I think the republicanism/liberalism dynamic remains one of the best ways to understand our current political situation--i.e., secular democracy versus religious (fundamentalist) nationalism--so long as one doesn't simply oppose the two ideologies (republicanism/liberalism) as if they still expressed a straightforward dichotomy. If the classical debate pitted republicanism (which required the pre-political existence of a strong social-communal identity and a unified social agenda, or common good) against liberalism (which demands the recognition of the individual's moral autonomy--a la Kant--as well as the individual's ethical right to conduct life according to his or her own convictions), things are no longer as simple as they may once have been.
It seems to me that the problem today is that our secular (but that also means Christian, insofar as secularism itself emerges in the West as a sort of radical transmutation of the Judeo-Christian heritage) our secular political institutions fail to recognize the degree to which our shared classical "liberal" ideology effectively serves today as the foundation for "our" social-communal identity. This failure helps explain, for instance, why the neo-conservatives thought that the establishment of liberal democracies (through military force of course) was the solution to our problems in/with the middle east. They failed to recognize that the liberal notions of human equality (and thus equal representation) upon which democracy functionally depends, are not universally embraced, but are rather particular to western Europe's peculiar historical development (if not destiny) and thus particular to our own social identity in the "west" (however broadly one may want to define that term: "the west'). But the most interesting problems concern those who are, so to speak, "at home" in the west (geographically understood) and yet do not accept (nor conduct their lives according to) the liberal ideologies which provide the foundation for the communal identity (as, say, "Americans") that surround them. (I'm thinking here of young radical Islamic children of Pakistanis living in UK, polygamists in the American southwest, African immigrants in NY who perform female circumcision on their American-born daughters, etc.) The peace, cohesion and perhaps even survival of our society seems to demand that we exclude, reject or oppose those "offensive" and "archaic" practices, if not their practitioners. And yet, how can we exclude such "members" from our community without simultaneously threatening/undermining the very liberal ideals (the right to conduct one's life according to one's personal convictions, etc.) which we hope to preserve by means of this exclusion.
This question, I think, can best be articulated in terms of tolerance: How do we (lovers of tolerance) tolerate those who do not share our fondness, our love for tolerance? It would be much too simple to simply ask: how do we tolerate intolerance? For that formulation conceals the fact that our "sense of tolerance" (i.e., liberal ideology) is precisely what binds us together as a society (that is to say, it is what provides us with a social identity, like Cicero's sense of roman identity: Remember, JFK had just finished citing Cicero's "civis Romanus sum" when he delivered his (in)famous line, which might as well have ran "Ich bin ein American," since he was after all trying to express the fact that West Berliners shared the American sense of human freedom). I know it may sound a little far-fetched to claim that our sense of Americanism, our sense of "being American" is still based on such classical liberal notions as individual freedom, human rights, mutual tolerance, etc., but just listen to any number of Bush's speeches in which he provides a moral justification for the war in Iraq by invoking the language of freedom, tolerance and the individual pursuit of happiness (as if Jefferson might as well have been Iraqi).
At any rate, we are faced with a question. Put badly: "what are we to do about those that seek to disrupt, disturb, destroy "us" from within?" It seems to me that this internal disturbance is not a contingent historical fact (belonging to, for instance, the recent resurgence of various religious fundamentalism) but rather that it belongs to the essential structure of our current ideological configuration. To be sure, it would be logically incoherent to say that "our shared identity is based on the 'mutual' recognition of difference." But I what I find incoherent here is not, as one might at first suspect, that identity precludes difference and therefor is incompatible with it. On the contrary, the incoherence lies elsewhere--namely, in the very idea of the "mutuality" of the recognition which is supposed to span the distance between same and different. In other words, what is objectionable here is the idea that someone who recognizes (and therefore respects) your differences is truly different (from you). For, in fact, if this person is willing to participate in the game of mutual recognition--if he or she is able to respects your practices, beliefs, etc., even when s/he holds different ones him/herself--then s/he does not really represent a genuine difference. For s/he still circulates around the same ideological core as oneself. True difference emerges only with those who refuse to accept, recognize or live-with what is other or different. True difference does not enter into the fold of reciprocal recognition. There is no difference where there mutual recognition. So, we must say that today's secular, post-enlightenment ideology is based on the recognition of radical difference--the kind of difference embodied by those who refuses to re-cognize, to re-ciprocate, to requite or return our most profound gestures of tolerance (which, after all, is the only kind of tolerance that really is what it claims to be).
So, my thesis then: It is the very collapse or, better, "condensation" of the republican/liberalism divide which constitutes the dominant socio-political ideology in the secular west today (which is to say that liberal ideology is the normative foundation for our republican sense of social identity and solidarity) and that the most lamentable forms of political action today are marked by a failure to recognize the effects of this "condensation." But, like any co-llapse, this collapse cannot be understood if we ourselves simply abandon the initial distinction between the republican and liberal ideology.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Movie: Doubt
What I thought was so remarkable about this film was that its most obvious interpretation also happens to be its most interesting one. It would, of course, have been a let down had a movie with the title "doubt" left you without any doubts. But this film obviously leaves you with an unavoidable question as well: it asks the viewer to explore his or her own convictions, to risk a decision, to make a choice regarding the priest's innocence or guilt. And how will we decide? Your typical modern liberal Catholic movie-goer likes the forward-thinking priest (he's intelligent, compassionate and tolerant) and despises the reactionary nun (or at least finds her pathetic). Will these attitudes determine our final judgment?
In order to appreciate what is potentially so fascinating about what I take to be the most obvious interpretation (according to which the priest is guilty as charged), one has first to consider the second most obvious interpretation: the interpretation according to which the priest is innocent. This happens to be the more tempting interpretation too, the one that allows us simply to enjoy the film, to relish in the priest final victory over hatred, mistrust and intolerance. Viewed this way (i.e., as if the priest were innocence), one feels a sense of revenge, satisfaction and delight at the culminating moment when the nun finally "confesses" her own doubts to her subordinate sister on the bench. We are satiated by this confession precisely because we would like to believe that her version of conservative, intolerant Catholic orthodoxy is false, that it ultimately fails, that it is a manifestation of some deeper form of psychosis, sexual frustration or institutional dysfunctionality. More to the point, we are relieved by her confession of doubt because we also want to believe that the man who represents the possibility of a church which embraces liberal values (tolerance, openness, compassion, etc.) would be incapable of committing the crime (sin) in question. But--and herein lies the brilliance of the film--in doing so, in embracing his innocence, we ourselves become complicit in the most horrendous aspect of modern church history, which is not (only) the abuse of innocent children by priests, but far more appalling still, the willingness to ignore this abuse, to look away from it, to cover it up--or, put another way, to insist upon the inherent goodness of "our" priests, church leaders, confessors, etc., in the face of incriminating evidence. What I find fascinating here is that the film invites us or, rather, tricks us into adopting and experiencing first hand what may in fact have been the real motivation for this (these ) cover up(s)--namely, the liberal values of tolerance and compassion, the fundamentally modern (and entirely non-Christian) belief in the inherent goodness of man (and of priests too of course). We want to believe in the innocence of the priest because he represents the future of these values in the church. We overlook what is otherwise obvious (that evidence that suggest the child was abused) for reasons which are surprisingly analogous to (but equally offensive as) those offered by the boy's mother, who, quite shockingly, was perfectly willing to overlook her son's victimization for the sake of advancing his education. In a like manner, viewers who insist on the priest's innocence are, as it were, tricked into overlooking this victimization for the sake of the liberalization of the church. The astonishing conclusion is that the priest not only represents values that we liberals espouse, but that these very values are the ones that will most likely allow his crime from going unnoticed--these are the values that compel us to extend our compassion to him and to give him the benefit of the doubt. We embrace his innocence (and thus overlook his crime) to the precise extent to which we embrace the form of Catholic liberalism that he embodies.
But there is a more obvious and far more interesting interpretation, according to which the priest is quite simply guilty as charged. I say this is the more obvious interpretation because the film seems to supply more evidence of his guilt than of his innocence--his lack of denial, his cryptic confession of a mortal sin, the smile on a boy's face upon hearing that the priest was leaving the parish, and, lets face it, his unusual obsession with finger nails (which, I assume the writer intended as a sort of foil or false bait: will the viewer foolishly condemn him on a hunch, that is to say, merely on account of his being 'different'?). But, if he is in fact guilty, then the true heroin of the film is the ultra-conservative nun. The nature of her heroinism (which seems to run counter to her apparent conceit and self-righteousness) can only be seen if we consider the moral paradigm which she explicitly holds. Altruism is often taken as the moral ideal of Christian existence. What could be greater than to lay down one's life for a friend (or enemy of that matter), or to sacrifice one's own well-being for the sake of one's neighbor (or for the sake of the foreigner for that matter). But the very possibility of acting altruistically is threatened by the soteriological structure of the Christian world-view, according to which one lays down one's (worldly/physical) life for the sake of eternal (spiritual) life (Matthew's 'One must lose one's life in order to save it,' etc.). One sacrifices one's own self-interests in this world (one's wealth or happiness) and receives eternal happiness (salvation) in return. Within this moral universe, then, every ethical act (every apparently altruistic act) is caught up in an economy of renumeration, of reward and punishment, which ultimately casts suspicion upon the motives lying behind it. The sincere Christian must admit to himself that he never knows with certainty whether his own actions might not in fact be motivated by his concern for salvation (and, thus, directed towards his ultimate self-interests). Within this moral paradigm, the only form of genuine altruism, the only action which involves real self-sacrifice, is one which entails not only a rejection of earthly pleasures but a rejection of eternal rewards as well.
This leads to the following moral paradox: namely, true altruism is only possible through SIN, through an action which condemns one to eternal hell and thereby eliminates any hope of heavenly reward, moral vindication, or personal salvation. It is in light of this admittedly perverse reading of the Christian moral paradigm that the nun's most powerful (or at least most memorable) statement makes sense: she says something to this affect: "When one works in the service of the Lord, one is taking a step away from the Lord." What a line! (...it would have caused me to tremble had I not already heard it in the trailer, and thus out of context.) As perverse as her statement sounds, it could be supported with plenty of good old fashion biblical references: One need only think of Abraham and his willingness to commit the unthinkable in the name of faith, and in the service of God (his faith was tantamount not only to a willingness to transgress Mosiac law but, since infanticide is prohibited by nature itself, to a willingness to transgress Law as such, i.e., every conceivable moral system known to man). [Here I am thinking of Kierkegaard's formulation of the so-called "teleological suspension of the ethical" in Fear and Trembling.] Did Abraham (ever) have doubts? But this paradoxical, if not perverse, moral paradigm is perhaps best exemplified by the role of Judas, of which some less-than-orthodox theologians have risked making a rather positive assessment. Instead of vilifying Judas, we can regard him as the necessary fall-guy as it were. For without his betrayal of Christ there would be no Passion, no crucifixion, no redemption of mankind. According to this convincing yet heretical interpretation, Judas was simply obeying a secret injunction issued by Jesus at the final supper--that is to say, he simply fulfills a necessary role in the Gospel narrative. And unlike Peter and the other apostles, who presumably risk their lives for the sake of spreading the good news, Judas was willing to pay the ultimate price in order to perform his necessary function: for he not only sacrificed his earthly life, but ALSO his eternal life, since he condemned himself to eternal damnation for the sake of fulfilling the prophecies. He could only serve God by turning his back on him. And what could be more properly called altruism than that? Finally, one could, along with Chesterton I think, venture to say that Christ on the cross turns his back on God the Father, loses faith, "becomes for a moment an atheist" ("Father, why have thou forsaken me"). God, in order to save man, becomes human, but in order to become truly human, has to express (and experience for Himself) the despair of human existence, he must undergo radical doubt for and of Himself. So here again, God's mission is finally accomplished only through a turning away from God. Now, I would suggest that on this most obvious interpretation (according to which the priest is guilty), the nun represents a Judas, or perhaps even Christ-like, figure. She commits all sorts of sins (bearing false witness being the most obvious among them) in order to carry out God's mission (in this case, in order to rid the church of child molesting priests!). But in order to fulfill this mission, she recognizes that she must turn her back on God (it was noteworthy, I think, that while expressing her readiness to leave the convent in order to carry out her mission she began to take the crucifix off from around her neck). (Now, I would insist at this point that this is not just a matter of means justifying ends, since what is sacrificed here is the end itself--one's personal salvation. In this case, it is a matter of sacrificing one's own end (salvation) for the sake of some higher cause (God's end)--but the interesting catch is that one can only assist in bringing about God's end if one is willing to bar one's own participation in this end, in the manner that Judas forfeits his own salvation and bars himself from heaven.)
We come now to the final scene of the film, where the nun finally expresses her doubts. But doubts about what exactly? Does she now, after further reflection and investigation, come to doubt the priest's criminality? Does she come to think that her accusations were misplaced. Perhaps. But in that case, why should she show any remorse? After all, we must bear in mind that she has just finished informing the subordinate sister that the priest had not been punished or even reprimanded, but had effectively been given a promotion, sent to a bigger church, given a higher rank, etc. Rather, I think her doubt concern something else entirely, namely, the irrevocable fate of her own soul. She comes to doubt whether she ought to have sacrificed her own salvation in order to accomplish God's mission. She fears the retribution that will be a consequence of her truly altruistic deed. She heard the voice of God and has sacrificed Issac, she heard Jesus' injunction and betrayed the Christ. She has paid for this victory (God's victory) with her soul... Abraham never wavered in his faith, but his hand was stayed in the end. Her hand was not. Thus, she wavers.
So I suspect that on its most obvious interpretation, this film not only identifies liberal accommodationist theology as the true culprit in the church's cover-up scandal; it also represents a surreptitious apologia for a certain form of intolerant Christian orthodoxy. The nun, it appears, is right after all...
In order to appreciate what is potentially so fascinating about what I take to be the most obvious interpretation (according to which the priest is guilty as charged), one has first to consider the second most obvious interpretation: the interpretation according to which the priest is innocent. This happens to be the more tempting interpretation too, the one that allows us simply to enjoy the film, to relish in the priest final victory over hatred, mistrust and intolerance. Viewed this way (i.e., as if the priest were innocence), one feels a sense of revenge, satisfaction and delight at the culminating moment when the nun finally "confesses" her own doubts to her subordinate sister on the bench. We are satiated by this confession precisely because we would like to believe that her version of conservative, intolerant Catholic orthodoxy is false, that it ultimately fails, that it is a manifestation of some deeper form of psychosis, sexual frustration or institutional dysfunctionality. More to the point, we are relieved by her confession of doubt because we also want to believe that the man who represents the possibility of a church which embraces liberal values (tolerance, openness, compassion, etc.) would be incapable of committing the crime (sin) in question. But--and herein lies the brilliance of the film--in doing so, in embracing his innocence, we ourselves become complicit in the most horrendous aspect of modern church history, which is not (only) the abuse of innocent children by priests, but far more appalling still, the willingness to ignore this abuse, to look away from it, to cover it up--or, put another way, to insist upon the inherent goodness of "our" priests, church leaders, confessors, etc., in the face of incriminating evidence. What I find fascinating here is that the film invites us or, rather, tricks us into adopting and experiencing first hand what may in fact have been the real motivation for this (these ) cover up(s)--namely, the liberal values of tolerance and compassion, the fundamentally modern (and entirely non-Christian) belief in the inherent goodness of man (and of priests too of course). We want to believe in the innocence of the priest because he represents the future of these values in the church. We overlook what is otherwise obvious (that evidence that suggest the child was abused) for reasons which are surprisingly analogous to (but equally offensive as) those offered by the boy's mother, who, quite shockingly, was perfectly willing to overlook her son's victimization for the sake of advancing his education. In a like manner, viewers who insist on the priest's innocence are, as it were, tricked into overlooking this victimization for the sake of the liberalization of the church. The astonishing conclusion is that the priest not only represents values that we liberals espouse, but that these very values are the ones that will most likely allow his crime from going unnoticed--these are the values that compel us to extend our compassion to him and to give him the benefit of the doubt. We embrace his innocence (and thus overlook his crime) to the precise extent to which we embrace the form of Catholic liberalism that he embodies.
But there is a more obvious and far more interesting interpretation, according to which the priest is quite simply guilty as charged. I say this is the more obvious interpretation because the film seems to supply more evidence of his guilt than of his innocence--his lack of denial, his cryptic confession of a mortal sin, the smile on a boy's face upon hearing that the priest was leaving the parish, and, lets face it, his unusual obsession with finger nails (which, I assume the writer intended as a sort of foil or false bait: will the viewer foolishly condemn him on a hunch, that is to say, merely on account of his being 'different'?). But, if he is in fact guilty, then the true heroin of the film is the ultra-conservative nun. The nature of her heroinism (which seems to run counter to her apparent conceit and self-righteousness) can only be seen if we consider the moral paradigm which she explicitly holds. Altruism is often taken as the moral ideal of Christian existence. What could be greater than to lay down one's life for a friend (or enemy of that matter), or to sacrifice one's own well-being for the sake of one's neighbor (or for the sake of the foreigner for that matter). But the very possibility of acting altruistically is threatened by the soteriological structure of the Christian world-view, according to which one lays down one's (worldly/physical) life for the sake of eternal (spiritual) life (Matthew's 'One must lose one's life in order to save it,' etc.). One sacrifices one's own self-interests in this world (one's wealth or happiness) and receives eternal happiness (salvation) in return. Within this moral universe, then, every ethical act (every apparently altruistic act) is caught up in an economy of renumeration, of reward and punishment, which ultimately casts suspicion upon the motives lying behind it. The sincere Christian must admit to himself that he never knows with certainty whether his own actions might not in fact be motivated by his concern for salvation (and, thus, directed towards his ultimate self-interests). Within this moral paradigm, the only form of genuine altruism, the only action which involves real self-sacrifice, is one which entails not only a rejection of earthly pleasures but a rejection of eternal rewards as well.
This leads to the following moral paradox: namely, true altruism is only possible through SIN, through an action which condemns one to eternal hell and thereby eliminates any hope of heavenly reward, moral vindication, or personal salvation. It is in light of this admittedly perverse reading of the Christian moral paradigm that the nun's most powerful (or at least most memorable) statement makes sense: she says something to this affect: "When one works in the service of the Lord, one is taking a step away from the Lord." What a line! (...it would have caused me to tremble had I not already heard it in the trailer, and thus out of context.) As perverse as her statement sounds, it could be supported with plenty of good old fashion biblical references: One need only think of Abraham and his willingness to commit the unthinkable in the name of faith, and in the service of God (his faith was tantamount not only to a willingness to transgress Mosiac law but, since infanticide is prohibited by nature itself, to a willingness to transgress Law as such, i.e., every conceivable moral system known to man). [Here I am thinking of Kierkegaard's formulation of the so-called "teleological suspension of the ethical" in Fear and Trembling.] Did Abraham (ever) have doubts? But this paradoxical, if not perverse, moral paradigm is perhaps best exemplified by the role of Judas, of which some less-than-orthodox theologians have risked making a rather positive assessment. Instead of vilifying Judas, we can regard him as the necessary fall-guy as it were. For without his betrayal of Christ there would be no Passion, no crucifixion, no redemption of mankind. According to this convincing yet heretical interpretation, Judas was simply obeying a secret injunction issued by Jesus at the final supper--that is to say, he simply fulfills a necessary role in the Gospel narrative. And unlike Peter and the other apostles, who presumably risk their lives for the sake of spreading the good news, Judas was willing to pay the ultimate price in order to perform his necessary function: for he not only sacrificed his earthly life, but ALSO his eternal life, since he condemned himself to eternal damnation for the sake of fulfilling the prophecies. He could only serve God by turning his back on him. And what could be more properly called altruism than that? Finally, one could, along with Chesterton I think, venture to say that Christ on the cross turns his back on God the Father, loses faith, "becomes for a moment an atheist" ("Father, why have thou forsaken me"). God, in order to save man, becomes human, but in order to become truly human, has to express (and experience for Himself) the despair of human existence, he must undergo radical doubt for and of Himself. So here again, God's mission is finally accomplished only through a turning away from God. Now, I would suggest that on this most obvious interpretation (according to which the priest is guilty), the nun represents a Judas, or perhaps even Christ-like, figure. She commits all sorts of sins (bearing false witness being the most obvious among them) in order to carry out God's mission (in this case, in order to rid the church of child molesting priests!). But in order to fulfill this mission, she recognizes that she must turn her back on God (it was noteworthy, I think, that while expressing her readiness to leave the convent in order to carry out her mission she began to take the crucifix off from around her neck). (Now, I would insist at this point that this is not just a matter of means justifying ends, since what is sacrificed here is the end itself--one's personal salvation. In this case, it is a matter of sacrificing one's own end (salvation) for the sake of some higher cause (God's end)--but the interesting catch is that one can only assist in bringing about God's end if one is willing to bar one's own participation in this end, in the manner that Judas forfeits his own salvation and bars himself from heaven.)
We come now to the final scene of the film, where the nun finally expresses her doubts. But doubts about what exactly? Does she now, after further reflection and investigation, come to doubt the priest's criminality? Does she come to think that her accusations were misplaced. Perhaps. But in that case, why should she show any remorse? After all, we must bear in mind that she has just finished informing the subordinate sister that the priest had not been punished or even reprimanded, but had effectively been given a promotion, sent to a bigger church, given a higher rank, etc. Rather, I think her doubt concern something else entirely, namely, the irrevocable fate of her own soul. She comes to doubt whether she ought to have sacrificed her own salvation in order to accomplish God's mission. She fears the retribution that will be a consequence of her truly altruistic deed. She heard the voice of God and has sacrificed Issac, she heard Jesus' injunction and betrayed the Christ. She has paid for this victory (God's victory) with her soul... Abraham never wavered in his faith, but his hand was stayed in the end. Her hand was not. Thus, she wavers.
So I suspect that on its most obvious interpretation, this film not only identifies liberal accommodationist theology as the true culprit in the church's cover-up scandal; it also represents a surreptitious apologia for a certain form of intolerant Christian orthodoxy. The nun, it appears, is right after all...
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