Governor Brewer, Justice, and Coercion

Back when my kids were tiny little spuds, getting them to clean their rooms on a Saturday could take For. Ever.  Little creatures that they were, they'd drift about, picking up one thing and putting it away.  And then, ooh!  Look!  Lego!  And they'd start playing with the thing they were cleaning, right up until the point when Daddy would return to goad them back into semi-purposeful motion.

This pattern would repeat, over and over again.  Even though they had skin in the game, in the form of their allowance, it could take hours.  Hours.  It was crazy-making.

And so I instituted a new Daddy Room Cleaning Policy.  It was called Twenty Minute Panic, and represented a modification of the Terms and Conditions of their allowance.  In order to get allowance for the week, they had to clean their rooms in twenty minutes.  In a panic.  Failure to comply meant no allowance.  Period.  A timer would be set, and I would stay on them the entire time, shouting out times, pointing out uncleaned objects, shouting out more times, preferably in a dramatic voice.  Every once in a while, I'd throw in a line from the end of Alien.  "Auto-destruct sequence initiated.  Your allowance will detonate in Tee-Minus ten minutes. The option to override is no longer valid."

Parenting really can be entertaining, if you let yourself get creative with it.

Tiny people would scamper about, frantically doing what they needed to have been doing in the first place.  After the rooms got cleaned, I'd strut about like Mussolini, carefully inspecting and critiquing. It was a show, of course, to reinforce next week's Twenty Minute Panic.

Sure, it got things done.  The trains ran on time.  And it was a little fun.  But it also wasn't really cause for celebration.

What's cause for celebration is when they clean their rooms without you making them do it.   And with two teen boys, I don't know that I'm there yet.

I think, in part, that's why I'm not quite overjoyed at yesterday's decision in Arizona.  Oh, sure, it's great that this utterly pointless and destructive law was stillborn.

But the "why" of the decision strikes me.

Analyzing the rhetorical structure of Governor Brewer's carefully written full statement, and tracking the evolution of the arguments over the last few days, what was evident was that this was not a decision made willingly.  It was an economically coerced decision.

In setting the stage for her veto of the bill, she took five paragraphs to tiptoe up to the issue.  And tiptoeing rhetorically makes sense here, just as it does whenever you're negotiating a minefield.  She...or her speechwriter... only got around to establishing the rationale for her decision in the sixth paragraph.  "My priority is the business agenda," she says, clearly.

It was at that moment, if you knew the context of the influences and pressures on her, that you knew the veto was coming.

Because bias against same-sex relationships is increasingly anathema in the broader business community.   The loudest voices in Governor Brewer's ears, the ones she was hearing?  They were not the voices of advocates for the LGBT community.  Those voices came from large corporations and from within the Arizona business community, who were realizing that if...for example...the NFL were to pull the SuperBowl from Arizona...they'd lose a whole bunch of money.  If major corporations refused to locate in Arizona because of the potential embarrassment and/or legal exposure that might come if one of your employees used this law to justify bigoted actions, that wouldn't help either.

So the decision was clear, as was her basis for making it.

What is less clear, for me, is how much a coerced decision like this one is cause for celebration.  It is, unquestionably, better than the alternative.  Without a doubt.  But when someone does the right thing for the wrong reason, it's a relief, but it is not time to break out the champagne.

Grudgingly acquiescing to the rights of a long-oppressed minority out of economic self-interest is not a deep victory for equality.  Just a shallow one.

Because coerced justice is not yet true justice.  It does not represent...not yet...the heart-change that is the ground of real transformation.

And that, or so an old friend tells me, is what really matters.

Reading the Quran: War, Violence, and Jihad

Talking about an encounter with the Quran without talking about violence and jihad would be an act of intellectual and spiritual cowardice.  Tempting, mind you, as the easy way out is always tempting.  Just don't talk about it, whispers the voice of weakness.

But that wouldn't describe the encounter, and mincing words does no-one any favors.

Reading through the Quran, it is impossible to miss the explicit martial language used to describe both the defense of the faith and the spread of the faith.   It was created in the context of conflict, and by conflict I do not mean the dynamic tension between ideas and concepts.   War is a part of its ethic and worldview, and the call to warfare...again, not spiritual or metaphorical, but actual...is as clear as the moon in the sky on a bright cold morning.

Like the Judges in pre-Davidic Judaism, the Prophet actually took forces into battle.  The Quran describes several clashes, including the Battle of Badr (Al-i-Imran 123-125) and the Battle of Uhud (Al-i-Imran 152).  These were not large scale conflicts by the standards of the ancient world, but involved Muslim forces that were...in the case of Badr...fewer in number than the average Presbyterian congregation.   We're not talking a megachurch battle here.

But it is war nonetheless, albeit on a tribal scale.

An entire sura is dedicated to providing instruction for the spoils of war (Al-Anfal).  Again, this was not  initially intended as metaphor.  It assumes conflict with actual physical opponents who no longer need their stuff, because you've killed them.

From this foundation of expansion and conflict, the Quran is considerably more expressive of non-spiritual, non-symbolic violence than the Gospels.   Conflict with unbelievers is repeatedly and consistently articulated in terms that seem to encourage some pretty unpleasant stuff.

It goes beyond Al-Baraqah 191 and 217, which suggest...depending on the translation...that it is better to kill someone who opposes Islam than to permit discord.   Violence in defense of the faith seems presented consistently as a virtue, particularly in opposing unbelievers/backsliders (An Nisa 89).  Although killing other believers intentionally is forbidden, that's an easy one to get around.  (An Nisa 92) It's not a huge conceptual leap from disagreeing with someone to deciding that the source of that disagreement lies in their obvious departure from the One True Faith, in which case, well, there you go.   As a theme, it's consistent and sustained.

And yet this is hardly missing from the narratives of the Bible, either.  The stories of the Exodus and the tales of conflict in the Deuteronomic History are pretty legendarily splattery, filled with plenty of the old ultraviolence.  Much of that is given divine sanction or support by the authors of the narratives.  The Gospels have references to violence as well, although it tends to be clearly metaphoric.   The embrace of war or force of arms is explicitly and consistently rejected, and replaced with a clear and radical ethic of nonviolence.  The Epistles are that way as well, with even the legendarily unpleasant martial imagery of John of Patmos clearly extant in the heavenly/eschatological realms.

From that foundation, early Christianity was almost entirely pacifistic even in the face of violence, to the immense frustration of Roman critics like Marcus Aurelius, who viewed it as weak and devoid of manly warrior virtue.   When St. Augustine wrote the City of God, which lays out the distinction between the Kingdom of God and human governments, it was at least in part intended as a response to those Roman traditionalists who blamed Christian faith for weakening the martial spirit of the Roman people.

Christianity did catch up in the violence department, of course, pretty much the moment Constantine misinterpreted his vision and drove Maximus and his army into the bloody Tiber.   Now THAT was a battle.  Whenever faith mingles with coercive social or economic power, bad things happen.  Empires are not so good at turning the other cheek.

So the question is: Is Islam inherently a violent faith?

If Islam is not just a faith but also a philosophy for governing a nation-state, then the answer must be yes.  Coercion is an inherent part of maintaining collective order.  Wherever there are laws that establish the parameters of what is and is not acceptable in a culture, the threat of coercion exists to insure compliance.  I say this not about Islam alone, because that is true for every faith, in every place and time.  

Christianity is the farthest thing from a violent faith, and it is also not a system of governance.  Understood correctly, there can never be a Christian nation.  But we're great at misunderstanding, so whenever the sword has stood behind my faith to enforce conversion and compliance, plenty of blood has been spilled in the name of Jesus.  When jihad is understood as the war to insure not internal spiritual integrity but external material control over land, property, and the behavior of others, then bad [stuff] will happen.

For Islamic fundamentalism, the answer is also yes.  Reading the Quran through the lenses of a rigid, ultraconservative literalism would provide plenty of grounds for violence, oppression, and coercion, just as it has in Christianity.  If there are no texts in the Quran whose authority is mediated by/interpreted through higher order values, then violence will be the result.

But for Islam inherently?  The answer is no, from both my readings of the Quran and my experience of Muslims more broadly.   If a Muslim is guided in their reading of Quran by the Spirit, and not by the desire for material power or control over others, I am convinced that they will be guided to interpret it in a way that is conducive to both peaceful coexistence and nonviolence.  Understood in historical context and interpreted through the lenses of every human being's inner struggle,  jihad can be a positive thing.

That is not, of course, what we see in much of the Arab world, which is why that word is now almost indelibly and perhaps irredeemably connected with violence in the minds of the West.  But that violence is a result of the use of the standards of the world as the framework from which a violent jihadi understands Quran.

From all of this, the question arises:  Is there any ground for nonviolence in the Quran?  And for that, another post.

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad God?

As one of the three progressive Christians with a robust theology of hell, recent conversations require me to explore if my heckology counts as a form of coercion.

Hellfire and damnation tend to be the bludgeons that drive a significant portion of Christian "evangelism." You reach out because of your deep love for the unsaved unbelievers, knowing that unless they accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior, they will be cast eternally into the Lake of Fire. This is what leads Ray Comfort and Kirk Cameron to get out there with their bananas. It's why Jack Chick is still in business. It's why that guy with the bullhorn is yelling bellowing scripture passages on your campus. And though this bugs the bejabbers out of most human beings, the folks who do it think they're doing right. Why?

Because as folks approach that tension between 1) the central ethic of love for God and neighbor and 2) the many warnings of the eternal consequences that come when you don't listen to Jesus, they become fixated on door number 2. You've got to save the sinners! Save 'em from HEEELLLL! Hell becomes the focus, and the Gospel becomes all stick and bad cop, as the masses run screaming from Jeezilla and into church as he rains atomic hellfire breath down on unbelieving Tokyo. Fear can be a powerful motivator, and folks are happy to use it to coerce belief.

Thing is, my transpersonal spirituality is completely compatible with eternal judgment. I view the existential boundaries between us as ultimately meaningless, and creation as the canvas onto which our eternity is painted. If we hurt others, that's our pain. Forever. If we seethe with hatred towards our ex, that hatred will burn in us permanently. Everything we do is, for all of the protestations of this Heraclitan age, etched forever into the face of being, of which we are a part.

So... does this count as coercion? Does my spiritual awareness of my connectedness to the beings around me and to creation "coerce" me into being more gracious and kind towards them?

Well, yes and no. There are times, particularly when I'm ragingly cheesed at someone, that my monkey-gut-response is to bare fangs and go for the jugular. At those moments, my cognitive and heart assent to the idea that the universe is not meaningless and without justice holds me back. Yeah, it might feel good at that moment to let 'em have it. Rip 'em a new one. It might even have immediate practical value. But ultimately, such actions have profound and permanent consequences. So I steer away from destructive actions with the same aversion that one might feel for a yawning precipice or that guy on the corner who's shouting obscenities at no-one in particular and brandishing a Glock. Go that way, says the tightness in your gut and the rapid beating of your heart, and bad things will come of it. In some sense, then, I do have a fear of hell, and it does occasionally guide how I act.

On the other hand, I don't really feel that as coercive. The love-ethic imperative that Jesus taught is just an inescapable part of the fabric of all being. That there are ontological consequences of living by it is, for me, no more forced than the breaths that I must take to maintain consciousness. Sure, I could resent breathing. I could be annoyed that I'm forced into the process of respiration, and shake my fist at my Maker for coercing me into filling my lungs without ever first consulting me or respecting my free will. I could fight the power, hold my breath, and pitch a defiant hissy until I pull a total faceplant.

But that would be pointless. Stupid, even.

Just as organic life is maintained by the processes of breathing, so justice, peace, and our place in the fabric of God's creation are established by our participation in the ethic of love that radically defines us. That's not coercion. It's just the Way of things.

Faith and Coercion

My recent musings about voluntarism lead me, inevitably, to think about the role of coercion and social pressure in religion.

As in anything that involves human beings, participation in religious communities is often something folks do because they've been made to do it. This goes well beyond the "Oh Yes You ARE Going to Church Today, Young Man" hectoring that occurs nearly every Sunday morning in every Christian family that has a tweener.

Coercion to participate in religious life goes far deeper than mom threatening to take away your screen time. For many, it has deep sociological and theological roots.

Sociologically, that coercion occurs in communities that have religious homogeneity. If you're in certain portions of the American South, you just go to church. It's what people do. If you don't, there are significant social judgments made, and significant pressures applied. It's not quite the same in practice as the pressure to be a Shiite in Iran, but the essential principle is the same. You are faithful because you will be culturally penalized if you aren't.

The same can be true in microcosm within a faith community. If those who are part of your immediate circle all hew to a particular creed, that creed can easily be conflated with the bonds of friendship and family. If you don't believe, then, honey, you are so getting cut off. If you question or resist, we won't like you any more! No more Ski Trips for Little Ms. Questions!

Theologically, religion can be coerced through the implicit and explicit threat of eternal existential narstiness to be inflicted upon the heretic and infidel. For those with a spiritual bent, this can be a terrifying thing. One's whole life can be woven up wracked with fear at the many ways you may not be adequate, and the fires of Hades are brought out again and again like a damnation sorority paddle, which is then applied vigorously to the tushies of backsliders. Better do what Pastor says, sinner.

That theology, though, is the theology of the Law. It's just a way of enforcing compliance, and as such, it's a form of worldly power. Legal structures stand on the foundation of the coercive power that underlies them. They draw their power from the knowledge that they will be enforced, and that failure to comply with them will result in unpleasantness. But even though it is practiced by fundamentalists and condemned by atheists, coercive theology is not meaningfully Christian.

We are, after all, no longer under the sway of the Law. The next time you hear someone going on about believing so you don't have to dip your sorry behind in the Lake of Fire, it's helpful to remember that this really ain't the point of the Gospel.

I Hate Community Service

I wended my way back to the local clothing closet today, to spend a few more hours sorting and prepping clothing for folks in need in and around the county where my church is located. It was a rather sparse day for the center, as it was pouring rain...hardly the sort of weather that brings out folks who are struggling financially.

It was a good time to get stuff done, and I got into a crankin' groove, racking jumpers and pants and sweaters in a functional voluntaristic Tai Chi. After sorting and hanging several racks full of clothes, one of the clients who was just sorta hanging around watching me work decided it might be less boring if she helped out. "You're working all by yourself, honey? They've left you all alone? Lemme help out!"

She was a youngish African American woman with a big swatch of blue died into her hair, and she and I passed a few genial moments. She'd worked up until about six months ago, until she got sick and couldn't work. She didn't have kids, but loved 'em. As we sorted through little donated jackets and tiny skirts and dresses, she cooed and laughed, and called over to a very young Latina with a toddler on her hip whenever something struck her as particularly cute. "Hey, Chica! OOOOH!" She dangled a little skirt just the right size for the little girl. "Es muy bonita!" She was helping out. Making someone's day. Feeling useful. "I like this," she announced to everyone and anyone. "I'm going to do this again."

As I vacuumed up the place after closing time, there was a little cluster of local teens hovering around the center manager. They'd been there the whole time, and been working more-or-less diligently. Now, though, it was time for them to get paid. Meaning, they were getting the community service hours mandated by the county school system. "I've been here since eleven-thirty," one said. I should get three and a half hours." The manager seemed skeptical. Negotiations ensued. Forms were filled out. More negotiations ensued.

I've always disliked the community service requirement that seems to have spread throughout the school systems in my area since I graduated from high school. The idea, of course, is that requiring community service of all students as a prerequisite for graduation will teach the value of voluntarism. In order to graduate from high school in the county, you need 60 hours of service this year...which will be upped to 75 hours of service in 2011.

While this is certainly well-meaning, it's always struck me as a bit off. Why? Well, to start with, mandated voluntarism is an oxymoron. If you're being forced to serve, it ain't volunteering. It also doesn't seem to reflect the why of a service ethic. It can't be about racking up the hours. The act itself is the benefit. You serve because you're moved by the value of service. It's something you do out of the desire to help, for the simple joy of being a part of something that you recognize as valuable.

At some point, someone has to introduce you to it, true. My parents were the ones who nudged me into service ministry at my home church, and I was quickly hooked. In a world full of meaningless self-seeking and back-biting, here was something real, entered into without coercion, for the simple pleasure of serving another.

But the moment you make it a mandate, the moment you impose upon it coercion or the dynamics of a paid transaction, you've abandoned the ethic that calls people to volunteer. What this teaches, I fear, is that the reason to volunteer has everything to do with requirements and obligations and mandates. That approach may get teens into the shelters and clothing closets and food pantries. What it would seem less likely to do is get the adults that they become to choose to participate in the organizations that are the heart of our communities and the hope of those in need.