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‘Radical’ orthodoxy

05.29.03 | 11 Comments

The newest trend in god-talk I’ve heard of calls itself “radical orthodoxy.” The tagline is deliberately provacative, an apparent oxymoron that demands more attention.

In many ways, radical orthoxy builds itself upon the edifice of another recent mini-movement, “postliberalism.” Proposed by George Lindbeck and several of his Yale colleagues, postliberalism positions itself as the resolution to the battle between classical liberalism–which imagines truth is something that can be written down into propositions–and modern romanticism–which imagines that the experience of truth can never be reduced to mere words. When in the hands of reductionists, classical liberalism devolves into legalistic rationalism and romanticism into easy sentiment.

Postliberalism offers the alternative of the cultural-linguistic approach. Here the life of faith is imagined as a language or culture that you must either grow up in or be assimilated into. Creeds simply lay out the grammar of any particular faith culture. If you and I speak different faith languages, perhaps some of our speech hits at identical realities, perhaps some of it does not. Although Lindbeck doesn’t take it this far, the question of universalism/inclusivism/pluralism is left delightfully unanswered. Theories about the commensurability of faith languages may help, but the question can only be finally resolved through ground level investigations of another’s faith language, a conversation between neighbors.

Radical orthodoxy is gleeful about the dissolution of truth claims into relativistic tribalisms. It takes Lindbeck’s cultural-linguistic approach and builds defensive walls around it. If “truth” is just a matter of standpoints, then you can’t criticize what I see from my standpoint. Therefore, I can be as reactively orthodox in my god-talk as I like, and you can’t do anything about it.

Criticism of the anachronistic creedalism of radical orthodoxy are answered, “But that isn’t part of our faith culture,” or “That’s against the rules of our faith grammar.” Why? Because they said so.

I was hopeful that radical orthodoxy had found some way to ironically appropriate classic Christian orthodoxy. Instead, it is a willful naivete, a three-year-old covering his eyes so you can’t see him, a teenager catching his parent in a contradiction mid-lecture. It’s the treehouse that says, “No girls allowed.”

And what is radical about that? Something is understood to be “radical” if it abandons everything in order to get to the root of things. Once at the roots of things, you can reorder the universe, lining everything up according to your new perspective.

“Radical orthodoxy” uses an oversimplified, selective reading of postmodern philosophy to abandon troublesome questions about whether or not there’s something called “truth” that we can get to and communicate. I never get the impression that they’ve engaged these questions themselves; the postmodern turn is simply a convenient way to avoid these nagging questions.

It’s unclear how the Nicene Creed or Augustine is in any way “radical.” Self-styled radical Christian god-talk has turned to specific moments or texts and named them as authentic Christian god-talk. Candidates have included the “historical” Jesus, the early Church, the future kingdom of God, the ethical teachings of Christ, and different portions of Saul/Paul’s god-talk. They have then gone on, in different ways, to rewrite the meaning of (if not throw away) conventions like the Nicene Creed and Augustine’s god-talk.

Something being old does not make it radical. Radical orthodoxy’s embrace of fourth/fifth century Christianity can serve only to enforce (a long dead) Christendom, as the early creeds were state-sponsored moves to transition the late Roman Empire from paganism to Christianity. This would be the first time the embrace of the “golden age” of Constantinian Christendom was considered radical by anyone.

How does radical orthodoxy argue for its being “radical?” By saying, “But you haven’t met my Jesus.”

Perhaps I have, perhaps I haven’t. But perhaps you haven’t met mine. Or anyone else’s for that matter.

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