Out emerging Emergent

I reviewed Phyllis Tickle's book, The Great Emergence, a while ago and I finished Tony Jones' The New Christians just last week. (Review to come this week or next.) Jones' book reminded me of reading Clark Pinnock's, Most Moved Mover. Pinnock's was a defense of open theism, which, at the time of my reading, was intriguing me. After reading MMM, however, it didn't captivate me.

Jones' work was similar. I am sympathetic with large chunks of the emergent church, not only in content but philosophy. But Jones' book left me with less, I don't know, satisfaction in my sympathies. This week, I put my finger on part of what this feeling was.

Jones quite helpfully shares some of Emergent's early narrative--its meetings, discussions, people, etc. He shares one time in a restaurant talking theology and blurting out, "The Bible is propaganda!" He defended it by saying propaganda is meant to convince, call, and win to its side. I couldn't disagree that I think the Bible does this, but something was off. Eugene Peterson's Eat this Book let me in on the secret. He writes, "Words spoken to us under the metaphor of eating, words to be freely taken in, tasted, chewed, savored, swallowed, and digested, have a very different effect on us from those that come at us from the outside, whether in the form of propaganda or information. Propaganda works another person's will upon us, attempting to manipulate us to an action or a belief. Insofar as we are moved by it, we become less, the puppet of a puppetteer writer/speaker. There is no dignity, no soul, in a puppet" (p. 10). That seems to me a much better description of the Bible.

Here's the irony: Jones and Emergent talk about conversation a lot. I would say it's one of their core values. (This is one of the things I really like about them.) But if Jones really thinks the Bible is propaganda, then the Bible is not about conversation. Even if it's not as severe as what Peterson says, propaganda does not aim to listen, whereas the Bible is a constant development of voices who have kept on listening to each other even in its form revealing the listening God.

On Listening, by Jean-Luc Nancy, Interlude

In Derridean fashion, Nancy's continuation of "On Listening," its Interlude, concerning music, is a play on the french word 'mot,' and its relation to other sounds. This game, this play, is the sense, the meaning of the word. In a sense, the word has brought him to this meaning as he has listened. Likewise with music, the listening strains to end in sense.

"Sense, if there is any, when there is any, is never a neutral, colorless, or aphonic sense: even when written, it has a voice" (34). Nancy says that this is the meaning of to write: making a sound beyond signs; a "vocalizing" of a sense that would otherwise be silent except for a self. Nancy quotes Francis Ponge, "I never come to write the slightest phrase without my writing being accompanied by a mental speaking and listening, and even, rather, without it being preceded by those things" (35). [As I read Nancy for the second time, reviewing my notes, I form the words over and over again in my head, sometimes finding my tongue moves in rhythm with these silent words in my head. For the few (any?) actually reading this, perhaps Nancy's work has caused you to do the same. Interestingly, a novel--ones that are easily read, at least--do not force us to do this. We can skip words--paragraphs, even--and still read the novel. But without this vocalization, I do not think we can say that we have listened to it.] This speaking is "the echo of the text" and is what "opens it to its own sense" and a plurality of, literally for different listeners, senses (35). And this sound--Nancy shifts back into music at this point--is more than its listener. Nancy says it listens to itself, thereby finds itself, thereby deviating from itself, and is able to resound further away, becoming another subject, which is "neither the same as nor other than the individual subject who writes the text" (35). [I am hearing traces of Ricoeur here, especially as the text is able to gain an autonomy from the author, embarking on its own course, but Nancy has also tied the text to its author.]

Speaking is a "question of two things together": rhythm and timbre (36), the movement and color of sound, outside pitch and volume. Nancy says these form the constitution of sound offered to listening. This constitution is paralleled by the womb where we can only hear, never see, and begin to listen.

[I think Nancy is here saying that the color of sound--its timbre--which is invisible, is the actual communication. It is the communication because sound opens up its own space for possible relationship and while the child is in the womb, unformed by language, timbre is what is shared between it and what it hears. There is only noise to the child, but its timbre reflects communication of the other--an other not its mother.]

On Listening, by Jean-Luc Nancy, Part I

In this challenging little book, Nancy asks the question, "Is listening something of which philosophy is capable?" (1). Wouldn't it be true to say that philosophy hears, hears to understand, understands to philosophize? Nancy's point here is that there is a space between listening and hearing--listening is a tension and hearing is a balance, although to listen is to understand and to understand means one must listen, in the long run.

He asks why such a difference exists (2). Nancy sees the difference connected with the difference between sight and sound. Whereas philosophy has been more concerned with the visual, form, representation, and less with the sonorous (3). But he asks a telling question: If the question of truth from Kant to Heidegger has concerned with the appearance/manifestation of being ("phenomenology"), then "shouldn't truth 'itself,' as transivity and incessant transition of a continual coming and going, be listened to rather than seen?" (4). But if this is the case, truth is not something to call 'itself' because if heard, then once heard it is gone, and we are only left with an echo.

Nancy, by this reasons (and since he continues past page 4), thinks philosophy can listen. So, what does it mean? "What does it mean for a being to be immersed entirely in listening, formed by listening or in listening, listening with all his being?" Because listening was first used in the context of espionage, Nancy thinks that an answer must thereby be found by considering listening as an action that discovers a secret. "What secret is at stake when one truly listens, that is, when one tries to capture or surprise the sonority rather than the message?" (5). What secret is made public by listening? But beyond this, when we consider the expression, "To be all ears," listening must also take on an existential dynamic. So, what does it mean "to be listening"? (5). The ear, the organ and its intention must therefore be combined: To hear (with the ear), one must listen, just as to smell (with the nose), one must sniff (5). Nancy thinks that hearing and listening have a special relationship, though. In hearing, there is understanding, "as if 'hearing' were above all 'hearing say'" (6). This means that all saying has a hearing and all hearing a listening. Sound, which is really 'say,' desires to be heard, to be sensed (by the ear); to resound.

So, then, what is the difference between hearing and listening? "If 'to hear' is to understand the sense, to listen is to be straining toward a possible meaning, and consequently one that is not immediately accessible" (6). (The sense that hearing understands is the context, not the text of the sound.) Consider two examples of sound and sense, hearing and listening. In hearing a speech, we listen for meaning. But in music, the sound itself is that for which we listen. In a speech, the sound disappears. In the music, sense becomes sound. Nancy thinks that this makes a double move: we both seek sense in sound, and sound is sought in sense. "To be listening is always to be on the edge of meaning..." (7), the sound is this edge whose meaning is found upon its resonance on the listening ear.

The shared space of meaning and sound is 'referral. ' Meaning is "made of a totality of referrals: from a sign to a thing, from a state of things to a quality, from a subject to another subject or to itself, all simultaneously. Sound is also made of referrals: it spreads in space, where it resounds while still resounding 'in me'" (7). Sound, and therefore meaning, returns to itself and is also placed outside itself. Nancy says, then, that meaning and sound refer to each other, and that this space of referral "can be defined as the space of a self, a subject" (8). This means that a self is always in relationship, always part of a referral, and that "a subject feels: that is his characteristic and his definition" (9).

To be listening, then, means straining toward or approach a self--not a specific individual self, but the structure of a self. "When one is listening, one is on the lookout for a subject, something that identifies itself by resonating from self to self, in itself and for itself, hence outside of itself, at once the same as and other than itself, one in the echo of the other, and this echo is like hte very sound of its sense" (9). Here the difference between sight and sound becomes clear. While I can hear what I see, I cannot see what I hear. Visualization includes an object, a mimetic reflection. Sonority is methexic, a participation or sharing.

To be listening, then, means to enter this sharing, to be looking for relation to self, "to relationship in self," not to specific individuals (12). Nancy says, then, that to listen is not to have access to self, but the reality of access itself. (I think this means that listening is not what makes a self, but is the possibility of relation to self.) Nancy, I think, uses this to move away from phenomenology rooted in being and toward action--coming, passing, extending, penetrating (13). Because sound cannot be captured, it is always moving; it is "not a point on a line" (13), but captures space-time because sound expands. Thus, to listen is to enter that type of space that also penetrates me, opens in and around me; moves toward me and away from me (14). To listen has elements of being open from within and from without (which is why listening provides opportunity for relationship, but is not relationship with self itself). Because sound creates this space and it is in this space that I listen, listening takes place at the same time as the sound-event. Sound therefore has an ability to attack that sight simply does not. A visual presence is there before seen; sound simply arrives the moment it is heard. (Think here of an instance when you have been frightened. Often the fright is doubled if sound accompanies the sudden pop up of the other's face.)

The omnipresence of sound in the space it creates means that it returns to itself, encounters itself. It is co-presence--"presence in presence" (16). But because it is not fixed or stable, sound is a place as relation. Inasmuch as sound resounds sound creates a subject. So, Nancy gives the example of a child who, with his first cry, becomes a "sudden expansion of an echo chamber"--a place for resounding (17). So, Nancy comes to say that sound is not intended, but that sound places a subject in tension. The child is open to relation by the sound now resounding and them being able to re-sound--both themselves and others. So sound (and here Nancy is using the example of music) is not a phenomenon, but an evocation, a call, of presence (20). Sound, resonance, is not a phenomenon, but ought be considered as being itself. And here sound must be understood (Nancy says, cleverly, s'entendre--which is french for both understood and heard by oneself) not as privation of resonance, but an arrangement. Just like when the silence is just right so that you hear your own breathing, heart pounding, and body resonating.