to new technological artifacts and devices coupling with digital networks, humans are extended over via their bodies as media. In this sense, technological inventions are the extension of the human body, through which the mind works. However, there is always a lag between the bodily extension through technologies and the recognition by the human central nervous system (CNS) in the extension. When CNS does not recognize the technological extension as its extended part but rather as the other, it attempts to amputate the unrecognized part. This is the process of “autoamputation.”23 Autoamputation is a kind of mistaking “extension” for “expansion.” The extension of being-human is not the same as the expansion of “man” or human subjectivity. Extension means that human “mind” via her/his body forms a coupling or a networked hybrid so that human mind and extension form a new subjectivity via the extension, although the human mind or subject may still take the initiative for doing and thinking. However, it is not a simple imperialistic expansion of the human subject into other technical devices. Thus, when humans are extended via media as well as technological

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devices, the human subjectivity based upon the initial biological body will have to be changed. It is natural, as the sense of body is changed along with the constitution of the extension. However, human mind as well as CNS cannot well acknowledge this difference between extension and expansion, due to the fact that the same mind works on the extended media and devices. In other words, the mind does not recognize that it is changed with its extended network, for its bodily expansion. The extended actor network does not work as the same as the mind has its biological body. Thus, a serious trouble happens. McLuhan explains this with the myth of Narcissus, who finds his mirrored self on the surface of a pond. Due to auto-affection, which is an attraction for the self-sameness, as Derrida puts it, Narcissus feels an attraction for his mirrored self, thinking his reflected extension as the other, who is very attractive for him. He mistook his own reflection for the other, although very attractive. What is at stake here is that Narcissus extends his existence over his surroundings, interacting with the reflection of his self on the pond. Human subjectivity works together with surrounding materials including tools and devices, and his extension is part of his Umwelt, which is the locus of the generation of his self. Thus, extension is not the other. At the same time, it is not exactly the same as the self before the extended coupling. The self has to be changed with its extension, which means that a new form of subjectivity is required to bear the burden of the extended mind. This cognitive burden puts much stress upon the self, sometimes unbearable. Now, CNS takes the extension as the other invading its accustomed boundary of living. Then, the process of autoamputation is triggered. When CNS takes the extension as the other invading its prevailing boundary of the self, the stress turns into feelings of anger and hatred, which do not find their exits yet. These accumulative negative feelings seek for a vent, through which they can be outpoured and outwardly expressed. This outward expression of the negative feelings can have both sides, good and bad. In a usual case, the bad feelings take their chances at easy prey, and their targets are socially weak and marginalized. In such situations, hatred and aggression are increased between people. Instead of resisting against the oppressive system of the age and of trying to find an alternative for a better world, people pour out their uncontrolled anger toward other losers, because they find the face they do not want to see on the faces of the others: the face of a loser. Then, a vicious circle of evil forms. Indeed, autoamputation takes place on the social level these days. Hatred crimes against Asians under this pandemic have increased, and it is termed “Covid hate crime against Asian.”24 In the age of impotence, nervous anxiety derived from the elimination of the infinite competition becomes a source for terror and violence. Impotent people seek to find a channel in others to fire up their suppressed anger. Berardi points out that the advancement of digital network can cause

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the “polarization of sensibility and sensitivity.”25 Sensibility refers to human ability to sympathize with others, while sensitivity is our ability to process sensible information from the outside world. In a normal situation, sensibility and sensitivity work together with the human five senses. Face-to-face encounter with others utilizes all human senses to perceive the others, but digital encounter reduces five senses into two: visual and auditory senses. As a result, our ability to sympathize with others does not properly work because one cannot utilize other senses like tactile, olfactory, and taste. These senses are very important to catch delicate and subtle signs in human communication. However, digital communication does not allow us to use these except visual and auditory signs. Thus, our communication falls short of full understanding and sympathy with others. This lack of sympathy leads to the demonization and stigmatization of the others as the curse for our misfortunes. The socalled “we” mistake the structural evil of the infinite competition for threats from outside or contagious corruption inside due to impure forces within us. After all, the socially weak and marginalized are their targets. Here, the other matters. Given that any life form is always already entangled with the other(s), the definition of the other is very tricky, especially with regard to the matter of extension. For instance, for Alzheimer patient Otto, his notebook cannot be regarded as the other but rather as part of his living. His life is extended with the externalized memory supplement, the notebook, over other parts of his life and over other people and beings. Living organisms construct their own environment, changing their own “fitness landscape,” and this is called niche construction.26 For each living organism, the environment is not the same because they perceive the environment with their respectively constructed “Umwelt” in Uexküll’s terms. This surrounding world (Umwelt) consists of factors crucial for the reproduction and survival of the organism in question. Here, the other is the ones who and/or which are not recognized as entangled with us. However, when we realize that there is no one outside the entanglement, the boundary between us and the other becomes very obscure. For example, the flower of “bee orchid” has evolved to imitate the female bee so that male bee confuses the flower for female bee in its attempt to copulate with the visual decoy of the flower. In the pseudocopulation, the orchids shower the bees with pollen, and in this way pollinate. Haraway asks, what would happen to the bee orchid if bees were extinct? Probably, the orchid will do self-pollination one last time, and that will be the only memory of the extinct bee.27 The lives of bee orchids and bees have entangled each other and are not separable. Which is the subject, and which is the object in this entangled relation of bee and orchid? We may discern and distinguish each of them, but they are absolutely inseparable in their livings, although the ways they recognize each other are not the same. They make their lives together in their respective ways. In this sense, Haraway defines the lives of organisms

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as sympoiesis (making-with) rather than autopoiesis (self-production). In this sympoietic entanglement of lives, there is no clear-cut boundary between one and the other. Given that the crucial feature of being-human lies in its extendibility over other beings, tools, and devices including networks, the “being-human” already always includes other forms of beings including animals and plants in its boundary, and it is thus already always a “staying-with-other-beings.” However, when CNS takes the body as its boundary between self and the other, following its genetic algorithm for reproduction and survival, it turns its Umwelt as a field of (infinite) competition for survival. Can we make this ruthless jungle of infinite competition for survival a playground for the entanglement, changing “natural selection” into “natural play”28 and recovering a sense of solidarity in all-connected extendibility from the all-connected exploitive sensitivity?

HOMO FABER AS INTER-CARNATION, AS THE MATERIALIZATION OF DIVINE CALLING How may theology overcome a brilliant technological trap of the upgrading of inequality? Our cyborg capacity comes from our extendibility over other beings, and this extendibility can be described as a capacity as a mediator between beings. McLuhan’s idea of media as an extension of human beings lies in this context. The space of mediation is none other than an in-between space that does not exist; it is not-nothing but something, without which anything cannot exist. So one can call it chora in Plato’s Timeous which cannot be perceived as existence but which works as a matrix for creation. Plato calls it the Mother of creation, and Whitehead calls it “receptacle.” On this choral time-space, intersubjective realities are given birth to. The term “intersubjective reality” refuses the modern realism consisting of the subject and objects, but it rather acknowledges “the virtual” in Deleuze’s terms. For Gilles Deleuze, the virtual is none other than chaos disrupting our existing conceptual boundaries. According to him, the chaos is “a void that is not a nothingness but a virtual, containing all possible particles and drawing out all possible forms, which spring up only to disappear immediately, without consistency or reference, without consequence.”29 In fact, the world we perceive is full of intersubjective realities, without which even our cognition cannot work. In most cases, intersubjective realities seem to exist “in the mind,”30 but it is not the same as a concept in the mind of an individual, because intersubjective realities become real only “when more than one human shares [sic] the same intangible concept.”31 In this context, religion, ideology, ideal, money, nation, state, world, universe, and so on are good examples for them. Note

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that they do not exist in the mind of an individual but in more than one mind. This is the in-between time-space. This in-between time-space is the material foundation of media that paradoxically does not exist but nevertheless not inexistent. For example, what is there between me and my daughter, between me and my friend, between lovers?—love and friendship. Where does love exist? Or where is justice? Have you ever experienced a world in which justice reigns with its full authority? Absolutely no. Justice is sometimes actualized in its partial form, not in its perfect form. Thus, justice is always broken. No one has ever seen or experienced justice. Paradoxically, one can feel the irresistible force of justice where it is completely absent. It seems that justice has its presence in its absence. Likewise, where is love? Well, this is a really wrong question. It is only valid for those who are obsessed with “existence,” that is, “things that are” (ta onta). Being does not have its presence through its existence. There are inexistent beings out there such as justice, love, dream, ideal, and so on. These inexistent beings are not confined to immaterial things. Even God “does not exist but insists.”32 In the divine insistence on justice, we sense the strong presence of God. The divine insistence is God’s promise, perhaps for justice, love and peace. In the exploitive structure of the cyborg world, we forget that being does not only consist of material existence but of immaterial existence. For those who are infected with a materialist way of thinking, which emerged with the industrial revolution, immaterial thing is more than nonexistent but false without realizing that money and material are also immaterial intersubjective realities based upon language, which is one of the media the human mind can be extended over. So, am I saying that the posthuman actuality of “upgrading inequality” in this cyborg age is just our mental illusion and thus inexistent? Of course, no. What I’m trying to show here is that anything material or matter does not exist without its entanglement with some mental realities so that the modern binary division of mind and matter is a completely wrong picture of the world, although it partly describes our actualities. As already mentioned, homo faber as the classical definition of the extended mind does not only refer to humans as toolmakers but also to human material meaning of incarnation, that is, inter-carnation. Indeed, the Christian concept of incarnation that the Word becomes flesh refers to the materialization of meaning, and “becomingflesh” is none other than the mattering of meaning. Without materialization, any meaning cannot be actualized. Thus, the modern division of materialism and idealism is just the modern oblivion of the virtual, intersubjective realities. Caputo calls them “irreal,” which means “a non-reality restless about becoming real, an inexistence that insists on existing.”33 Indeed, Christianity has existed through the “irreal” calling from God for justice, love, and peace. Just as our material foundations change our ways of thinking and behaving, so the irreal intersubjective realities change the materialistic structure of our

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worlding, that is, our mattering with the divine calling that is inexistent but takes a firm grip on us. The divine inexistence becomes a foundation of global solidarity for “those who are not” (ta me onta), as God is always already the inexistent (ta me onta). Justice is always already for those who are marginalized from homo deus. In this consumer-driven materialist society, theology opens a space for the divine intersubjective, irreal realities to actualize the divine Word in its worlding. For instance, recovering the Christian idea of the divine family, in which all human beings are created in the divine image and thus all equal brothers and sisters, is a way to overcome the social autoamputation taking place today. As a matter of fact, ecology etymologically derives from oikos and logos in Greek. Oikos broadly refers to family, family’s property, and house. In other words, it refers to household, living under the same roof, that is, the basic unit of living. It is not to glorify marriage life or patriarchy but to testify that living is always already a form of living together. As Haraway argues for sympoiesis (making-with) of living or be-ing rather than autopoiesis (self-making), living or/and being always requires company, which derives from com- (together) and pan (bread) in Latin so that it etymologically means a group of being that eat together, possibly on the same dinner table. It is very symbolic that life and death cross each other at eating-together and that living always be com-pany at eating-together. When some eat, other beings are eaten. Life and death crisscross so. Thus, eating itself, even when one eats alone, is not individualistic but collective, as life and death crisscross at eating/being-eaten. In this way, eating is a form of company, in which even life and death are met. Thus, eco-system or nature never walks alone, as eco-nomy always already is making-with, although the monopoly structure of the capitalist system has only emphasized upon living, one part of being, trying to protect individual rights for living to own personal property. Once we Christians realize that existing and living as well as dying on the earth are our collective making-with (sympoiesis) and that “family” refers to the basic unit of being existential as humans and of living as collective rather than blood-ties, we can respect all forms of being as our equal members of the divine family, including nonliving beings. Also, one can imagine overcoming the idea of the extended mind by reinterpreting the Christian idea of incarnation as inter-carnation. It is to propose a new meaning of being-human for all-connected society in a way not to legitimate and justify the coming society of homo deus but to care for pain and suffering between humans, animals, plants, natural resources, and earth. Pain is pervasive all over the earth, and the real meaning of incarnation is to be with the pain and suffering of beings on the earth which is none other than the meaning of com/passion. Inter-carnation means care for pains and sufferings between all forms of beings. In so doing, the inexistent in-between

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becomes a ground for the solidarity of cyborg workers in a way to capture the meaning of entanglement for sympoiesis rather than autopoiesis. Symbiosis is always life-making together, and this is the meaning of sympoiesis. Life is not auto-production of the self but “making-together.” Every form of being is entangled on the web of being. When some beings are in pain, our beings are also damaged. One needs a theology of sympoiesis by reconsidering the unit of being not as an individual but as the collective. When a wolf and lamb play together, one should not forget that the wolf is a carnivore. Which means symbiosis and sympoiesis do not exclude predation. What really matters is not the elimination of predation, pain, and suffering from our sympoietic life, which is impossible. Rather, we change priority in life. Life is not a jungle of the fittest survival but rather an entangled web of sympoiesis, in which predation is one of the ways of balancing the total energy balance for life on earth. One should not forget or ignore the pain and suffering of those living with flesh. Sympoietic attitude to life is to keep alert to our response-ability to the other beings including human and nonhuman. We need a new concept for this entangled web of sympoiesis beyond human rights for individual citizens. NOTES 1. Joseph Schneider, Donna Haraway: Live Theory (New York: Continuum, 2005), 63. 2. Andy Clark, Natural-Born Cyborgs: Minds, Technologies, and the Future of Human Intelligence (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 3. 3. Norman Doidge, The Brain That Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Sciences, Korean Translation by Mi-Sun Kim (Seoul: Jeeho, 2008), 29. According to the experiment, the innate blind can see the objects, sense space and distance, and even read letters captured from the screen by a digital camera, which was held moved by the blind. The camera transmits information to a computer that converts digital information into the tactile information of 400 vibration sensors at the back of the blind’s chair. As the blind is get used to the experiment’s situation, the blind said, “I saw the world.” I cannot imagine what the blind really saw through tactile sensation of her back, but what really matters is that the tactile information was transformed into visual experience in this experiment. Paul Bach-y-rita terms this experience as sensory substitution. 4. Andy Clark & David Chalmers, “The Extended Mind,” Analysis 58.1 (Jan. 1998): 7–19. 5. Donna Haraway, Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene (Durham: Duke University Press, 2016), 58. 6. Karen Barad, Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning (Durham: Duke University Press, 2007), 392. 7. Barad, Meeting the Universe Halfway, 392.

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8. Barad, Meeting the Universe Halfway, 141. 9. Barad, Meeting the Universe Halfway, 393. 10. Barad, Meeting the Universe Halfway, 392. 11. Catherine Keller, Intercarnations: Exercises in Theological Possibility (New York: Fordham University Press: 2017), 2. Keller defines inter-carnation as witness “to the multiplication and entanglement of any and all becoming flesh” (2). It is none other than affirmation “of the corporeal, the carnal, the mattering of matter, of all its materializations” (2). Keeping “through all and in all” (Eph 4:6) in mind, Keller emphasizes “the intermittencies, the intervals and interdependencies, of world relations” with the term, inter-carnation, in a way to interpret creation as incarnation in the sense of “pan-carnate” (2). 12. Karen Barad suggests the concept “intra-action” for describing interaction between beings including material and mental. For any interaction to take place, it supposes to assume a subject and object(s). In this context, interaction is regarded as supplement to the subject and the object, while, for Barad, this is a turn upside down of reality. For her, reality does not depend upon any substantive subject or object but rather emerges with “interaction” itself. In other words, for Barad, there is nothing outside interaction, and, in this sense, interaction should be marked as “intra-action.” 13. According to Malabou, “neuronal functioning and social functioning interdetermine each other and mutually give each other form (here again the power of plasticity), to the point where it is no longer possible to distinguish them. As though neuronal functions were confounded with the natural operation of the world, as though neuronal plasticity anchored biologically—and thereby justified—a certain type of political and social organization” (Catherine Malabou, What Should We Do With Our Brain? Trans. Sebastian Rand [New York: Fordham University, 2008], 9). 14. Jane Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010), 96. 15. Barad, Meeting the Universe Halfway, 128. 16. Homo Deus is a book title by Yuval N. Harari, Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow (London: Harvill Secker, 2015). 17. Harari, Homo Deus, 346. 18. Harari, Homo Deus, 203. 19. Catherine Keller, Political Theology of the Earth: Our Planetary Emergency and the Struggle for a New Public (New York: Columbia University Press, 2018), 30. 20. Franco “Bifo” Berardi, Heroes: Mass Murder and Suicide, Korean Translation by Sum-Byul Song with the title of The Spectacle of Death: Crime, Suicide and Madness in a Financial Capitalism (Seoul: Banbi, 2016), 173–174. According to Berardi, labor has been fractalized in a way for a firm or a company to purchase fragmented, recombinable and modularized piece of time from laborers as much as they need for a work project instead of hiring a full-time worker. Then, laborers are cellularized in a way to recombine them with other cellurarized labors for production. Firm does not need a full packet of production system. Instead, they purchase the part of labor they would need and recombine it with other parts, as if a kid purchases parts of Lego s/ he needs.

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21. Franco “Bifo” Berardi, Futurability: The Age of Impotence and the Horizon of Possibility (London: Verso Books, 2017). 22. Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. Ed. By W.T. Gordon, Korean Translation by Sang-Ho Kim (Seoul: Communication, 2011), xix. 23. McLuhan, Understanding Media, 37. 24. Sam Cabral, “Covid ‘hate crimes’ against Asian American on Rise,” BBC News (21 May 2021; https://www​.bbc​.com​/news​/world​-us​-canada​-56218684). 25. Franco ‘Bifo’ Berardi, After the Future, Korean Translation by Seo-Jin Gang (Seoul: Nanjang, 2013), 43. 26. Andy Clark, Supersizing the Mind: Embodiment, Action, and Cognitive Extension (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 61. 27. Haraway, Staying with the Trouble, 69. 28. Jesper Hoffmeyer, Biosemiotics: In Examination into the Signs of Life and the Life of Signs, trans. J. Hoffmeyer and Donald Favareau, ed. By Donald Favareau (Scranton and London: University of Scranton Press, 2008), xiii. 29. Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari, What Is Philosophy? Trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Graham Burchell (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 118. 30. Rajeet Singh, “Inter-Subjective Realities: Real Things Which Exist Only in the Mind,” Amalgamate (posted on 11 March 2020, accessed on 10 Dec 2021; https://link​ .medium​.com​/VKitEid6Plb) 31. Singh, “Inter-Subjective Realities.” 32. John D. Caputo, The Insistence of God: A Theology of Perhaps (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2013), 3–23. 33. Caputo, The Insistence of God, 55.

Chapter 13

Aboriginal Mural of Atayal and Ethics of Sight Su-Chi Lin

Like most rural villages in Taiwan, Ching-Chuan, an aboriginal Atayal village in Shin-Chu County, encounters the crisis of serious population migration, in addition to an aging population and lacking job opportunities.1 Barry Martinson, SJ, a Jesuit missionary and artist, with the help of local assistants, painted a mural with an aboriginal theme as a way to recover the village’s indigenous religio-cultural traditions (see figure 13.1).2 Derived from the interaction between Christianity and aboriginal experience, the making of the mural reveals the church’s anticipation of the collective development of the Ching-Chuan village. It recalls the history and significant contribution of the local community within Taiwan’s multicultural society. What is perhaps less obvious is that art connects to the imagination of public theology. In the development of the modern mural, public art can be a site of resistance against religious and political status quo.3 Inside or outside the church wall, the public form of mural paintings speaks to the challenge and hope of facing the social system. The visual invitation of a work of art is fundamentally akin to the promotion of thought for public issues insofar as they are built from a network of claims about speaking to our current situation and where our presence could lead. The mural painting was designed to engage the community and revitalize its spirit by highlighting the significance of indigenous art in Taiwan’s history. While attempting to examine the aesthetic of the aboriginal art, it should not be ignored that Taiwanese tribal art is often regarded as subversive of the dominant culture of Han Chinese. The project provides for us a case study to look at how art and social justice intertwined to speak to the public square. Its public character and our sensory response to the experience of beauty invite an open and critical encounter with possibilities. 165

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Figure 13.1  Altar, Interior of the Ching-Chuan Chapel, 2021. Source: Photo by the author.

Looking at a work of art in the public space could be a sacred act. Art in this case becomes a text of theology. It helps viewers to desire the truth and goodness rooted in God’s divine revelation that can bring renewal to the world. The mural’s aesthetic language with the aboriginal theme becomes the “bridge” for the discourse between the self and society.4 In other words, our response to the work and how we take action for our living environment can affect the society. The demands of the arts upon the viewer can be various, whether through the objective depiction of real-world to call for attention to cultural and religious issues, or through abstract themes to convey the speculative characteristic of the work for ethnic justice. This chapter aims to explore the viewer’s visual response to this aboriginal mural from a more inclusive perspective, not only from outsiders such as tourists with curious eyes but also from local residents who are the host of the land. The chapter will take a layered approach to explore Ching-Chuan chapel’s murals by placing these images in three relevant contexts—Atayal’s cultural landscape, interpretation of signs and symbols, and the intercultural dialogue through experience of everydayness—I consider the aboriginal aesthetics, or an ethics of the eye informs public imagination that can contribute to the space for theology.

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ATAYAL’S CULTURAL LANDSCAPE In 1976 the Jesuits in California, USA, sent Barry Martinson as a missionary to Shin-Chu County, Taiwan. Rev. Martinson spent the next 25 years (1976– 2001) working together with aboriginal assistants, Yawei and other local artists, on this Ching-Chuan mural project. The primary aim of this project was to enhance a liturgical environment for the congregation and community. Until now, Ching-Chuan Chapel with its art project is the representative landmark of the area. Located in a quiet mountain village in the middle part of Taiwan, the mural cannot be regarded merely as decorative for the church. It also contributes to the life cycle of the community. Arts and crafts have the capacities to create an atmosphere of peace and enhance worship and contemplation. In this project, Martinson invited local people to be his models for painting the figures. He wanted to uncover the potential to shape public imagination symbolized by the community that is connected to people and their real story and living reality. Through the depiction of the villager’s traditional lifestyle, such as hunting and weaving activities, the church mural not only echoes the concept of art for decoration in the visual tradition of Christianity but also provides an opportunity to tell people’s own life stories. Inside the space of the chapel’s altar, the sculpture of mother and child wearing aboriginal dresses with colorful strip watches over the community, proclaiming a solidarity with people amid the village. The handmade stained-glass window, in the local, indigenous style displays all the images, symbols, and stories of the Atayal people. The mural stands as a witness to the community’s faith and invites viewers to take action for this forgotten, marginalized group in rural Taiwan. On the opposite wall facing the altar of this humble Catholic church are the painted images of the tribal lifestyle of a community in need of love and hope (figure 13.2). These beautifully detailed images with softened colors and typical Atayal patterns speak to the viewer about the ancient history and belief of a beautiful community. The mural’s visual language of everydayness enables a fuller understanding of Christ’s incarnation, where God is present in humanity of every culture and religion. Looking closely, on the upper center of the wall, a giant cross is painted on the top of the church’s entrance, representing the incarnational Christ among the marginalized people. In the words of John W. de Gruchy, art is about “faith seeking to understand reality, the ugliness of injustice in the world of suffering.”5 The holy beauty of the cross conveys hope and love to the viewer in a specific time and context. On the left side of the mural, two Atayal men in the front dressed in colorful, striped clothing carry a black wild boar with a wooden pole on their shoulders. In the background, a warrior-like man carries a bow and arrow

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Figure 13.2  Atayal Mural Painting, Ching-Chuan Chapel, Taiwan, 2021. Source: Photo by the author.

with a white dog and black eagle behind him. On the right side of the mural, three women dressed in traditional clothing are engaged in domestic activities of weaving, nurturing babies, and pounding food with pestle and mortar. Another woman making cloth on the floor with facial tattoos that signify her weaving ability. The women and men are surrounded by the beautiful high mountains with different tones of blue depicted in the background. On the lower part of the wall, several Atayal figures are painted on and cut into the wooden board. Two sides of the mural have parallel compositions with small figures in the progress of working. Several biblical figures wearing aboriginal clothes, depicted on the wooden board under the lower part of the church’s walls, affirm the aboriginal community’s Christian identity. Due to the tensions of ethnic complexity growing out of specific historical experiences, the rich Taiwanese aboriginal cultural heritages and religious experiences are often neglected, resulting in the issues of ethnic prejudice and ideology. As a minority group comprising only 2% of the population of the island Taiwan, aboriginal peoples face the hardship of social injustice in a highly modernized society that values the superiority of Han culture.6 The policies against aboriginal people by the Japanese colonial period to Kuomintang (KMT) government had caused the traditional cultural values of Taiwan’s aboriginal people to vanish. According to Daniel Bays, Taiwanese indigenous people live alongside their Han neighbors who consider the Han to be the carriers of civilization and often look down on them. Thus, the lowland aboriginal people seek a worldview and cultural framework that would enable them to set a higher value on their cultural identity.7 Being a civilized aboriginal person means to keep away from tribal religions and their symbols. In this regard, the tribal heritages such as languages, myths, oral

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stories, wisdom traditions, laws and ethics, and tribal rituals were and are all in destruction.8 While entering the church’s entrance, we see on the altar’s wall displayed a cross adorned with diamond patterns, which represent the eyes of ancestral spirits for protection. We start to realize the reason why on the upper center of the mural, a giant cross, adorned with the same diamond patterns (figure 13.3), can offer people self-identity. As Missiologist Eduardo C. Fernández S. J. writes, Good, indigenous art affirms the sacredness of the local community . . . Each culture has its own visual language and symbol. Their incorporation into worship via inculturation brings together the Gospel messages and the best of that culture, art often being foremost.9

Using the eyes of ancestral spirits—the diamond patterns of Atayal symbol— to create the cross, the mural enhances the visitor’s experience of entering a sacred place where cultural diversities exist. Meanwhile, it brings the local congregation closer together as a community, uplifting their cultural heritage. Art becomes “a concrete way of affirming aboriginal cultures that have been oppressed and do not value their own heritage.”10 In the ancient days, material culture of aboriginals is closely related to their lifestyles, no matter

Figure 13.3  Cross with Diamond Patterns that Represent the Eyes of the Ancestral Spirits (Detail of 13.2).

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the melody sung in the festival ceremony, stories and legends told between families and tribes, or the worship of the ancestor’s spirit—all become the inspiration of making symbols and rituals. EYES OF ANCESTRAL SPIRITS Since the Ching-Chuan chapel is small in size and located in the rural area, the review of the style of the cross is dominated by the artist priest. Compared to the local residents who are not trained with artistic background, the missionary still plays a leading role in speaking to the public. Yet, with the change of generations, more and more aboriginal artists are eager to find their local voices through the visual language. Without a doubt, it is not unusual to see the similar symbol, the eyes of the ancestral spirits, in the context of contemporary aboriginal art of Taiwan. Paiwan artist Etan Pavavalung uses the image of lily to blend Christian iconography and aboriginal symbol, providing a space for an intercultural and interreligious aesthetic dialogue.11 In Rooted in This Land (figure 13.4), Etan integrates the ancestor’s eyes into his understanding of the sacred. Etan draws a red, organic, figure-like cross against a dark green background, joined with three wooden panels in

Figure 13.4  Etan Pavavalung, Rooted in this Land (2014). Source: Photo usage with the artist’s permission.

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a triptych form. On top of it are three giant and black lilies. On either end of the cross’s arms, inside two lilies, two big eyes are on either end of the cross’s arms, and three small ones are located in the green background. The emblems of eyes represent the ancestor’s ability to observe the divine or the unseen world in an aboriginal worldview. Etan also incorporates the symbol of the spiritual eye, the conventional imagery of Paiwan culture, into his work displayed in the newly opened space of Public Library in Tainan.12 These conventional symbols allow the artist to freely express his native language in a visual form. When both cultures of Christianity and Aboriginal share a similar interpretation of a single image, convergence occurs. Traditional symbol thus plays a key role in forming the space for the benefit of public dwelling. Likewise, discovered from both Ching-Chuan’s mural and other artworks, such as the decoration for the suspension bridge in the village, the cross with the eyes of the ancestral spirits is a typical case of integrating aboriginal signs and symbols into the living environment to beautify and educate the community. Through the villager’s first-hand experience of art in the public place, the traditional symbol offers the old community new stimuli and social contact. With its multiple layers of religious and cultural implications, the mural mediates the correlation between Christianity and Atayal aboriginal themes. A unique cross of inculturation appears in both projects of aboriginal mural and contemporary artwork.13 The mediated symbols of the ancestor’s eyes have the capacity to rebuild the relationship among self, tribes, and community, thus opening space for mutual communication and understanding, regarding the meaning of hope and resurrection from the two different contexts. While looking closely at the cross with sacred blessings, not surprisingly, there is emphasis on the theme of sacramentality in an aboriginal context that suggests the idea of inviting the spirit of the ancestors.14 In the animistic context of an aboriginal village, art, religion, and the sacred are deeply interlaced. This worldview of the aboriginal people is characterized by the spiritual life that is ongoing in a dynamic time-continuum. The Atayal mural provides us an opportunity to rediscover the Christian message of the sacred communion in another culture and religion. At the same time, the viewer learns from the indigenous theme of sacramentality to reexamine and reconstruct the Christian scene of sitting around the Lord’s table where all people are invited to be in communion and unity, no matter their different ethnicities, races, or religions.

AESTHETICS OF EVERYDAYNESS Another detail in the Ching-Chuan mural worth noticing is the portrayal of the woman’s activity of weaving. For the Atayal people, possessing the skill

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of weaving is a symbol of one’s distinguished status in the village. We see in this mural image the vision of Atayal tribal life in which the distinction between sacred and secular does not apply. People’s everyday activities embody the life of honor and creativity in the Atayal community. The weaving activity gives us a hint to understand the notion of God from the Atayal’s perspective. In the Atayal culture, God is the one who weaves.15 God unfolds to God’s people the plan through the act of people’s daily activities. It echoes the Christian message of humans being made in God’s image, thus they inherit God’s creativity. The representation of the routine experience of weaving points to the history of God’s creation and redemption. As a result, the aesthetic conversation happens between the representation of aboriginal culture and wisdom in a Christian liturgical space. In the work “Hands of Resistance” (2021) (figure 1.1, page 2; see also the cover of this book), Young Rotuman artist Malia Vaurasi from the islands of Fiji also creates a weaving imagery to allude to the sacred power of unity. Vaurasi is a member of Youngsolwara Pacific, which is made up of a group of activists from the Pacific, who share common concerns about issues affecting the people and islands of the Pacific.16 “I combine my passion for creating art and my passion for justice in our Pacific to help inspire the change we wish for and that the next generation deserves.”17 Trained with a sociology background, Vaurasi aims to speak to the public about her love and defend the land through art making. In the center of the work, the artist depicts a group of local women with hallow like yellow on the top of their heads, gathering in a semi-circle. Surrounded by huge-leaf plants and sea creatures, they are busy engaging in activities of weaving. Here, the yellow part of the woven area seems like a big body hallow to protect people from the force of deprivation. On the upper corner of the work, there are several white hands representing the capitalistic gains coming from outside of the island to exploit the natural resources of earth and ocean. Weaving activity here becomes the symbol of solidarity, reflecting female’s wisdom and collective consciousness for resistance. While encountering an aboriginal work of art, the viewer acknowledges the importance of the “otherness” of the art as something in itself. They can be surprised and wondered by this “otherness.” The experience of encountering the “otherness” reminds the viewer that the artwork has its own life and “resists to subordinate the work to the kind of self-reference individuality and subjectivity that only focus on what it means to me.”18 In other words, the experience of how the viewer interacts with the work is still waiting to be discovered. It speaks to the viewer’s attitude of being willing to enter a possible dialogue that is full of mystery and to listen to the message of the “truth-claim” of the work against an individual subjectivity. The viewers are challenged by the moment of cultural contact and encounter with the

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holy “otherness.”19 The work of “Hands of Resistance” clearly connects to humanity, and the artist reacts to the reality of her living environment. It is an example that the medium and setting of the art have far-reaching power, which demands the community to stand for ecological well-being and take action. Moreover, the debate on the notion of God and the sacred worldview manifested in weaving imagery in mural painting has drawn our attention to the relationship between art and social transformation. Art refuses to separate faith and public responsibilities and is committed to empowering marginalized and vulnerable communities.20 The inclusive dimension of the aboriginal rites and rituals depicted in the Atayal mural is the evidence of interactions between aesthetics and ethics and advocates for indigenous rights and religious experience. Connected to the annual feast of ancestor worship, the mural’s cross with the eyes of the ancestral spirits further broadens the scope of our understanding of the Christian taste and aesthetics of communion, which is also manifested in the fundamental elements of religious life for Atayal men and women. In fact, one of the sinful tastes is intolerance. The Atayal church mural serves as a promising project of how cross-cultural taste becomes the key to enhance diversity in unity that allows one to enjoy aesthetic qualities outside one’s own community. The Atayal theme carries out the struggle for the integrity of Christian truth. The characters of tribal religion here accommodate the Gospel that spreads the message of salvation for all peoples, creating a new possibility for universal appeal. By doing so, Rev. Martinson and his native assistants’ integration of the Gospel message with aboriginal religious experiences serve as an expression of interfaith visions of life and reality. An inclusive and transformative taste, expressed in the rites of passages in Atayal murals, becomes the ultimate goal for Christian aesthetics in which the wholeness of the self and the human community can come into a condition of new possibility. Despite the limitation of the specific context of the time, people expect to hear the local artist’s voice from the bottom of the community. It obviously requires collective efforts and visions from all different groups in the society. Scholars, opinion leaders, local artists, general public, and government form a healthy network to support each other, in order to build up a creative community using art as a medium to speak to the public.

CONCLUSION In sum, the aesthetics of the Ching-Chuan church mural has left a space for discussing ethics of vision, the attitude one should have in contemplating a work of art. The mural project communicates the Gospel between aesthetics

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and ethnicities, at the same time, penetrating the structural inequality of the society. When one engages in the visual work, its capacity to invite us to an interdisciplinary dialogue away from the truth-claim inside the church has clear implications for public theology. Because the formation of public theology proclaims a conscience to have an interdisciplinary dialogue with the society, the art can offer an attitude of openness to dialogue with and listen to others. The mural’s ceremonial scene of everydayness and its place of life strengthen the public discourse to encourage richer stories of life aesthetics to be written. Art for the public consumption relies on our sensory experience to offer an observation to and participation in the present and future situations. The love of the community is revealed in the participation of the activities of everydayness through our senses and feelings, therefore, attracting the young generation and artist of the community to live with honor and work in the sustainable lifestyle. For the visitors from outside, they can come to learn and rediscover the diversity and fullness of aboriginal art and lifestyle. The potential for deleting the barriers between art and life provides a platform for conversation between church and society, bringing cultural revival to the community. The act of looking shapes our mind and thought. The process of seeing and its ethics manifested in the arts could be source texts for theological reflection. What do we learn from the process of seeing a work of art? The church mural by Father Martinson and his local team members brings access to the interrelated reality, through tradition and contemporary, separation and unification, self and other. Looking at an aboriginal mural as a sacred text demands a social responsibility, an ethics of sight that reminds us why a work of art is capable of speaking to the world today. NOTES 1. “Atayal” (泰雅, Tai-Ya) means “true people” or “brave people.” The Atayal was the third largest group of aboriginal people in Taiwan. The aboriginal tribes in Taiwan include Atayal, Paiwan, Lukai, Puyama, Yami, Saisiya, Toyoko, and Amis (see Taiwan’s Indigenous People’s Portal; 台灣原住民族資訊資源網Taiwan Yuan Zhu Min Zu Zi Xun Zi Yuan Wan; http://www​.tipp​.org​.tw​/aborigines​_info​.asp​?A​ _ID=9 (accessed on 13 Aug 2021). 2. The Atayal mural painting by Rev. Barry Martinson (丁松青, Ding Song Qing) is located in an aboriginal church, Ching-Chuan Tian Zhu Tang (清泉天主堂) in Wufong township, Shin-Chu County, the middle part of Taiwan. 3. In the 1970s, mural paintings by Mexican immigrants began to appear in Mission district, San Francisco, USA. The mission murals show South America’s cultural traditions, the desire for dignity and equality, and the oppression of farmers. These images in the public space use bold colors and figurative themes to speak for the

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historical and cultural events. One of the famous murals from St. Peter’s Church at the corner of 24th St. and Florida St., was commissioned to mark the 500th anniversary of the Spanish conquest of America, depicting Native Americans experiencing imperial persecution. Tseng Hsu-Cheng (曾旭正) (ed), Public Art in the Community (在社區營造藝術, Zai She Qu Ying Zao Yi Shu) (Tainan: National Tainan University of Art, 2009), 63. 4. Cecilia González-Andrieu describes the interdisciplinary method to engage theological aesthetics, using the metaphor of “bridge” that can be explained from different approaches: “My view of the bridge as art and as religious is unconventional. But it is one way we can concretely visualize and articulate theological aesthetics as a method.” Cecilia González-Andrieu, Bridge to Wonder: Art as a Gospel of Beauty (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2012), 132. 5. John W. de Gruchy, “Holy Beauty: A Reformed Perspective on Aesthetics within a World of Ugly Injustice,” in Reformed Theology for the Third Christian Millennium: The 2001 Sprunt Lectures, edited by B.A. Gerrish (Lousville: John Knox, 2003), 15. 6. 鄭仰恩Cheng Yang-un, The Contextualization of Christianity in Taiwan (定根 本土的台灣基督教, Ding Gen Ben Tu De Tai Wan Ji Du Jiao), (Tainan: Ren-guang, 2005), 342. 7. Daniel H. Bays (ed.), Christianity in China: From the Eighteenth Century to the Present (Redwood city: Stanford University Press, 1999),132. 8. The challenge for Taiwanese indigenous people is seeking indigenous dignity, social justice, human rights, peace, self-autonomy, cultural rights, and land ownership. Walis Ukan, “Development of Indigenous Theology in Taiwan: Biblical Perspective,” in Doing Indigenous Theology in Asia: Towards New Frontiers, edited by Hrangthan Chhungi, M.M. Ekka, and Wati Longchar (Nagpur: NCCI/SCEPTRE/ GTC, 2012), 7. 9. Eduardo C. Fernández S.J., “Educating for Inculturation: Reasons Why the Arts Cannot be Ignored.” In Post Modern Worship and the Arts, edited by Doug Adams and Michael E. Moynahan (San Jose: Resource, 2002), 143. 10. Eduardo Fernández, “Educating for Inculturation,” 142. 11. Paiwan (排灣) was one of the aboriginal groups in Taiwan, who live in the southern Taiwan as their activity area. 12. Etan Pavavalung’s work displayed in Tainan Public Library: https://www​.tnpl​ .tn​.edu​.tw​/n14​9548​8572​5053​936549​/n1Content (access on 26 Nov 2021). 13. A short definition of “Inculturation”: “The on-going dialogue between faith and culture or cultures. More fully, it is the creative and dynamic relationship between the Christian message and a culture or cultures.” Aylward Shorter, Toward a Theology of Inculturation (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1989), 11. 14. The religious beliefs of the Atayal people are “ancestral spirits.” They believe that the ancestral spirits have the power to control the misfortune and happiness of a person’s life. The blessings of the ancestral spirits can make the life of the villagers safe and guarantee a good harvest of farming for a year. See the feast of “ancestral spirits” (祖靈祭, Zu Ling Ji) in Taiwan’s Indigenous People’s Portal (accessed on 26 Nov 2021).

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15. Atayal’s religion is Animism. The concept of gods of the Atayal tribe is “Utux,” which include ghosts, ancestor spirits, and spirits of natural objects after death. Atayal people worships Utux, an invisible supernatural power, for their blessings when curing diseases and eliminating disasters. Atayal believe that people’s destiny is Tsinun-utux (靈所織) woven by God, the ancestor’s spirit. See Ta Hsi Wu La Wan. Pi-Ma (達西烏拉灣.畢馬/ 田哲益), Taiwan Aboriginal: Atayal (台灣的原住 民：泰雅族, Tai Wan Te Yuan Chu Min: Tai-Ya-Tsu) (Taipei: Taiyuan, 2001), 81. 16. “Youngsolwara is a regional movement comprised of a collective of activists from the Pacific. We share common concerns on issues impacting our Pacific people and our islands. Youngsolwara is a movement birthed from the regional gathering, Wansolwara Madang Dance in 2014. The Madang Dance was a gathering of practitioners, academics, musicians, bloggers, artists, university students, community workers, social workers and activists, youth and church thinkers.” See Youngsolwara Pacific website: https://www​.youngsolwarapacific​.com/ (access on 26 Nov 2021). 17. See the artist statement in the Youngsolwara Pacific website. 18. González-Andrieu, Bridge to Wonder, 68. 19. González-Andrieu writes, “This moment of encountering the otherness in the experience of art can be a fruitful practice because it fosters self-emptying, humanity, and being present” (González-Andrieu, Bridge to Wonder, 69). 20. See John W. Gruchy’s discussion of sanctification, good taste, and transformation (Gruchy, Christianity, Art, and Transformation: The Theological Aesthetics in the Struggle for Justice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 16).

Chapter 14

Can the Wind Speak? An Aeolian Listening to Ruach in Exodus 1–18 with Fairoz Ahmad’s Interpreter of Winds (2019) LIM Chin Ming Stephen

The struggle with authoritarian regimes that wield excessive power dates back to the very first empire. In the last decade, we witness again the intensification of this struggle in places like Hong Kong, Myanmar and more recently, Afghanistan and Ukraine. In this chapter, I read an altogether (over)familiar passage of Exodus 1–18 (especially to liberation thinkers) that reflects this struggle with authoritarian powers, in conversation with unfamiliar voices to foreground the importance of listening. I begin with what I have argued elsewhere as part of contextual hermeneutics – the need to listen to the Other.1 In this light, Fairoz Ahmad is the religious and ethnic Other to me in my context in Singapore. I have chosen his book Interpreter of Winds (2019), particularly his engagement with the Exodus story.2 What is fascinating, which I discuss later, is that he does not direct me to listen to him, but rather, as the title of his book suggests, to an understated element in our environment that arguably permeates all publics – the wind. However, this act of listening is fraught with many hidden difficulties. Norman Habel, in the first Earth Bible project series, advocates for the need “to move beyond a focus on ecological themes to a process of listening to, and identifying with, Earth as a presence or voice in the text.”3 The concern I have is really with what seems like a simple exercise or romanticised notion of just as it were, listening to the “wind” as many ecological readers of the Bible have done with the different parts of the earth.4 But listening is seldom simple and straightforward. Situated as one who has been thoroughly influenced or colonised by western thinkers, many of whom are white men in metropolitan centres and not to mention, an urbanite myself with easy access to privileged 177

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identities in my own context, I have to be mindful that it will be a difficult negotiation of bridging listening with praxis. In this chapter, the particular part of the earth I wish to listen (in/)to is the wind or ruach in Exodus 1–18. I begin with how this narrative is embedded in debates about praxis in the face of empire by surveying current (hardline?) positions on the text. As an intervention, I engage with a specific story in Fairoz Ahmad’s anthology, “The Palace of Glass,” to bring out the voice of the wind in these ancient texts in Exodus about God and authoritarian regimes. After working my way through different actors in relation to this ubiquitous presence of the wind, I reflect on this act of listening to the wind as a response to the authoritarianism that constantly surrounds and threatens to envelop us. LIBERATION AND EXODUS One key debate in relation to the issue of authoritarianism highlighted by Joel Baden is the relevance of the Exodus story to liberation, particularly whether to privilege reading it in its familial-national or social-ethical dimensions.5 This discussion has been reworked in many ways in many contexts. In the wake of the liberation movements in Latin America, one of the common ways it has manifested in bourgeoise church circles of Asia (significantly influenced by Protestantism in the West) is the dichotomising of missions into evangelism and social action. The former has close affinities with a familialnational reading of Exodus that privileges election, and the latter with more social-ethical readings that reflect the desire to redress social injustice in the here and now. My concern here remains with the interpretations of texts, while at the same time keeping in mind that readings of these sacred texts inevitably have discursive effects beyond the guild in which one locates oneself. Exodus as Liberating? It has become a truism to say that the Exodus story lies at the heart of liberation theology especially in its nascent stages in Latin America of the 1960s.6 The narrative presents a God who is on the side of the oppressed by actively practising solidarity and enacting their liberation. Siding with traditional historical work that proposes three stages of Israel’s development from a loose conglomerate of tribes bound together by their common oppressive conditions to the establishment of a monarchy that eventually fell foul to the Babylonians, Jorge Pixley and Clodovius Boff argue that the Exodus story is an imaginative re-telling of Israel’s identity primarily rooted, not in a unified ethnicity but rather in a solidarity across the subaltern classes of the society of

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their time.7 The zeal for YHWH’s honour before the great Egyptian Pharaoh is not antithetical to the liberation of slaves but rather finds resonance and convergence. In contrast, Jon Levenson (who is among those who favour a Jewish and historical reading of the text) argues that while one could concede the sociopolitical implications of the text, it is still subordinate to the overall thrust of YHWH founding a people to whom he is their king. The issue here, as Levenson points out, is that much of the liberation theology of the 1960s to 1980s tends to focus more on liberation from rather than for. His claim is that it is not for self-determination but rather another, albeit more benevolent, form of subjugation.8 To him, it is a mistake to think that it is anywhere near to what Marxist thinkers are assuming to be “simply human equality and justice in community.”9 Moreover, the framing of the Exodus narrative, as Levenson later clarifies,10 does not show the victory as God’s social order taking over the Pharaoh’s but rather in the image of one king deposing another. The constant refrain is not so much the corrupted system of Egypt but rather the failure of the Pharaoh to submit to YHWH’s will to let his people go. Furthermore, it is hard to argue that the Exodus story itself is mainly about liberating slaves in the modern sense of the word. Taking the Song of Moses and Miriam in Exodus 15 as an example, while it is often read as the climatic celebration of YHWH’s deed in Egypt for Israel, Levenson points out that neither slavery nor freedom is mentioned. Rather the song seems more concerned with portraying YHWH as a warrior who has triumphed over the mighty Pharaoh.11 What the rhetoric does maintain is the image of God as king laying claim to his people which would be established in a covenant that resembles pacts between strong empires and weaker vassals.12 The very system of master and slavery is not dissolved but rewritten with new signatories – now YHWH is the master and they are his slaves.13 Granted that YHWH might be relatively more “humane” than the ancient near eastern neighbours, but it was at the very least not enough to dismantle the social institutions of slavery within Israel (and arguably later on in the church as well). In sum, it would seem that liberating the subaltern classes is at best coincidental, if at all intended. Liberating Exodus? Levenson’s own reading of the central point of the Exodus story is its intimate connection with the Patriarchal covenant – “its unconditional promise of land for the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob” where “no other slaves are redeemed, only Israel.”14 To this, Jorge Pixley offers an alternative understanding of the Hebrews as “a heterogeneous group of peasants in Egypt, accompanied by a nucleus of immigrants from regions to the east.”15

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Furthermore, he reminds us that the Pentateuch ends with the people who left Egypt still on the edges of the Promised Land.16 This seems to indicate that the degree to whether this is yet another form of slavery is left open even until today – a point as Baden highlights that liberation theologians such as Gustavo Gutierrez and Jose Croatto Severino make.17 Furthermore, it is also important not to allow the political dimensions of the text to be eclipsed by the legal and covenantal portions of the Pentateuch. After all, it is the story of being freed from Egypt that is most salient in the religious traditions of Judaism and Christianity if we consider the centrality of the Passover and the Eucharist. Walter Brueggemann points to the element of political contestation between YHWH and the Egyptian Pharaoh: Yahweh’s intrusive action in Egypt concerns the punishment, and finally the nullification, of a recalcitrant vassal who refuses to implement the policies of Yahweh, the overlord.18

The plague narratives that ensue after Moses, as God’s intermediary, delivers the message to let his people go, are in Brueggemann’s assessment an assertion of power by a superior sovereign over the inferior Egyptian Pharaoh. God will not be denied what is his and thus in a crescendo fashion demonstrates the might of his power and futility of resistance. The Pharaoh eventually concedes to God’s power but still wants to retain some semblance of his own sovereignty over the Israelites. This is met with a non-compromising stance of Moses as God’s messenger who is not willing to cede any territory to the Pharaoh. Furthermore, it is entirely conceivable that if the proto-capitalist system of Egypt loses the lowest strata of indentured labour, the entire economic system would collapse upon itself. Despite the disagreements over the nature of liberation, what appears to be unanimous is how the Pharaoh is caricatured as a two-dimensional powerhungry dictator or a personification of evil itself. Perhaps the surface rhetoric of the biblical text does lend itself to over-simplify the machinations of an oppressive system. One is prone to underestimating its ability to adapt to new circumstances and might indirectly overestimate the heroism of Moses. In so doing, one wonders if these various scholars are reading themselves into the text under the guise of objective methodologies or at least what they perceive to be an ideal version of themselves. Moreover, in many of the conceptions of biblical scholarship as illustrated earlier, an anthropomophised image of God as warrior-king is often upheld – dwelling on issues of honour of the sovereign, violent conflict between kings and so on. Yet as my interlocutor from Singapore provokes in me, there is a clear connection between the deity and wind. Following the vein of liberation scholarship which reads the Exodus events in the light of creation, it is also important to remember that God is presented

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in the creation account as ruach (Gen 1:2) with the possible translation of wind. So, what if we move away from such human-like conceptions of the divine and dwell on the ephemeral character of the wind? This leads me to the next section where I explore such conceptions through Fairoz Ahmad’s Interpreter of Winds.

INTERPRETING WITH THE WIND The particular story I look at is entitled “The Palace of Glass.”19 It is told from the standpoint of a dog who is trudging across the desert with the help of a camel in search of a cure for his ailing master. The story told by the dog is about a king who lives in a palace of glass where there is a hall of a thousand mirrors to reflect the riches of his kingdom to the world. In what would have been often perceived as an impossible moment, the king realises the temporal nature of his achievements and yearns to pursue knowledge about the world. An opportunity presents itself when his vizier brings him seven glass jars of different colours. It turns out an angel is refracted through the mirrors in his palace and now resides in seven jars. In exchange for his release, the king asks that he lives through “the age of enchantment, the age of discovery and the age of decline.”20 The angel grants the king his request. His journey through time is marked by his interaction with different winds. His first encounter is on board the ship of Odysseus, King of Ithaca where he has to safeguard Boreas, the north wind, Notos the south wind and Eurus the east wind which are secured in a bag by Aeolus the king of winds. The winds are let loose on account of the greed of the sailors because they have mistaken him to be holding onto gold. This then destroys the ship. The king is saved by the wind Zephyros. After they part ways, the king would meet Ruwach,21 the Hebrew wind. Ruwach preserves him from the fury of Pharaoh against Moses. Fascinatingly, the king “realises” that Ruwach is the same as Eurus. Eventually, he lives until the eighteenth century where the king is returned to the Palace of Glass by Zephyros. Despite having lived for more than two thousand years, the king wants to carry on and reneges on his promise. At this moment, Angel Izrail comes to rescue the imprisoned angel whom it is revealed to be Muaqibbat, a guardian angel in Islamic lore. Izrail pronounces judgement on the king: You learnt about wisdom, but not faith. You learnt the power of God, but not of His mercy. You learnt of illness, but not pain. You learnt about old age, but not of death [. . .] And thus, like the People of Ad, We sent upon them a Sarsar wind in days of calamity that We might give them a taste of disgracing torment in this present worldly life. But surely the torment of the Hereafter will be more

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disgracing, and they will never be helped. And how the people of Ad suffered, so shall you.22

The angel Muaqibbat is then liberated from the Palace of Glass, and the Hall of Thousand Mirrors is destroyed leaving only the unbreakable throne with its dead king as a reminder to all. This story is offered by the dog, the chief protagonist of the short story, to a figure in the desert called the Wind in exchange for help for his master. With this story in mind, I explore in the following sections several comparisons – the king and the Pharaoh, the dog and the Hebrews and the Wind and YHWH. The King and the Pharaoh The king in Interpreter of Winds appears at the beginning of the story to have gained some form of enlightenment about the temporal nature of his fame. He has become aware of the “illusion of depth and distortions of space created by his Palace of Glass”23 and jumps at the first opportunity to gain enlightenment. Ultimately, he clings on to eternal life and he is judged to be no different from the people of Ad.24 The people of Ad are in many ways the equivalent of Pharaoh and Egypt. Like Egypt, the people of Ad are described by twentieth-century Islamic cleric and scholar Shaykh Muhammad al-Ghazali to be “a powerful people, with a semi-gigantic, strong physical disposition, who lived near Hadramawt in the south of Yemen.”25 Just like the Egyptian Pharaoh who rejects Moses who is regarded as a prophet in the Islamic tradition, the people of Ad showed “shameless contempt and intransigence towards the prophet Hūd who was sent to them.”26 They were eventually subdued by “ordinary and familiar forces of nature, water, and air [which have] become powerful tools in the hand of God to punish and destroy the wrong-doers.”27 The wind is an important connecting signifier because in Surah 51:38–41, we find a similar account of Pharaoh rejecting Moses and being punished by the “wind.”28 As Clinton Bennett sums up, Ad is “imagined as the quintessential equal of Egypt in the Quran who rejected the prophets of God.”29 The chief issue with the people of Ad is their failure to revere Allah and also to show their fellow men the dignity that they deserve.30 All the more, just as the Pharaoh is given ten plagues, the people of Ad also receive ample warning before their final judgement.31 Fairoz Ahmad’s take on the king is far more generous than the biblical or Qur’anic account. The king experiences life from across different class strata – as a lowly sailor on board Odysseus’s ship, close chronicler of the life of Moses, professor of Literature in Cambridge and also not forgetting he is still a king. Despite the breadth of human experience, it could be argued that

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the king is not that different from when he first embarked on a quest of selfrealisation. Previously because of the limitation of death, he could only hope that his name lives forever. Right now, with the possibility of himself living forever, he grabs at it. At the bottom, he still hangs on to power. Rhe Pharaoh does not demean himself in the concrete way that the king has, but he does similarly experience despair and loss of power. Fairoz Ahmad’s depiction brings to question my own judgement of the character of Pharaoh. Is he the quintessential villain that I hope him to be? Or is he like the king, protective of his own security that is built on the power and prosperity he has accrued? Through the lens of the Palace of Glass, the fragility of the empire ironically intensifies the need to protect it more, instead of embracing its brittle nature. In the plague narratives, death comes in many guises as threats of nature itself – from poisoned rivers to infestation of various animals, to the potential loss of the very labour that powers the empire and to the cutting off of one’s lifeblood in the loss of one’s firstborn. The Pharaoh has been brought up within the palace protected by walls, albeit made of glass, from the harsh realities of loss and suffering. And if the tale of this king were instructive, it would seem burrowing deep into those experiences would hardly dent his ambitions, or change his outlook. Put differently, both the king and the Pharaoh “hardened” their hearts (Exod 7:14; 8:15, 19, 32; 9:7, 12, 35; 10:1, 20, 27). Their ambitions still supersede all other experiences of life. Knowledge has not taught them the limits of life, nor has powerlessness enables them to exercise power less greedily, much less suffering and loss dampened their desire for more power. In the face of such imminent loss, hardening their hearts is the only way left for those who still wish to hang on to the power that they have already accrued. The Dog and the Israelites From the king, we move to the dog. The dog is the subaltern in this tale of kings seeking power. It remains hidden, not mentioned at all in its own tale. Unlike powerful men who write themselves a role in the stories they tell and usually a central one at that, one wonders who re(-)presents the dog in the tale of “The Palace of Glass.” The silence of the dog reminds me of the relative silence of the Hebrew slaves or “my people” who seem inert, quiet and passive. That being said, it is the dog who tells the story – not the king, nor the winds Ruwach and Zephyros, nor even the angels Izrail and Muaqibbat. If historical critics were correct that the Exodus story was written down only during the time of exile, then the story was told by subjugated Jews under the empire.32 At the same time, the storyteller gains nothing. There is no immediate salvation waiting for the dog as it receives foul-smelling grease and a pair

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of socks which end up no more than comfort for his ailing friend, Ghati the camel. The tale of oppressive Pharaohs being punished by God is also told among a people who receive no such salvation. God and Wind Wind in Interpreter of Winds has several forms. One clear trope is that the wind is a crude instrument of divine punishment. There is a story within the story, with the dog telling the story about winds to a figure who is called “The Wind.” The Wind was once a man from the people called Tuareg. Through earnest prayer for 27 years, the man is transformed into what is now known as “The Wind.” Here the Wind reminds the dog that while it is true that he wields the power to bring about untold destruction, he “does not control the consequences of [his] actions.”33 The results of his deeds are entirely under the “purview” of Allah who knows of all movements, even those within a man’s heart. This idea that the Wind visits judgement on whom the deity regards as sinful is retold in the dog’s “Palace of Glass” where the king receives his final punishment like the people of Ad. In tandem with this trope of divine punishment, there is a commentary on how man continues his effort to control the Wind as signified by the action of keeping the angel in jars. The Wind will no longer allow the king to use blackmail to continue to live a long life. Yet this façade of control is held in tension with the unpredictable nature of the wind that is exemplified in the figure of the Wind. He comes from a tribe where men are veiled, not the women. The Wind tells the dog strange ideas of animals going to heaven, and that the abhorrence of pigs being more socially conditioned than divinely sanctioned. As a tribute to the mystery of the Wind, the dog’s tale also reflects the hubris of control man exerts over the Wind. The Wind eventually does what it pleases. As far as I am able to tell, there has been limited work done on the relationship of wind/spirit and God in the Exodus narrative.34 What is clear in the Exodus narrative is that the wind is an agent of divine punishment, most explicitly by bringing the swarms of locusts as the eighth plague (Exod 10:13). Implicitly, it is arguably part of the thunder and hail of the seventh plague (Exod 9:22) and later on bringing the waves crashing down on the Egyptian armies in pursuit of the Israelites (Exod 14:26–28; 15:8). This resonates with the picture not only in Fairoz Ahmad’s story but also true of the understanding of the wind in the Qur’an (see for instance, Surah 51:41). We find in “The Palace of Glass” an explicit manipulation of the divine forces for the king’s gain. Looking again at the Exodus account, there is a cycle of acquiescing to and resisting YHWH. It is as though the Pharaoh, like the king, tries to “trick” YHWH into leaving him alone with his empire and

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power. This is particularly salient in the last four plagues. In the seventh plague of hail and thunder, the Pharaoh pleads with Moses and Aaron to stop YHWH (Exod 9:27–35). In the eighth plague, he nearly accedes to the requests of his officials to do what Moses and Aaron have been demanding but reneges at the last moment because the children have to be included (Exod 10:16–20). He lets go of the little ones but insists on the livestock in his discussion with Moses and Aaron during the ninth plague (Exod 10:24–29). Of course, when the final straw is drawn with the death of his heir to the throne, he begrudgingly chases the Israelites out but later on decides to give pursuit (Exod 14). For each plague, save the last, when YHWH rescinds the plague, the Pharaoh immediately hardens his stance as though he is trying (in vain) to manipulate the divine to leave him alone. Both narratives point to the futility of controlling the divine. That being said, Fairoz Ahmad, perhaps following his own Islamic sensibilities, obfuscates the ultimate deity from the picture and leaves the king to make do with angelic intermediaries. Throughout the story Interpreter of Winds, there are clear indications of separating God and wind where the latter is seen as a tool of the former. In my view, this is one departure from the biblical account of God. While YHWH continues to act through Moses, he has significant portions of direct speech. This is further complicated by the Song of Moses in Exodus 15 where the wind comes from within God himself, or more specifically his nostrils (cf. Exod 15:8: ‫)בְ רּוחַ אַ ּפֶיָך‬. This blurs the lines between God sending the wind as an emissary to do his work, and God himself holding back the waters for the Israelites to cross. Much as the wind may seem to be predominantly an agent of punishment, the Wind performs other functions in the dog’s tale: saving the king from a sinking ship, warning him of the coming locusts and parting the Red Sea for escape. Furthermore, this single agent could hold two seemingly opposite signifiers together – saving the king but destroying the greedy sailors; giving the king immortality and robbing him of it. Just as the west wind drives away the locusts that the east wind has brought (Exod 10:13, 19), the wind in the Exodus story appears just as capricious and capable of representing both salvation and destruction. Finally, the Wind offers tea. The dog initially refuses since it does not take any fancy to tea. It is, after all, a dog. But having overcome its initial prejudice, the tea which in the beginning is bitter becomes sweet and at the end of their meeting, light as the wind.

IMPLICATIONS One key slippage shored up by Fairoz Ahmad’s account of wind is (the unintentional consequence of?) drawing attention to the ambiguity in the word,

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ruach. As Jaco Gericke traces, this word has been expounded in three fairly distinct domains: first, theological association with the deity in the sense of the spirit; second, meteorological phenomena such as storms and winds; third, the anthropological aspect of life-force or breath that sustains humans. He argues that the dichotomy between these three meanings within discussions of the Bible could be traced, on the one hand, to a kind of Christian conservatism that dichotomises spirit and matter; and on the other hand, for the less religiously minded, it could be consigning this to a Darwinian progression of meaning that abandons its previous form for the present (and more secularised) version.35 This chapter has been an attempt through Interpreter of Winds to understand how the meteorological dimension of wind could inform associations between the divine and human. From the standpoint of nature, I argue that it boils down to the very ubiquity of the effects of wind. In times of desperation, God is like the wind or he is the wind – as a calming, cool breeze in the unbearably hot and humid months in Southeast Asia. Yet there is a capricious element that comes in the manner of torrential monsoons that threatens both rural and urban areas or level 10 typhoons that have wrecked many of the islands such as the Philippines. Even when the wind comes as a soothing balm in a hot, sultry afternoon, we know that relief is all but temporary. On the other hand, the wind can also be easily ignored until one is being or made desperate. It is not tangible with any visible shape. In fact, it has gone relatively unnoticed even in the accounts of biblical scholarship of the Exodus story, which seems far more enthralled by what is seen – especially the sea and not to mention, the land. Yet one is enveloped and even sustained by the wind. And if one pays careful attention to it, one could at the very least save oneself another load of laundry. The wind is a powerful yet slippery symbol that signals the heterogenous experience of ruach as salvation. Wind in Fairoz Ahmad’s telling has many shapes – a force of nature, the breath that carries stories, and even a person. It is the form of stories that I wish to dwell a little further on. Stories of Moses and the Pharaoh were very likely told by the Israelite communities for many generations through oral transmission before it was finally written down. Reflecting on the possible functions that the dog’s stories play in the Interpreter of Winds, I find that they could be entertainment for the long dreary trek across the desert. They shore up the hubris of rulers from kings of old to white colonialists, and in performing them, one could imagine a form of catharsis. They are gifts to be exchanged which create bonds and friendships. They remind us of worlds beyond ourselves, and of beings far greater than ourselves. “The Palace of Glass” does all these things. They cannot be reduced to one function. They cannot be tamed. Similarly, stories like the one in Exodus are like this, like the wind.

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So how would the wind as it were, speak back to the current conceptions of the Exodus narrative? With respect to ethnic-national readings of Exodus, it seems to resonate with an inter-religious reading with the people of Ad in the Qur’an because it points to the failure to subordinate oneself to the ultimate deity. However, if one were to consider the wind as a form of divine punishment rather than merely a weapon in the hands of a warrior-king in a seemingly amoral war to possess people and territory, it is important to consider the kind of judgement made. It is here the presence of the king in “The Palace of Glass” shores up the profound anxiety that comes with possibly losing one’s empire – an anxiety that would provoke one to do whatever it takes to secure one’s longevity, even if it means to deceive divine powers greater than oneself that is symbolically represented by containing angels in jars. While the temporal nature of one’s kingdom as it were is often emphasised in much theological discourse, what Fairoz Ahmad does for me is to raise the more important quality of fragility. The permanence of the wind makes the fragility of the palace of the king starker. His drive towards tyranny is powered not only by the hubris of desiring to be eternal but also deeply rooted in the fear of losing the security he already has. If I were to read the Exodus story through this topos of fragility, it would appear that regardless of the agenda of YHWH, however “selfish” it may seem, the concern moves beyond safeguarding ethnic-national boundaries. Put differently, the Exodus story is as much as “mak[ing] of [. . .] a great nation” (cf. Gen 12:3) as it is the unravelling of one. What both stories could be emphasising in their own ways is that all empires or nations, even that of God’s people, are fragile and will ultimately break. If that were true, what we should learn is to embrace that all kingdoms, in whatever shape and form, will end, and it might be prudent for all of us to plan for that. With regards to social-ethical approaches to the text, the wind takes a different hermeneutical form – now as a subject to whom the dog tells the story. The story causes me to be mindful that the dog gains no liberation from the Wind, other than smelly grease, socks and tea. This elusive signifier now slips away from the dog’s desire to save its master and instead grants it the ability to tell its stories, build bonds and enjoy an all but too temporary relief. Telling stories of how an all-powerful deity bested a well-known king is meant to have unexpected effects. Just as it is unpredictable to tell where the wind comes from and where it will go, much less what it will do, stories of the so-called divine warrior should not be limited to one potential or even either potential of being liberative or nationalistic. It is well worth mentioning again that the Exodus story would find its way into the everyday liturgical lives of Jews and later, Christians. Following the way stories function in Fairoz Ahmad’s book, it is possible that the Exodus story could provide salve to wounds inflicted by oppression, warm us in times when the world

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seems so cold, and bitter stories can become increasingly light and refreshing with each re-telling. The relief may seem temporary. But it does not make it any less necessary. And just as the dog realises that ultimately the best way it could save its master is to stay by his side instead of wandering the desert for a cure, telling the story of YHWH asking the Pharaoh to let the people go might bestow unexpected kinds of liberation to different people. Stories are like the wind. Telling them has inherent value in and of itself. We have to be careful not to put them into jars. CONCLUSION In a book launch organised by Ethos books on 4 August 2019, Fairoz Ahmad shared that in his introduction to the manuscript he had submitted to the publisher, he wrote, “Do Muslims laugh?”36 The impetus for the book was that he was dissatisfied with how representations of Muslims like himself tend to be defined in the light of 9-11 as though the world of minorities could be reduced to the oppression that they suffer. Rather poignantly, he shares that this is something that is also felt in a place as distant and remote as Singapore itself. As one who is brought up in a pro-Capitalist, Confucian conservative rhetoric in the Singaporean context and later on exposed to left-leaning discourses in the West, I tend to fall prey in my reading of the Exodus story to the logic of having to decide between the familial-national and social-ethical readings, particularly if I chose to read it in the light of the marginalised Other in my context. These interpretative choices risk narrowing my understanding of the Other, to the point that I might not consider them being capable of humour.37 Yet in connecting the element of the wind in both stories, what has been foregrounded is that the worlds of the disenfranchised Other far exceeds the lens of oppression with which we understand them. Stories of the oppressed are so much more than their oppression. It is here that reading the Exodus Story with Interpreter of Winds has roused my consciousness especially when one flips to the back of the book where it writes: “This book is a celebration of little charms and enchantments of our universes amidst struggles and eventual helplessness.” NOTES 1. Lim, Chin Ming Stephen, Contextual Hermeneutics as Multicentric Dialogue: Towards a Singaporean Reading of Daniel (Leiden: Brill, 2019). 2. Here I follow Joel Baden’s distinction between the book of Exodus and the Exodus story. The former is a literary document that contains other genre of writings such as poems, law codes, rituals and building plans – in the larger canon of the

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Pentateuch. The latter is focused on the grand narrative that is centred on salvation from oppression – the main focus of this chapter. While the Exodus story indeed extends beyond the borders of the book itself, I have limited myself in the interest of space to Exodus 1–18. Joel S. Baden, The Book of Exodus (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2019), xi–xiii. 3. Norman C. Habel, “Introducing the Earth Bible.” In Reading From the Perspective of Earth, ed. Norman C. Habel (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 35. 4. See, for instance, Norman C. Habel and Peter Trudinger (eds), Exploring Ecological Hermeneutics (Atlanta: SBL, 2008), 31–32, 65. 5. Baden, The Book of Exodus, 187–215. 6. See for instance Paulo Nogueira, “Exodus in Latin America,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Reception History of the Bible, ed. Michael Lieb et  al (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 447–459. 7. George Pixley and Clodovius Boff, “A Latin American Perspective: The Option for the Poor in the Old Testament,” in Voices from the Margins: Interpreting the Bible in the Third World, ed. Rasiah S. Sugirtharajah (Maryknoll: Orbis, 2006), 207–216. 8. Jon D. Levenson, “Exodus and Liberation,” Horizons in Biblical Theology 13.1 (1991): 154. 9. Ibid. 10. Jon D. Levenson, “The Exodus and Biblical Theology: A Rejoinder to John J. Collins.” Biblical Theology Bulletin: Journal of Bible and Culture 26.1 (1996): 9. 11. Levenson, “Exodus and Liberation,” 148. 12. Ibid., 151–152. 13. Ibid., 162. 14. Ibid, 161. 15. Jorge V. Pixley, On Exodus: A Liberation Perspective (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1988), xviii. 16. Pixley, On Exodus, 18–19. 17. Baden, The Book of Exodus, 197–199. 18. Walter Brueggemann, “Pharaoh as Vassal: A Study of a Political Metaphor,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 57 (1995): 31–32. 19. Ahmad, Interpreter of Winds, 27–33. 20. Ibid., 28. 21. I follow the spelling in Fairoz Ahmad’s text in order to differentiate it from the ruach in the Hebrew Bible text. 22. Ahmad, Interpreter of Winds, 32. The text in italics is taken from Surah 41:16. 23. Ibid., 27. 24. Ibid., 32. 25. Shaykh Muhammad al-Ghazali, A Thematic Commentary on the Qur’an (London: The International Institute of Islamic Thought, 2005), 560. 26. Ibid. 27. Ibid., 600, cf. Surah 41:14. 28. Another instance that the Pharaoh is mentioned is in Surah 73:15–18.

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29. Clinton Bennett, Interpreting the Qur’an: A Guide for the Uninitiated (London: Continuum, 2010), 36. 30. al-Ghazali, A Thematic Commentary, 524. 31. Bennett, Interpreting the Qur’an, 45, cf. Surah 25:32. 32. As an aside, it seems fairly ironic that the stories of powerful kings (and gods?) still depend on the subaltern to tell them to sustain their existence through the generations. 33. Ahmad, Interpreter of Winds, 26. 34. Here I am mindful that Fairoz Ahmad is proposing one among many possible semiotic networks in which to place the wind. As the reviewer rightfully pointed out that in Tonga, the wind finds a different set of “friends” in the pillars of cloud and fire. All of this is to attest to the point I raise later of how it is impossible to contain the wind in any single theoretical framework, which perhaps is why it is chosen as one of the key signifiers of YHWH himself! 35. Jaco Gericke, “A Comparative-philosophical solution to the Problem of PartWhole relations between ‫רוח‬-type entities in the Hebrew Bible,” Journal for Semitics 26.1 (2017): 47–65. 36. Taken from https://fb​.watch​/9Q59f​_YQG1/, last accessed 11 Dec 2021. 37. In this volume, Brian Kolia focuses on the recovery of the Pasifika sense of mālie in the process of reading the Bible as a way of recovering native identity so as to challenge colonial imaginations of the Other (see chapter 8). I am similarly reminded through Fairoz Ahmad that I am also vulnerable to think of the Other in such colonial ways, even if I were to endeavour to stand on the side of liberation.

unending

Chapter 15

Rise Up and Stir Doing Theology in Public Spaces Michael N. Jagessar

For this unending chapter, allow me to draw insights from two performers, one a singer/musician/composer and the other a poet. Both are voices that rise up and stir across different public spaces. The first is the British, Belizean-born and world-renowned musician composer Errollyn Wallen from Tottenham whose eclectic approach to music and ability to “imagine the unimagined” may have insights and encouragements for our theological articulation. Seeing their work as “fun,” Wallen notes that in composing a score: “I am never sure what will come out and I need to approach a new work with a sense of adventure and to explore roads less travelled.”1 I am also struck by Wallen’s comment that her inspiration comes from the sea with its “multiplicity of rhythms and movement and patterns.”2 Can it be that too much of our God-talk emanates from a land-based mentality/orientation where movement comes across as slower, looks more static or circumscribed? The second is the poet Paulette Ramsay. Poet Paulette Ramsay is both a performer and an academic. As a poet, Ramsay’s work focuses on gender, Caribbean and black culture. The brilliant metaphoric reach and deploying of images is a feast to the senses with a multiplicity of emotions ranging from ironic to sarcastic, to witty/humorous and to playful and serious. I draw attention to one of her poems “Her Majesty’s Seal”3 where the poet deploys that unassuming visa issued by the British embassy for travel to the UK to note how the imperial seal stamped across her photo image, blotting out her face, was that ongoing ploy to deny their personhood but good enough for the colonial subject to pass through immigration. The legacies of the colonial practice of objectifying enslaved Africans as chattel and assets are alive. Where can we find theological articulation that would unearth, float, name, call out and stir the vestiges of colonial legacies in ways such as that deployed by Paulette 193

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Ramsay? For this reason, Council for World Mission (CWM)’s eDARE 2021 intentionally brought artists, activists, biblical scholars, missiologists, poets and theologians to be in conversation around the theme of “rise up and stir: doing theology in public spaces.”

POETICS In “rising-up and stir in the public square,” I suggest that poetics, especially its liberating and liberative possibilities, is what can allow us to avoid rigid depiction and the obvious (in our God-talk) in our rising up and stirring against systemic evil. I wish my theological discourse could avoid and not be evaluated on whether it carries, well-polished ideas or having to reference every sentence that I craft. This is the manoeuvring that the “English language” empire lures us into. Perhaps such yearning for perfection in scholarship, which much theological discourse and biblical interpretation unwittingly gravitate towards, make our God-talk “dead” before it hits the pages. Doing theology in public spaces must challenge any tendency or desire to occupy centre rather than the margins or periphery where things are more fluid and imperfect – a space of erring and emerging. I find that spaces of erring and emerging carry multiple possibilities of opening other spaces (the unnoticed) calling for a fresh intake of breath. In this regard the poetic (see chapter 2) and artistic contributions (see especially chapters 1 and 13) to this collection challenge our doing theology in public spaces as provisional and marginal undertakings. With very few words the poetic and artistic contributions rise and stir, offering powerful release through an economy of words (bareness). How do we speak and do God-talk in public spaces where in our “naming” we may also be participating in the colonial “epistemology of capture”? How can our calling-out and naming, counter and subvert colonial attempts to ensure the production of forgetting? Here, theology can learn from poetry in our doing theology in public spaces. Our deploying of language becomes very critical. Can our rising-up and stirring draw on and create new forms of languaging, speaking, de-speaking and speaking again and re-speaking in public spaces, what the late Wilson Harris calls an “infinite rehearsal”?4 Can theologising in public spaces birth new voices, frequencies, performances and rhythms not bound by the rules of establishment as a tool towards collective liberation because it is always in a state of expectation, demanding a community? I was struck by Aruna Gogulamanda reciting her poem (see chapter 2) and deploying a repetitive style (repeating her lines). At first, I felt displaced until I fell into the rhythm of her voice and lines and experienced the words

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spun in loops which was more than repetitive. Closer listening revealed tonal movements and I felt as if drawn into a spiral inviting me to break out from the capture of language and a predictable way of listening and hearing words. It was as if, using the master’s language Gogulamanda was throwing rocks at languages’ glasshouse inviting listeners to inhabit a different space – a less travelled road of irreverence as a subversive act of activism. Doing theology in public spaces has to be an irreverent undertaking, a sort of iconic posturing of the marginalized rising up and revolting against the hegemony of the powerful. ​In a similar (not same) vein Immanuel Karunakaran’s “Rising to Life from the cross of lynching” (figure 15.1) presents viewers with a Dalit take of lynching that included drops of the artist’s own blood. His work evolved in the context of the USA where he is currently studying, connects with, talks back to and into the ongoing crucifixion of marginalised bodies. The observation of the late bell hooks is relevant here. hooks wrote: Moving from silence into speech is for the oppressed, the colonized, the exploited, and those who struggle side by side a gesture of defiance that heals, that makes new life and new growth possible. It is that act of speech, of “talking back,” that is no mere gesture of empty words, that is the expression of our movement from object to subject – the liberated voice.5

Figure 15.1  Immanuel Karunakaran, Rising to Life from the Cross of Lynching (2021).

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Here is something for us to grasp in doing theology in public spaces: that is the importance of deploying subjectivity as a mode of strategic resistance in our rising up and stirring. LAZARUS But let us consider the subjectivity of another Lazarus. I am referring here to the Lazarus, to whom I refer as Dives nemesis (Luke 16:19–31). Was paradise such a good place, after all, for Lazarus – the sorely poor man? What changed for this chap from the corner of the dead? Sure, at the gate of the rich guy (Dives), he was infested with sores begging and eating crumbs, so heaven had to be better. One had far more than enough the resources to help, while the other dies at his gate. Damned Even in Paradise Finding appropriate words for God-talk in any context of scandalous disparities and inequities between the Rich and the many Lazarus’s remains a challenge. Trying to locate Dives in today’s context, I would deploy “extraction” as the “modus operandi” of Dives. It was their operational ethos, even in a supposed hell of afterlife! Not even the suggested words of Moses and the prophets could move and help re-orient that habit which had eaten deep into the soul. Lazarus, representing the exploited, may take heart from God’s preferential option for them. But if such is only a matter for the afterlife (as in the case of Lazarus), then something is wrong with our theology and witness on the public square. Even daddy Abraham seems unable to question the inherited theology that causes some to “reap good things and others evil things” (Luke 16:25)! Theological conversations such as the one between the Rich Man and Abraham that continue to silence poor people (even in heaven Lazarus could not utter a word) must be critically examined, though perhaps it worked in Lazarus’s favour. Did Dives or the system get it in the end? I think not. Their continuing indifference to the humanity of Lazarus lives on, extracting more from Lazarus while demanding mercy and help for their own flesh and blood. Even in the so-called afterlife scene, they cling to their privilege. “Send Lazarus to help me” (Luke 16:24), betrays it all. It suggests habits of control by one wrapped up in the old extractive landscape of their privileged world. Dives (representative of the shitstem) extracts all the time, living by the religion of extraction and control that makes even plantation paradise an unsafe place for the marginalised such as Lazarus. Dives can still occupy

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and determine the conversation through the camouflage operation of privilege. Let’s not be too excited and jubilant that Lazarus made it to paradise. It was no scene of justice and emancipation. In fact, I would suggest that Abraham’s God-talk (protectives of Moses and the prophets) and Dives’s religion of extraction blocked any possible movement towards critique, repair and restorative justice. Lazarus could only quietly hallucinate in paradise! How can doing theology in public spaces release the many Lazarus’s not only from the gates of the rich but ensure the removal of the gates, the wide gap between the two realms and the systems that support those gates to prop up the rich and insulate them from the cries of the poor. Unjust in Paradise, as on Earth Restorative justice for Lazarus cannot be limited to exchanging locations in paradise nor about returning some comfort denied while on earth. I would suggest that the scene of Lazarus’s transfer to paradise offered him little freedom as he remained a tool to comfort Dives and under the power of a particular extractive theology that saw Lazarus as an expendable product. It was a sort of scene of life which may be seen as one of the continuing restrictions placed on Lazarus, albeit in paradise as the story remained focused on Dives. The body and life of impoverished Lazarus remained an object deployed to demonstrate a sort of superficial transformation. The reality, it would seem, is that neither the situation on earth nor in paradise will ever change for the progeny of Lazarus. What can restorative justice, in this world, look like for Lazarus and what is the task of theology in public spaces to this end? The sort of advocacy and shift needed will mean that the progeny of Lazarus must refuse to accept a sort of incremental rise in their humanity (even if it is heavenly) with any form of a superficial reversal relationship that keeps the status quo in place. This includes the religious one(s), which continue to up an economic extractive capitalist agenda. A different and more mutually relational and thriving space is needed. Not a space where Lazarus becomes Dives! Nor will it be a space where we would wish the worlds of the two will meet in the sort of love that refuses any reconfiguration of the real estate and gated world of Dives. TRANSFORMING GOD-TALK Perhaps on the public square, Lazarus’s progeny will need a different tact to dissent and resistance towards permanently eliminating biblical paradise narratives that suggests the reversals in some fantasised other world. This will

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call for more than sore-infested prophetic action by the gates of extractive capitalism. Perhaps, Lazarus may wish to have a quarrel with the Divine and their agents (ecclesial status quo) around their ecclesial interpretative and theological shackles, with the real possibility of walking out permanently. The extractive capitalism of the world of Dives and their progeny thrives on exploitative labour organised around their economic interests. It relies on “squeezing dry” bodies, lives and labour. The progeny of Dives and their agents are operating inside a distorted world they have created for themselves and will go to extreme lengths to impose the distortion and sustain it. It is not an accident and so to make them own up to their sins, give up or change is a massive task. To imagine and make real different tact to doing God-talk on and in the public square, needs now, more than ever, to be attuned to the ongoing flux in complex and layered realities and to rediscover solidarity that places the well-being and dignity of all at the heart of transformative justice and transformed relations among peoples and planet. Cross-bordered knowledge production, movements and organising are critical to this vision. Nothing worth struggling for comes easy and the required change to the Lazarus–Dives scenario calls for a subversion of much of what we have inherited as God-talk. NOTES 1. Gramilano, “Interview with composer Errollyn Wallen – exploring roads less travelled” (13 March 2016; https://www​.gramilano​.com​/2016​/03​/interview​-with​ -errollyn​-wallen/; accessed 13 Apr 2022). 2. PRS Foundation, “Guest of the Month: Errollyn Wallen CBE” (n.d. https:// prsfoundation​.com​/2021​/09​/01​/guest​-of​-the​-month​-errollyn​-wallen​-cbe/; accessed 13 Apr 2022). 3. See Paulette Ramsay, Under Basil Leaves: An Anthology of Poems (Hertfordshire, England: Hansib, 2010). 4. Wilson Harris, The Infinite Rehearsal (London: Faber and Faber, 1987). 5. bell hooks, Talking Back: Thinking Feminist, Thinking Black (New York: Routledge, 2015), 9.

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Index

abuse(d), 10, 13, 15, 32, 77, 92 advocacy, 105, 106, 112, 197 afterlife, 53, 54, 58, 196 alienation, 137, 144, 145 ancestor(s), 24, 107, 170, 171, 173, 176 angel(s), 67, 181–84, 187 apartheid, 34, 35, 92 apologetics, 105 artisan, 17, 106, 142, 143 artwork(s), ix, 1, 171, 172 autoamputation, xv, 154, 156, 157, 161 autopoiesis, 153, 159, 161, 162 ban, xi, 61, 68, 78 beach, 17 beggar, 122 belonging, 76, 104, 110, 114, 134, 155 bilingualism, 105 blind(ness), 7, 150 boundaries, boundary, 2, 3, 149, 150, 152, 155, 157–59, 187 capitalism, xv, 9, 98, 109, 138, 149, 153–55, 198 caste, casteism, xiv, xv, 8, 14, 43, 46, 48, 107–9, 116, 134–45 chant, 17–19 civilization, 79, 92, 99, 137, 141, 152, 153, 168

class(es), xiv, 34, 43, 45, 47, 48, 51, 90, 98, 109, 121, 123, 124, 127, 136, 137, 142, 144, 178, 179, 182 classism(s), 17, 19 colonization, 34, 54, 57, 79 colonizers, xii, 40, 42, 43, 65, 82 comedy, 62, 67, 68 communication, x, xvi, 20, 76, 97, 158, 171 companion(ship), 41, 105 company, 41, 52, 161 conqueror, 10, 94, 99 convert(ed, s), xii, xiii, 5, 76, 78, 79, 92, 95 coupling, 150, 151, 156, 157 currency, 16, 122, 136 curse(s), 8, 52, 66, 97, 158 cyborg(s), ix, xv, 8, 9, 149–62 Dalit(s), ix, x, xii, xiv, 3, 6, 8, 9, 13, 14, 39–49, 103–18, 134, 139, 195 decolonisation, xii, 133, 135, 136 defiance, 1, 57, 98, 195 deliverance, xvi democracy, 17, 18, 135–38 disgrace, 93 displacement, 4, 20 dissension, xiii dissent, 106, 197 211

212

Index

dwelling, 171, 180 education, 46, 97, 136, 156 elite(s), 41, 43, 45, 46, 49, 76, 142, 154 emancipation, 31, 62, 95, 115, 137, 140, 143, 144, 197 emerging, 150, 194 enslavement, 88, 89, 95 entanglement, 151–53, 158–60, 162 erring, 194 estate, 89, 93, 197 everydayness, 166, 167, 171, 174 evil(s), 9, 19, 34, 36, 45, 52, 66, 77, 82, 96, 109, 125, 137, 142, 157, 158, 180, 194, 196 exploitation, xi, 17, 42, 48, 63, 124, 145, 153 fairness, 104 feminist(s), x, xiii, 3, 33, 35, 36, 39, 42, 45, 46, 96, 115, 128, 129 fluid, 68, 122, 194 fragility, 183, 187 funeral, 5, 51, 52, 55, 58 gender(ed), xiv, 3, 14, 20, 21, 30, 32, 35, 42, 47, 98, 99, 109, 121, 124, 126–29, 193 gentiles, xiv, 121, 124–26, 128, 129 greed, 25, 181 grief, 53, 54 haunt(ing), x, 10–11 healing, 7, 16, 23, 58, 127, 128 heathen, 89, 96 heritage(s), 14, 24, 168 home(s), 2, 4, 32, 33, 52, 55, 63, 64, 82, 89, 95, 96, 98, 110, 112, 124, 155 homeless, 117 homo deus, xv, 154, 155, 161 homo faber, 150, 151, 159, 160 humor(ous), xi, xii, 3, 61–70, 193 hunger, xiii, 59, 103, 110–13, 117, 123 hybrid(ity), 83, 114, 148, 150, 156

illness, 2, 5–7, 11, 56, 117, 181 imagination(s), xvi, 9, 126, 133, 165–67 immigrant(s), 18, 104, 179 impotence, 156, 157 improvization, 127 impurity, 123 incarnation, xv, 8, 152, 160, 161, 167 indigenous art, ix, xvi, 165, 169 individualism, 152, 153 industrialisation, 134, 135 inequality, xv, 32, 145, 154, 159, 160, 174 infants, 3, 14 inferior(ity), 80, 180 injustice, xi, 23, 24, 31, 40, 45, 46, 48, 115, 116, 167, 178 intercultural, xvi, 83, 166, 170 interreligious, xvi, 83, 170 inter-scriptural, 9 intersectional(ity), 124, 127, 129 intolerance, 173 justice, xvi, 21, 24, 30–32, 36, 49, 65, 105, 106, 109, 112, 113, 117, 127, 156, 160, 161, 165, 166, 172, 179, 197, 198 labor, labour(ing), xiv, xv, 7, 8, 57, 63, 92, 133, 134, 138–45, 149, 155, 156, 180, 183, 198 laborer(s), labourer, xv, 90, 143, 154, 155 laugh(ter, ing), 19, 62, 64, 68, 70, 188 leisure, xv, 8, 134, 140–45 liberating, 30, 46, 81, 83, 84, 116, 178, 179, 194 liberation, liberative, x, xi, xiii, xvi, 6, 30, 39, 42–46, 99, 103–18, 121, 129, 145, 177–81, 187, 188, 194 living worthily, 138 lust, 9, 16, 17, 19 lynched, lynching, 14, 195 marginalisation, xi, 32, 35, 39, 40, 46, 106, 107, 124, 126, 129, 156

Index

materialization, 152, 153, 159, 160 mattering, 151, 153, 160, 161 mechanisation, xiv, 134 media, 15, 54, 156, 157, 159, 160 merely living, 138 migrant(s), 7, 103–5, 107, 110, 112, 113, 117, 179 migration, 165 mission station, 91, 92 mockers, 18 molesting, 15 mourning, xi, 3, 52–54, 56–58 mouse, 93, 94, 98 native(s), xii, 2, 7, 10, 18, 51, 61, 62, 65, 70, 79–81, 93, 171, 173 negotiation, 3, 178 niche, 158 oppression(s), xi, xiv, 17, 23, 24, 31, 35, 39–49, 63, 96, 107–9, 115, 116, 121, 124, 126, 127, 129, 187, 188 orientation(s), 62, 193 pagan(istic), xii, 11, 34, 79, 82, 90, 125 pain(s), xv, 59, 62, 63, 66, 70, 117, 161, 162, 181 patriarchy, 34, 98, 116, 161 pawn, 1, 4, 10, 11 penises, 14 persecution(s), 91, 92 plague(s), 155, 180, 182–85 plastic, 15, 19 pleasure, 43 poem(s), ix, x, 13, 17, 20, 144, 193, 194 pollution, 108 polyvocality, 129 poor, x, 7–9, 14, 17–19, 25, 41, 42, 44, 46, 58, 89–91, 93, 96–98, 103, 106, 110–13, 117, 196, 197 poverty, 14, 97, 107, 110, 112, 113, 115, 117, 135, 138, 140 precarious(ness), 111, 117 precarity, 156 purity, 16, 82, 108, 123, 125

213

race(s), xii, 20, 80, 82, 92, 95, 97–99, 104, 109, 171 racism(s), xiii, 17, 19, 32, 34, 35, 88, 114, 116, 117 reign(dom), xiv, 33, 40, 83, 121, 122, 128, 129, 160 resilience, x, 39, 107, 108 resistance, x, xii, xiv, xvi, 1, 2, 39, 42, 69, 83, 88, 90, 107, 108, 126, 155, 165, 172, 173, 180, 196, 197 riddles, 63, 70 salvation, xiv, xv, 82, 87, 88, 116, 141, 142, 173, 183–86 sass, xiv, 121, 126–29 savage(s), 80, 90 sea, 18, 19, 172, 185, 186, 193 service, 25, 63, 66, 88, 92, 93, 139 sex, 16, 18, 33 shame, 69, 93, 124 silence(d), xii, xiv, 25, 32, 45–47, 96, 97, 99, 106–10, 112, 116, 126, 183, 195, 196 site of resistance, 165 sites of hospitality, 116 sites of oppression and discrimination, 107 sites of subalternity, 110, 112, 116 skepticism, 30, 66 slave(s), xiii, xv, 18, 19, 41, 64, 89, 92, 97, 99, 154, 179, 183 slavery, xii, 34, 36, 62, 63, 67, 88, 179, 180 social amelioration, 136, 137 sovereign(ity), 136, 180 spiritual(ity), 10, 24, 29, 42, 46, 79, 107, 123, 126, 127, 171 stranger, 22, 111, 114, 117 suffering, xv, 24, 45, 161, 162, 167, 183 superiority, xii, 75, 83, 114, 124, 125, 168 surveillance, 34 symbol(s), 4, 69, 108, 111, 166–72, 186 sympathy, 55, 155, 158 sympoiesis, xv, 149, 151, 153, 159, 161, 162

214

taboo, 15 talanoa, 61–64, 70 talk back, xvi tea industry, 75 tool(s), x, 29, 31, 35, 41, 43, 81, 83, 140, 150, 157, 159, 182, 185, 194, 197 transformation, social, xvi, 35, 173 trauma, 20, 58, 62, 63, 70 tribal(s), xii, 75, 80, 95, 165, 167–69, 172, 173 trick(ed, s), 15, 64, 155, 184 umwelt, 157–59 undercommons, 155 underside, 106 unfairness, xi, 40

Index

vanity, xi, 41, 42, 66, 67, 140 vernacular, 106 vulnerable, 4, 93, 117, 124, 173 warrior, 167, 179, 180, 187 wealth, 25, 41–45, 65, 106 weaving, 2, 167, 168, 171–73 whinging, 62 wilderness, 63, 64 wind(s), xvi, 9, 25, 65, 177, 178, 180–88 wisdom, xii, 6, 9, 24, 25, 41, 43, 44, 46, 48, 66, 67, 169, 172, 181 womanist, xiv, 35, 126, 127, 129 worms, 153 xenophobia, 103, 104, 110, 114, 116, 117

Contributors

Jione Havea is co-parent for a polycultural daughter, native pastor (Methodist Church in Tonga), migrant to Naarm (renamed Melbourne by British colonizers, on the cluster of islands now known as Australia), and research fellow with Trinity Methodist Theological College (Aotearoa New Zealand) and with Australian Centre for Christianity and Culture (Charles Sturt University, Australia). An activist-in-training, on the ground and in the classroom, Jione is easily irritated by bullies and suckers. Peter Cruchley is a mission theologian from the UK. He is British, born of missionary parents of CWM’s former self: the London Missionary Society. He has published in the areas of post-modernity and mission, ecumenism and mission, and legacies of slavery and mission. He is a minister of the United Reformed Church in the UK, former mission secretary for Mission Development with CWM, and recently appointed at Director of the World Council of Churches (WCC) Commission of World Mission and Evangelism (CWME). Jasmine Devadason currently works as a learning and development officer for the North West & Mann Region of the Methodist Church, UK. Jasmine served as a tutor of Hebrew Bible/CWM mission partners at the Southern Theological Education and Training Scheme (STETS), Sarum College, Salisbury, before moving to Manchester. Her academic interests focus on the Hebrew Bible, Dalit Feminist Liberation hermeneutics and postcolonial hermeneutics. She supports and is involved in local, national and global organisations and institutions that work with grassroots groups. Ericka Shawndricka Dunbar lives in Atlanta, Georgia, and teaches at Payne Theological Seminary. She received her PhD in Biblical Studies (Old 215

216

Contributors

Testament) in May 2020 from Drew University. Her dissertation entitled “Trafficking Hadassah: An Africana Reading of Collective Trauma, Memory, and Identity in the Book of Esther and the African Diaspora” is a dialogical cultural study of sexual trafficking in the book of Esther and during the Transatlantic Slave Trade. Emmanuel Garibay is a Filipino artist whose experiences and studies coalesce in his works to show a combination of social realism and avantgarde figurative expression, seriousness and humor, social critique and humane character depiction. Achieved through his works is an effective storytelling of people in scenes of social, political and religious complexity. A prolific and internationally established painter, he is the current chairperson of Artletics Foundation, a non-stock, non-profit organization that empowers young artists to transform communities through art education. Aruna Gogulamanda hails from Andhra Pradesh, India, where people take great pride in belonging to upper castes, but Gogulmanda hails from an oppressed caste. Because of the same identity, her mother discarded the Hindutva that she used to like and embraced Christianity. Presently in India, Dalit Christians face attacks for their choice of Christianity over other religions. At this crucial juncture, it is important to come together. For the same reason, she uses pen and poetry as her weapons. Lalmuanpuii Hmar currently serves as associate professor of New Testament at Bishop’s College, Kolkata, India. She completed her doctoral studies from NIIPGTS, Serampore College. Her areas of interest include postcolonial and indigenous reading of the Bible, and gender studies. She is from Mizoram, one of the Seven Sister States in Northeast India. Michael N. Jagessar, CWM’s former mission secretary for the Caribbean, is from Guyana where the natives kept Eldorado out of the reach of the colonials by spinning excitingly deceptive stories. After “pirates plundered the Caribbean” extracting most of the region’s wealth and the IMF became a new form of piracy, Michael followed the trail of the wealth which landed him in Britain (1999). Michael’s religious heritages include Islam, Hinduism, and Christianity and gets excited over cricket, Caribbean spirit-filled punch, creolized Caribbean curry, and the ever-elusive Anancy/Anansi (patron saint of the Caribbean). Immanuel Karunakaran is an ordained minister in the Tamil Evangelical Lutheran Church, Tamilnadu, India, and has served as the communications secretary and coordinator of the Dalit and Adivasi Concerns Desk of the United Evangelical Lutheran Churches in India. Immanuel is currently a PhD

Contributors

217

student at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago in the field of Ethics, Church and Society. An activist scholar and pastor married to Cynthiya Esther Varghese, he is blessed with two daughters, Sheryl and Meryl. Brian Fiu Kolia is a second-generation Australian-born Samoan, hailing from the villages of Sili, Satapuala, Faleaseela, and Tufutafoe. He is an ordained minister of the Congregational Christian Church Samoa, a lecturer in Hebrew Bible/Old Testament at Malua Theological College, and adjunct lecturer at Trinity Theological College, Naarm (Melbourne, Australia). He holds a PhD from the University of Divinity (Australia) and has research interests in diasporic, decolonizing readings, and cultural and indigenous/native knowledge. More importantly, he is a husband to Tanaria and a father to Elichai. Maria Fe (Peachy) Labayo was born and raised in Sorsogon City, Philippines, and currently works for the Council for World Mission as Programme Associate for Education and Empowerment. Her areas of study included social work (with the University of the Philippines (Diliman, Quezon City)), and she has also been involved with the development programs of international organizations in the Philippines. Anna Jane Lagi is a student at the University of the South Pacific, Fiji. She has shared and sharpened her craft for writing and speaking through NGOs, local and international, and published poems in Poetry Anthology Collection: Rising Tide (2020). The issues of suicide prevention, ending domestic violence, and helping sexual abuse victims are fragments of her own story. She is no longer a product of whatever “culture” she has been raised or lived in; she chooses to be a culture maker. John Robert Lee is a St. Lucian writer and poet. His short stories, poems, essays, and reviews can be found in print and online. Lee’s latest publications are Pierrot (2020) and Saint Lucian Writers and Writing (2019). He is a teacher, librarian, radio and TV broadcaster, literary journalist, reviewer, newspaper columnist, actor, director, and he is committed to Caribbean Community. He is an Elder with the Calvary Baptist Church, Saint Lucia. LIM Chin Ming Stephen is lecturer in Biblical Studies at Hong Kong Sheng Kong Hui Ming Hua Theological College and adjunct lecturer in Theology with the School of Theology, Charles Sturt University (Australia). His main research interests are in exploring how the Bible relates to the contemporary world especially in Asia through concepts of contextualism, interdisciplinary study of the Bible particularly using postcolonial approaches and decolonial thought, and Bible and tricontinentalism.

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Contributors

Su Chi Lin received her PhD at Graduate Theological Union (GTU) in Berkeley, California, USA. Since 2017, she has offered courses on the arts at Taiwan Graduate School of Theology and Christ’s College Taipei. She is the author of Spaces of Mediation: Christian Art and Visual Culture in Taiwan (2020). Mutale Mulenga Kaunda is registered as a postdoctoral research fellow under the auspices of the Desmond Tutu SARChI Chair in Religion and Social Justice, under Grant Number 118854 from the National Research Foundation. She currently resides in South Korea and is highly engaged in various ecumenical spaces as a speaker. Mulenga Kaunda has published on the intersection of gender, sexuality, religion, ecumenism, culture, and women’s work in Africa. She is a member of the Circle of Concerned African Women Theologians and Pan-African Women of faith/PAWEEN. Iljoon Park is a visiting professor with Christian Research Institute for Integral Studies at Methodist Theological University, Seoul, and a lecturer at Yonsei University. His research interests focus on the subjects of being human in contemporary philosophies, cognitive science, evolutionary theories, evolutionary psychology, artificial life, and so on. His publications include “A Post-naturalist idea of ec-stasy: an East-West Dialogue in a Tranhuman age,” in Nature’s Transcendence and Immanence: A Comparative Interdisciplinary Ecstatic Naturalism (2018). Raj Bharat Patta currently serves as Recognised and Regarded minister of the Methodist Church in the UK at the United Stockport Circuit. Prior to this, he served the Student Christian Movement of India (SCMI) as its national general secretary and the National Council of Churches in India (NCCI) as one of its executive secretaries for the Commission on Dalits and Adivasis. His publications include A Violent Sight on a Silent Night – Missiological Discourses on Violence against Dalit Christians (2009). Chad Rimmer is the program executive for Lutheran Theology and Practice at the Lutheran World Federation (Geneva, Switzerland). He is the author of several articles, the book Greening the Children of God and a collection of poetry Yellow: Chemopoetry from a Caretaker’s Journey. His works focus on the role that nature plays in the ecological formation of children. He advocates a constructive theo-poetic approach to theology, which is a method that reconnects Beauty with Truth and Goodness. Karen Georgia A. Thompson is associate general minister (AGM) for Wider Church Ministries (WCM) and Operations in the United Church of

Contributors

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Christ and Co-Executive for Global Ministries with the United Church of Christ and the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). Her ecumenical and interreligious commitments overlap with her interest and implementation of global consultations on multiple religious belonging. She is an inspiring preacher and theologian, and her forthcoming Drums in Our Veins is a compilation of poems that focus on the fight for racial justice. Malia Vaurasi is a young Rotuman woman born and raised in the beautiful islands of Fiji and co-parent with Hagino to a boisterous child, Hefrani. Her parents lovingly nurtured and encouraged her passion for drawing. Art is a medium where she could express herself, as well as relate to others. In her artworks, she combines her passion for creating art with her passion for justice in the Pacific – to help inspire the change that the next generation deserves. Shiju Sam Varughese is assistant professor at the Centre for Studies in Science, Technology and Innovation Policy in the School of Social Sciences of Central University of Gujarat, Gandhinagar, India. His expertise is in Science and Technology Studies (STS) and History and Philosophy of Science (HPS) and he writes in English and Malayalam (his first language). He is the author of Contested Knowledge: Science, Media, and Democracy in Kerala (2017) and coeditor of Kerala Modernity: Ideas, Spaces and Practices in Transition (2015).