Liberating Privilege

The Breakthrough of God and the Persistence of Normality

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Contents

Does God Not Communicate With Us Also?

Some would argue that straight, white, males are wedged into a category boarding on "social junk," "disposable" if not "permanently pigeonholed". To get the Word and speak one is beyond our imagination and capacity. The prospect of ever being on the "right side of history" is even by accident unattainable. Apparently the ability to read the biblical text even in its original language is not sufficient to offset the right context which alone can yield the content. The disposition to do good works may not be sufficient to legitimate them. "The beloved community" is not qualified to formulate the faith or enact it if it is not synonymous with the oppressed ones. And if one is in any way complicit with the empire that is sufficient to invalidate worship and acts of piety. It would seem straight, white, males have no access to the Holy or pretense of legitimate faith. Inevitably, liberation is not an agenda; and a theological contribution is precluded. No "letter of recommendation from the homeless" is likely (Miguel A. De La Torre, The Politics of Jesus: A Hispanic Political Theology, p. 44 and p. 131).

We have in the previous section suggested if not a niche there is at least a crevice through which light might escape. To claim kinship with Moses, even as a distant cousin, is presumptuous. To claim an overlap with his sister, Miriam, would seem out of reach. But there is a modest affinity and it protrudes in the 12th chapter of Numbers. While Elisabeth Schussler Fiorenza in Empowering Memory and Movement does not advocate that or even hint in that direction, a poaching on her argument might be defensible. In Numbers 12:2 the question of Miriam takes the distinct form of a queering. "Has God not spoken with us also?" Fiorenza notes that "establishment exegesis" is dismissive of Miriam's question with the suggestion of "privatized sibling rivalry". Of course, Moses is "the sole bearer of revelation" (p. 140). As one struggles through the tangled web of the chapter it seems that "power interests" prevail (p. 141). For the exegetical elite, the case is closed: Moses gets to hear God and Miriam doesn't. When accepting the boundaries of the early chapter of Numbers, that appears inevitable, even justifiable. But, Fiorenza reminds us of an emergent theological tradition which will not settle for confinement. Specifically, "Feminist biblical scholarship has shown that there are at least traces of a different biblical tradition that recognizes Miriam as a prophet of equal rank ..." (p. 142). Really, of equal rank? Specifically, consider Exodus 15:19-21, Numbers 20:1-13, and Micah 6:1-8. Here she interprets history and names God's involvement in Israelite experiences of salvation. Miriam is implicated in discerning the role of God and is fully authorized to represent it. Also Miriam is conversant with a "dangerous memory" and clearly is both articulate and authoritative in representing it. Women are not sidelined in access to revelation. There is in her a "democratization" and Miriam is a central figure "in God's saving action" (p. 143). She has heard and she has spoken; Moses has no exclusive claim as an agent of revelation. Consider Exodus 15: 20-21: "then Miriam, the prophetess, the sister of Aaron took a timbrel in her hand ... and all the women went out after her. And Miriam sang to them, for he (God) has triumphed gloriously." Authority is not the possession of Moses alone, and his male interpreters. Miriam is not a straight, white, male but she has created a canopy in which we might find shelter, modest legitimacy, even an agenda.

But what if no word is spoken? What if silence prevails and clouds the scene so that neither Moses nor Miriam received auditory signals. That is where the Gospel of Mark takes us in its two final chapters, one elaborate in detail and the other sparse, both haunting in different ways. Having just established a measure of inclusion what if there is an auditory void? Eric J. Trozzo with a strong nudge from John Caputo and legitimation from Jürgen Moltmann focuses on two silences in Mark (Rupturing Eschatology: Divine Glory and the Silence of the Cross). They are "the silence of the cross and the silence of the empty tomb" (p. 41). While inseparable they are distinct, each unique and essential to understanding the divine and justice. Interestingly, these are events in which privilege does not prevail.

Consider first the cross. In the midst of a torturous narrative, attention seems to escape "Jesus' unanswered plea to God" (p. 168). Surely it is grounded in more than physical suffering; while agony has to be a dimension of the cry to God and despair a prominent feature, the reality of injustice undergirds both. "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" strikes a chord for which an answer would seem appropriate. The "injustice of imperial power was never present in more vivid colors" (p. 146). However much an answer might seem required, one never came. Silence greets the adorned one. Is that not "cruel and unusual"? Or is it that Jesus never abandoned God and creates an interval for our entry? Could there not be "sounds of silence"?

In an autobiographical reference, Moltmann speaks directly to that. Reflecting on the three years as a prisoner of war, when "religion and theology were totally remote", he came upon "Jesus' cry of abandonment". With Jesus he had cried out, "God where are you?" That is significant for a man who felt no need for one, whose destiny was aimed for the sciences. After reading the text he wrote, "I was profoundly struck ... this is the one who understands you ... that gave me courage to live" (In the End – The Beginning, pp. 34-35). The voice of Jesus was his own.

Then consider the empty tomb. The two Mary's "brought spices" and their agenda was to "anoint" Jesus' body. The 16 and final chapter of Mark is only eight verses while the crucifixion events claimed forty-eight. While they wondered who would "roll away the stone" that blocked access, "they saw that the stone was rolled back". Upon entering they were greeted by a young man, evidently not a disciple and clearly unknown to them. "... He is not here" was the word from the youth, "He has risen". Interestingly it was not the risen one but a word about him and the injunction to go "to Galilee; there you will see him." The two Mary's "fled from the tomb". Apparently not a solemn withdrawal because "trembling and astonishment" prevailed. Because they were afraid "they said nothing to anyone". Now the silence on the cross is paired with the silence which prevailed in the tomb. It was an "awe-filled trembling at the empty tomb" (p. 167). It was "as silence in the face of an iteration of the impossible, of a resurrection moment" (p. 167). Everything is called in question when death is upended.

The Gospel of Mark ends with two silences, distinct but inseparable, both confoundable but certain. And both create space for hope where privilege is not inevitably an impediment. The meaning of the two silences does not hinge on who we are but who the Holy is to us. The breakthrough of God is pivotal and not of our creation.

It would be cruel, even heartless, to obscure the suffering of the cross and the fear of the State's power to execute its will. But to focus on the horror and then indict God for turning a deaf ear would be the result of gliding on the surface of the event. That Jesus was "greatly distressed and troubled" (Mark 14:73) is a given. Jürgen Moltmann in The Crucified God, (pp. 150 ff) turns the dial in another direction: "the faithfulness and honor of God in the world" (p. 150) is at stake. "Jesus raises the question, has God abandoned God self?"(p. 151). The dialogue "takes place within God himself" (p. 152). The question of Jesus through Psalm 22:2 and the silence of God are internal to the trinity. It is tempting to suggest Moltmann is identifying a theological exchange! And the queering comes to rest on a "suffering God" who makes the agony of existence the place to be: "the Christ event on the cross is a God event" (p. 205). God is in the suffering of the Son and not separable from it. God is in the injustice of the death of Jesus by crucifixion by the State. And only a suffering God can help. "God allows himself to be crucified ... and in this consummates his unconditional love that is full of hope" (p. 248). Breakthroughs are from beyond and generate expectations. They enable us to "abound in hope." (Romans 15:13).

What follows from this is that love and justice are co-mingled in God's accepting space for God self in the suffering of the world and this becomes an invitation. God may be silenced but She will not be sidelined! Our "longing for justice" becomes the opportunity to join God in the worldly places God embraces. The silence of God becomes a call to embrace God where She is in the world and diminish the realm of injustice. God chose the "abyss" over the White House and other elevated thrones and calls us into the "abyss" as partners in solidarity with those who are suffering. Then the silence of God is not a default but an opportunity to participate in a "reversal" (Trozzo, p. 134), a plea "for a release from ... the injustices of the world" (p. 190) and a challenge to engage them. The silence of God is a summons to be where God is doing "unconditional love that is so full of hope". The imperial order is put on notice on the cross even as it assumed it had prevailed. And we are to be there. Who is there for us does not discriminate against straight, white, males. The privileged can respond to "what hurts" even if not hurting at the moment.

Then there is the silence that emerges in the empty tomb. Consider it again, the experience of the two Mary's. The young man announced "He has risen, He is not here" (Mark 16:7). Trozzo claims, "The event of a new possibility in the aftermath of the cross is the event harbored in the name 'resurrection,' and resurrection haunts the empty tomb" (p. 151). Consider their response to the non-appearance of the resurrected one. Theirs is a "silent awe" (p. 164). The text says that "trembling and astonishment come upon them" and they were "afraid" (Mark 16:8). And the trembling was so distressful that the ecstasy and awe were so intense that "they said nothing" (16:8). Something so radically new had disrupted their existence and silence was the only option. Horizons of hope overwhelm the "trembling" and flight is the only course of action. Again, Trozzo names the intersection of cross and tomb. One is a "frozen silence" while the other is a "dynamic silence", one frames an unthinkable abyss which is countered and in tension with "the moving, enlivening abyss of the empty tomb (where) a creative force is generated which brings hope that the im-possible may become possible ..." (p. 173). And expectation becomes a horizon which counters the silence of the cry of Jesus. The call to justice is validated and authenticated. Hope becomes livable! Something new can happen.

While it may be tempting to settle in and absorb the interaction and interplay of cross and tomb, the silence of dread upset by the silence of expectation, part of the "trembling" of the two Mary's is in the word that "he is going before you to Galilee and there you will see him" (16:7). The significance of that was tapped before. Galilee is the setting of outrageous oppression and of resistance to the imperial order, the order that nailed Jesus to the cross. And Jesus will see you there, in the midst of a counter event which will disrupt the injustice. There the new order will transpire in the strong hold of the old order. Jesus' focus on the Kingdom of God, the coming reign from the future touches down in Galilee. The word from the tomb is to be there, where Jesus is, and the future, is interrupting the status of the prevailing order. We named the claim to be in the midst of Jesus' action in the consideration of the silence on the cross. Now it is a commitment to be there and to join Jesus where he is; the plea to God is answered in the silence of the tomb with the claim to be about what Jesus is doing there. And in the confidence that the God who brought life out of death by being on the cross Herself will prevail and disrupt all the systems, institutions, and ideologies which prevent the future from happening. The risen one is the assurance that justice will override injustice. The longing for justice on the cross is met by the assurance of a future from God certified in the resurrection of Jesus. With Miriam God communicates with no evident restriction when it comes to justice. She apprehends liberation as a Divine act.

I

Previously we contended that those of privilege access to God does not hinge so much on where they are but on who the Holy is to them. And that presses the argument in the direction of the covenant.

When one centers on Exodus events with the lens of privilege, Pharaoh emerges as a point of entry into the narrative. Interestingly, he is never designated by name. Walter Brueggemann suggests it may be because he is a type of which there are numerous incarnations; if you recognize one you know them all. "Pharaoh is clearly a metaphor. He embodies and represents raw, absolute, worldly power" (Truth Speaks to Power, pp 16-17). Under his jurisdiction was "the breadbasket of the world" (p. 17). He had "a monopoly on the land and on the food supply" (p. 18). He accumulated great wealth as a result of "cheap labor" and was "propelled by insatiable greed" (p. 19). Despite these privileges he was "consumed with anxiety" which translated into "exploitive work expectations" (p. 20). When it comes to power, a Pharaoh is always the axis on which it turns and at his command. Every empire has one, or more in time. In every imaginable way he orchestrates the economy, and without mercy. Straight, white, males might not feel comfortable with a Pharaoh metaphor for their designation, but it fits in some significant measure. He is privilege personified.

While Pharaoh does not have a name, the leader of the opposition does: Moses whose early destiny was in the chambers of power but whose future was oppositional. Early on in the narrative he is located in the midst of "forced labor" and is the architect of opposition. And in time Pharaoh "sought to kill him" (Exodus 2:15). While we have referenced him as the agent of God to the Israelites, his first real appearance, later he acts boldly in defense of a fellow Israelite who was beaten mercilessly by an Egyptian, apparently for not working aggressively. And Moses kills the agent of Pharaoh. Clearly, "Moses is ready to intervene against the empire on behalf of the exploited" (p. 24). However much Moses may seem "out of reach" as a role model, in reality he is more vulnerable than often assumed.

While to some it might seem to be all about power, it isn't! For two Chapters Yahweh is sidelined in "the crisis of the empire" (p. 22). What was She waiting for? Brueggemann answers "YHWH waited to be summoned by human cries" (p. 23). The crises of pain were an opening in that protests as resistance were taking shape. Yahweh does not intrude in human affairs until there is a historical and human plea. She is not a "helicopter God" who intrudes in ways that preclude human initiatives. The One who was Creator of heaven and earth enters the narrative when Yahweh is invited. God is not Pharaoh writ large! And Yahweh enters as the One who has made promises and honored them. But undergirding that Yahweh is One who listens! She "heard the cries". What could be more defining than a God who listens? God spoke to Moses but only after God listened. The grounds of hope are there. The promises in creation are legitimated in the Exodus. Thus in Exodus 3:7-9 "I have seen their misery. I have heard their cry. I know their suffering. I have come down to deliver ..." Pharaoh's power is now to be subverted. The listening God acts in faithfulness.

The Exodus events are the cradle of the covenant. And the covenant is a cipher for who God is. In the biblical tradition, a covenant is not a contract. That tends to be an arrangement between equals. Obligations are legalistically stipulated and enforced. In a covenant, relationality is defining and the framework is the faithfulness of God. She is the one from whom "we receive our very life" (Walter Brueggemann, The Covenantal Self, p. 1). God initiates the covenant by faithfulness to promises and that evokes a response to the grace and love. Accountability is response in relationship rather than contractual obligation. Israel remembers the God who listened to their cries and lead them through the wilderness and toward a promised land. Deliverance from bondage embodies unforgettable love and grace. Thus, from the Exodus on the Israelites know who they are and the obligation of a received relationship. "When one embraces Yahweh, one embraces not only a very different God, but also membership in a very different social practice" (p. 26). Remembering that God listened, and delivered, results in "a genuinely egalitarian community in which ... the resources of the community are made available ... without privilege or priority" (p. 49). Those who are listened to and acted on are drawn into a relationship in which mimicking defines who they are in relation to each other. Neighbor love follows from Divine love and is inclusive and liberating.