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280 pages, Paperback
First published November 17, 2013
I have a lot of thoughts, having read too many books and articles, attended too many lectures, attended to too many seminars, spent too many hours—way too many hours—before movie and television screens and loud speakers, and pondered too long the words and deeds of my family and friends and enemies.101
though quite a large number of subjects are discussed here—from immigration to education, from the history of metaphysics to the Gospel of Mark, from urban planning to martyrdom, from brain physiology to ecclesiology, from wounded bodies to the forgiveness of sins, from hard work to hard, hard death, from time to resurrection, from theological method to the doctrine of the Trinity, and too much more—this is not a book about certain ideas or practices. This is not actually a book about anything (über etwas, Bultmann might have said). It is rather a book of something (von etwas).1 What I have written, more particularly, is a prayer, a prayer I have prayed precisely in the writing. This is a book that prays and prays in particular that its “speaking voice” would “also be [its] hearing ear.”2
we still habitually imagine that each of us thinks with her brain, in her head, that elongated sphere suspended on a thin neck between the brilliant, ethereal blue sky far above to which it is drawn, and the thick, heavy torso with its stabilizing limbs held by the force of gravity to the green, brown earth below. The people of ancient Israel imagined otherwise. We think, they believed, with our hearts, that organ in the middle of the chest, in the middle of the body, embraced by lungs alternately filled with sweet, rich air and emptied of it when expended in anticipation of the new breath that may yet come, the heart that pounds out the life-beat of the time that we are given to live together. It seems to me that the Israelites were right. We think from the midst of our bodies, with our bodies, with those social phenomena that are what they are only as they are interrupted and engaged by what they are not. I have written, i.e., for thinking bodies. I have written imagining the sound of words spoken and heard. I have imagined the reading of this book as a moment in which in some unpretentious word-of-mouth underground venue the deep, powerful, resonant percussions of subwoofers roll heavily as a carnal wave across the chest and throat before they become the bass line in a conscious musical thought. I have written for the ears, the chest, the throat, i.e., for a thinking body.
An extraordinary book, however, is not necessarily a good book. I would not claim that this is a good book—or its opposite, for that matter. I don’t know how I would even begin to make either judgment. It is, it seems to me, simply different, different from ordinary books, and especially those shelved near it in the theology section of university or seminary libraries.
Theology, this motley parabolic crew suggests, is not done alone and it is not done well; it is hard work with an uncertain outcome, the work of social bodies, and it is never to be confused with the completion of a circle, the solving of a problem, the closing of a wound, but is rather in the end a gratefully excessive expenditure, a wilderness feeding, a prodigal celebration, a resurrection of the dead, face to face with the faces that we meet, the faces the Crucified faces as he plummets, abased, into the abyss and rises, exalted, with glory.