Who gets to decide what God is like?
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| I am the way, the truth and the life (Image: Pixabay) |
Well, God presumably has a pretty good idea. The rest of us struggle a bit more. So where do you get your theology from? Who tells you what God is like? And who do you believe when they tell you?
I'm asking these questions because I recently read At the Gates, which I reviewed here. It made a lot of useful points about disability and the church. But it also, I noticed, had a very particular view of theology. Once again, I was glad I'd previously read Models of Contextual Theology, because I was able to pick up a few assumptions that the authors of At the Gates were making. I didn't feel that I totally disagreed with these assumptions, but I wasn't sure if I agreed with them either. So I'm using this post to explore them further.
Assumption 1
A disabled person's lived theology is just as important as an academic person's theology
This generates two opposing reactions in me. One says, "Of course! How else do we know God except through our experience of him? And who better to theologize about disability than someone who is actually disabled?"
The other says, "But people are experts for a reason! Surely a trained scientist is better at doing science, or a trained musician better at playing in an orchestra. Why would it be different for theology?"
There are a few intertwined issues here. One is that academics have historically been certain sorts of privileged people, who, naturally, do theology according to their particular viewpoint. They are the ones who write books, teach influential pastors, and contribute to journals. This kind of theology is regarded as "real" theology, and other theology is necessarily niche, only of importance to those it relates to (feminist, black, queer and so on).
So, on the one hand, the problem could be solved by having more disabled academics providing a wider perspective on theology. At the Gates discusses some of the reasons why this is difficult, for example cost (disabled people are often financially disadvantaged), and lack of resources in accessible formats (large-print books and so on).
But there's another thing going on here, relating to whose theology has value. At the Gates says, "In churches, more value is given to stories about God told by those who have training - church leaders or academic theologians - than to the 'ordinary' theologies of laypeople and church members". This is where I think: yes, surely that's the point of having training. You may disagree about who gets trained or how they get trained or what they learn. But do you really mean to say that those years of learning fail to improve anyone's theology at all? That doesn't seem right.
Up pops the opposing viewpoint in my head. "But God can reveal himself to anyone. Aren't the weak, the powerless, the oppressed more likely to know God than the comfortable and powerful? He certainly doesn't restrict himself to academic theologians!" Also, I wouldn't be writing this blog if I didn't think my views on theology were worth something. And I am not a trained theologian.
You can see why I don't know whether I agree or disagree! One way out would be to say that all theology has value, no matter who it comes from. Which seems obvious until two theologies disagree. Is a lack of healing due to a lack of faith, or not? Do disabled people reflect the image of God through their disability, or in spite of it? Will you resolve these questions by appealing to the lived theology of the disabled person, or by searching learned commentaries for an answer? At the Gates would go for the first of those. I feel as if I want to agree... but I'm not sure.
Assumption 2
A theology of bodies and experience is important
I have come across this emphasis on bodies in the work of Cole Arthur Riley, as well. She is the author of Black Liturgies, described as "a project that integrates spiritual practice with Black emotion, Black literature and the Black body". I don't know a lot about the idea, but I assume it is a reaction against the very spiritual and cerebral nature of much white academic theology - particularly when it has been used to argue that all bodily urges are sinful.
So, instead of deducing the nature of God from first principles, this approach argues that we learn the nature of God from our life experience. We are, above all, embodied beings, and can only relate to God in our bodies - whether they are subject to pain, abuse and ridicule; or affection, good food, and adulation.
In this case it's not so much that I can immediately come up with counter-arguments. It's more that this is an unfamiliar way of thinking. It's not a point of view I immediately click with, and I'm not sure whether it is useful for me or not. It clearly is useful for some other people.
I have been fortunate that my body has, in general, been positive. It has not had problems with pain or sickness. It usually does what I need it to do. It hasn't been abused or injured, and it doesn't cause other people to react with fear, hatred, or anger. Many, many people cannot say the same about their body.
I can see, then, that when your experience of your body has been negative, there is a great need to affirm the holiness of the body in your theology. Either that, or you have to completely write it off as "sinful flesh". So, I think I can agree that this theology of the body is important. But, having never had to think in that way, I'm not really sure how to do it or whether I need to even try.
Assumption 3
A theology which excludes any groups (especially marginalised ones) is incomplete
Like the first assumption, this one sounds as if it should be easy to agree with. The church is made up of people of all kinds, from everywhere, and we all have a unique knowledge of God and experience of him. Only by sharing that and learning from each other will we come to a fuller appreciation of who God is.
I like that idea. It sounds great.
The same problem arises as when you say, "everyone's theology is equally valuable", though. When you disagree, who decides? A theology which includes every possible idea about what God is like becomes white noise. You wouldn't be able to say anything definite about God at all.
So it would have to be more of a conversation - the synthetic model, in Models of Contextual Theology terms. One group says one thing, another says something else, and in teasing out the differences, both groups learn something new. Another tempting idea, but one that, in practice, relies on very good communication and a willingness to hold theological ideas lightly. It's a lot easier to hold tightly to our own truth and tell everyone else they are wrong.
It seems like it should be obvious that disabled people are best placed to theologize about disability, gay people are best placed to work out queer theology, and so on. Instead, a marginalized group often has a theology imposed on them which is derogatory (their condition is sinful) or disempowering (they are only there to be ministered to).
Now that I've written that, I can see why At the Gates includes such a strong plea for theological justice. I certainly wouldn't want to be regarded as inherently sinful and pathetic. Maybe there is a way to have less white noise and more equal voices around a table. Or at least, to try and work towards that.
I don't think there would ever be such a thing as a complete theology, though. Maybe it's more about recognising the gaps. We assume our theology is complete, like a woven blanket wrapped around God. It's not until we hear from others that we realise it's more like a net curtain, full of holes and concealing more than it reveals.
Who gets to decide what God is like?
Academic theologians. Members of marginalized groups. Trained pastors. Ordinary churchgoers. People with certain sorts of bodies. People with certain kinds of experience. Everyone. No one.
I don't know, really. I'm just trying to ask the questions. And notice the holes in my own theological blanket, as well as other people's. I hope it helps you to notice yours, as well.
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