Tenacious Solidarity: Biblical Provocations on Race, Religion, Climate, and the Economy

Names

Editor’s Preface: Tenacious Solidarity

against Rapacious Totalisms

I. Walter Brueggemann, Prophetic Storyteller

Walter Brueggemann wrote the essays collected in this book between 2014 and 2018. He first delivered most of them as oral presentations to a variety of audiences. Some of these addresses were more academic and biblically focused, and others were more concerned with the identities, practices, and obligations of religious communities in contemporary contexts in the United States. Yet this distinction is not terribly important for Brueggemann’s work, because he consistently undermines attempts to separate biblical scholarship from the contemporary social, religious, political, and economic circumstances of the scholars themselves. I am inclined to approach this aspect of Brueggemann’s work—and the discomfort it causes those who want clearer lines between normative and nonnormative interpretations—by considering Brueggemann as a storyteller along the lines drawn in the well-known essay The Storyteller, by the similarly initialed Walter Benjamin.[1]

Benjamin’s essay appeared in 1936, around the time Brueggemann turned three years old. Benjamin perceived that the craft of storytelling was rapidly disappearing. In its place, he saw the rise of two forms of communication: the novel and the dissemination of information. The demise of the storyteller and the rise of the journalistic informant and the novelist suggested to Benjamin a disastrous constellation of features for the emerging social and political economy. The storyteller’s audience is invited to mull over the story, to weave it into the deep fabrics of their lives, and to sit with it in astonishment and thoughtfulness.[2] The recipient of information, however, is prompted to seek more facts that might verify, contextualize, or otherwise provide further information and greater explanation. Modern communication disseminates information without the authority that the storyteller’s story possesses. The novel, for its part, is isolating, read in private, and fosters a sense of possessiveness, all of which sharply contrast with the public, communal, and shared experience of hearing a storyteller tell a story.

Benjamin’s essay perceptively identifies trends that only accelerated in the postcolonial, late-capitalist environment that emerged during Brueggemann’s lifetime. In these essays, Brueggemann consistently attempts to weave the biblical texts—vested as they are with the authority of a storyteller—into the deep contours of his readers’ and listeners’ experiences, in order to foster a tenacious solidarity that might overcome both the psychic numbness cultivated by a twenty-four-hour news cycle relentlessly disseminating information as well as the anxious possessiveness nurtured by so many privatized spiritualities.

Brueggemann introduces and deploys the concept of a totalism throughout these essays to name the complex, intersectional systems that function to crowd out any possibilities for the biblical ideal that he describes as tenacious solidarity.[3] The Bible offers a series of testimonies attesting to various struggles with totalisms internal and external to the communities that created and transmitted its texts. For this reason the Bible provides rich resources for contemporary readers and interpreters wrestling with our own particular totalism. Like Benjamin’s storyteller, Brueggemann enables and encourages his audience to allow the cadences of the biblical texts to sink into their lives. Through the craft of his interpretive practice, Brueggemann offers readers a point of entry to the biblical texts that is not available to other approaches. Traditional historical readings, for example, tend to want only to disseminate information, whereas any number of spiritual interpretations end in flat, private, or therapeutic interests that he here names religious kitsch.[4] Brueggemann sometimes calls this practice that I am characterizing as storytelling postcritical,[5] but that phrase would be terribly misleading if it were taken to mean anything uncritical. It is indeed deeply critical, even of certain types of criticism.

Benjamin’s distinctions between story, information, and novel are instructive not only for our attempts to situate Brueggemann’s interpretations against other types of reading practices; they are also, I think, deeply analogous to the recent effort by Cathleen Kaveny to distinguish prophetic from contemptuous rhetoric and moral deliberation.[6] According to Kaveny, whose work Brueggemann cites in chapter 18, prophetic rhetoric is always rooted in a sense of covenant or a social contract to which the prophet holds the community accountable. While prophecy can actually be corrosive and detrimental to communal bonds, it remains rooted in its sense of a bond to which a community should be obligated in ways that contemptuous rhetoric is not. Moral deliberation involves most of what we typically consider to be moral reasoning: debates about virtues, rights, what rules and goals should govern behavior in any particular circumstance, what constitutes human and nonhuman flourishing, and so on. Prophetic rhetoric, by contrast, involves moral indictment, calls for repentance, hopeful dreams for utopian futures, and so on. Kaveny suggests "that the rhetoric of prophetic indictment is best understood as a sort of moral chemotherapy, a reaction to a potentially life-threatening distortion in ordinary, day-to-day moral discussion."[7] Moral deliberation can become gravely distorted, and prophetic rhetoric is necessary to target the corruption and steer the community toward more healthy and sound moral deliberation.

Of course, Brueggemann does much more than utter indictments and call for repentance, yet I find that Kaveny’s characterization of prophetic rhetoric provides an illuminating background for the form and content of his interpretations, as well as for his studious avoidance of the kinds of deliberations that characterize much biblical scholarship. Furthermore, while Brueggemann can be a fiery rhetorician, he also exemplifies humility by acknowledging his uncertainty and limitations about various claims, and he even expresses discomfort with the moniker of prophet.[8] All these characteristics, however, make him exemplary of the best use of prophetic rhetoric, both ethically and pragmatically. As Kaveny argues, contemporary prophetic rhetoric is most effective when it is spoken with humility. Brueggemann also exemplifies Kaveny’s proposals for the best practices of prophetic speech because he speaks as a participant within rather than an external opponent of the totalizing systems that he critiques.[9] He not only criticizes but also laments the negative consequences of those systems; and he offers hope by articulating ways for the community to move beyond the problems that plague its social and political body so as to live into a deeper, more tenacious solidarity.

II. Synopsis of This Book

This book is organized into five parts, loosely corresponding to the shifting topical focuses of the chapters. As one would expect from essays written within a few years of each other, there is overlap among them in terms of their ideas, the secondary resources that they engage, and the biblical texts on which they pivot. But where the same concept is central to two chapters, such as the idea of a totalism in chapters 1 and 10, the primary biblical materials differ—in this case, Elijah and Elisha in chapter 1’s treatment of Kings versus chapter 10’s focus on the book of Job. And when one chapter considers a text treated in an earlier chapter, the interpretive upshot is never the same, which nicely illustrates Brueggemann’s claim in Appendix A that the ancient words of the Bible perforce generate transformative potential whenever they are brought into contact with new contexts. For example, in chapter 15 the quotation of Ezekiel’s lengthy condemnation of Tyre (Ezekiel 27) contributes to Brueggemann’s larger point about how the social anxiety that arises at the end of unsustainably extractive regimes tends to end in violence targeting vulnerable groups such as children. He subsequently ties this situation to the lives of his audience with reference to the sacrifices of children in the United States to various forms of racial discrimination derivative from our original sin of slavery, the ongoing military arrangement of a volunteer army, our unsustainable dependence on fossil fuels that will come to a crisis point in the near future, and the present situation where millions of Americans are sacrificed in the dire circumstances of extreme poverty. The earlier quotation of the same passage (Ezekiel 27) in chapter 3, however, focuses rather on how the passage attests to a context in which all social relations have been reduced to their exchange value, which he calls commoditization. Here he weaves this passage into the lives of his audience through references to the exposition of Ta-Nehisi Coates concerning the ways that whites have long dominated, owned, and abused black bodies,[10] widespread sex trafficking, wage theft, and the symptomatic changes to the television program Antiques Roadshow when it immigrated from Europe, where it celebrated the craftsmanship of products of ancient labor, to the United States, where it aims to incite an affective response to how much the market would value an object about which the owner typically knows little, if anything.[11]

Chapter 3 and the other chapters in the first part focus on the economy and society in ways that become thematic for the entire volume. In chapter 1, Brueggemann defines the key concept in the volume, totalism, with reference to its origin in the psychological work of Robert Jay Lifton. Lifton’s concept of totalism aims to account for the psychosocial effects of regimes that extend beyond the political-governmental capacities of totalitarian states. Brueggemann connects this idea to the work of the anthropologist James C. Scott on states that foster such governmental and extragovernmental totalisms. Brueggemann characteristically uses the work of these social scientists to move past some limitations that he identifies in the work of the theologian Jacques Ellul, a move that he accomplishes primarily through provocative readings of the narratives about Elijah and Elisha in the books of Kings. Chapter 2 considers the ideological role religion can play in legitimating economic regimes of extraction and shows how the Bible tends to be critical of such regimes and to advocate instead for economic regimes of sustainability that provide viable support for those who are exploited by extractive circumstances. Chapter 3 concentrates on the important role played by the notion of agency in the Bible’s critiques of idols and its distinctions between them and God. Chapter 4 shares this focus on divine and human agency, which it relates to class antagonisms.

The chapters in part 2 reveal Brueggemann’s insistent drive to analyze his contemporary circumstances through the transformative potential of biblical texts. The recent rise and emboldening of white supremacist movements is met here with a series of essays that trace such ideologies back through Christian and pre-Christian history—even unto Ezra’s holy semen (see chapter 7). These chapters were written before the tragic events in Charlottesville, Virginia, on August 12, 2017. Brueggemann and I happened to be together that day in Cincinnati, discussing this book and other matters. As I noted then, these chapters clearly perceive, contextualize, and attempt to speak a way beyond the current climate of exceptionalism and dominance. Brueggemann addresses the church and does not shrink from articulating how Christianity has contributed to the white supremacism within the cultural and political roots of Western liberal democracies, even as he views churches as singular vehicles for living into an alternative future. He identifies four areas in particular that need urgent attention today: a new internationalism in place of old nationalisms, a new multiculturalism instead of racist, white domination, sustainable economic development to replace the destructive drive for constant growth, and finally a new ecumenism without the exclusionary beliefs and practices rooted in a sense of religious superiority.

Part 3 includes three chapters loosely connected by the attention that they pay to creation and the ecological crisis that our world currently faces. The upshot, with reference back to the programmatic essays in part 1, is that the ancient Hebrew scribes recognized a truth that the West has for some time denied but is now having to confront, namely, that the economy is not autonomous but rather is intimately connected to the environment. Brueggemann acknowledges that, although we do not believe that a God will magically swoop in and punish for environmental offenses, we are surely now exceptionally aware of the unavoidable ecological consequences of our economic choices—as I write this, many are still reeling from the death and destruction wrought by hurricane Harvey in the greater metropolitan area of Houston that has for so long prioritized unregulated economic growth.[12]

Part 4 contains five chapters on collective memory, the relationships among different generations, the healthy use and damaging abuse of communal traditions, and the great variety of styles and strategies of mentoring across generations. Again current social and political issues add a sense of urgency and relevance to these topics. As I write in the wake of Charlottesville, many in the United States are having debates about monuments honoring Confederate soldiers, among others. Such discussions raise significant questions about what a society needs to remember, what needs to be forgotten, what memories and people should be venerated, and what are the social functions of monuments and memorials. Here chapters 12 and 13 provide especially helpful, dialectical points about the twin dangers of amnesia and nostalgia as well as the paired requirements to remember some things and forget others. Brueggemann argues that nostalgia about the past is born from old wounds that cannot be healed and readily functions as a call to arms in ongoing social antagonisms. Likewise he claims that amnesia about the past breeds social indifference or privatization that must be overcome by robust public memories capable of generating deep social bonds grounded in economies that serve the common good. His attention to the complications that come with memories again illuminates current debates. So many Confederate statues erected in the south during Jim Crow have functioned primarily not to preserve memory but to enable nostalgia and amnesia. They are nostalgic for Confederate valor that could be divorced from the cause of the Confederacy. Mississippi’s declaration of secession proclaimed this cause unequivocally: Our position is thoroughly identified with the institution of slavery. Yet our statues facilitate amnesia about this cause even as they consistently get used as icons to assist white supremacist movements. We need not only to erase the veneration of leaders of immoral causes but also to generate thicker memories, more faithful to our complicated and compromised pasts, which may even contribute to a more moral future. Such new memories would also supply us with a new, expanded list of ancestors to venerate including more of those who fought to hold us accountable to our ideals.

The final part includes three chapters that center on the three sections of the Hebrew Bible, the Torah, Prophets, and Writings. In terms of the prophetic tasks that Brueggemann famously distinguishes in his best known book, The Prophetic Imagination, each of these chapters is more focused on energizing an alternative consciousness than it is on criticizing the dominant consciousness.[13] In chapter 17 Brueggemann offers a fresh translation of the Hebrew term ḥesed as tenacious solidarity, which I have used as the title for the volume. He characterizes such tenacious solidarity in the Psalms as the deepest urge and hunger that is elemental to our humanness . . . the deepest need of the human heart, the deepest desire of the human community, and the deepest mark of the God who occupies this poetry. The Psalter, according to Brueggemann, provides a foundational script for living into the fullest and deepest realities of human existence.

In chapter 18 Brueggemann turns to the prophets and returns to his foundational concept of totalism. The prophets are those who did not subscribe to the totalizing efforts of the dominant ideologies but instead spoke from outside them, witnessing to an alternative way of life that undermines such totalizing efforts. Here Brueggemann defines prophetic preaching not simply as the use of prophetic rhetoric but as the subtle, careful work that takes prophetic rhetoric from the Bible and imaginatively interprets it in new circumstances such that the old text exceeds the horizons of its ancient context. Prophetic preaching thus participates in a process whereby texts exceed their capacities for meaning, a process that he shows to be already at work within the Bible itself.

Chapter 19 follows Jesus’s cue to look to Deuteronomy and Leviticus for the greatest commandments: love God and love neighbor. This chapter is again geared toward the task of preaching, but here too the content far exceeds the concerns of preachers alone. Brueggemann finds in Deuteronomy three primary characteristics of the God readers are commanded to love in Deuteronomy 6:5: forgiveness, hospitality, and generosity, all of which end in socioeconomic practices and ethical obligations that are not readily available in current circumstances. Leviticus commands readers to love neighbor in the midst of its excessive attention to holiness (Lev 19:18). Brueggemann shows that, while holiness builds walls of exclusion between insiders and outsiders, the trajectory of the tradition both within Leviticus and beyond reveals an ever-expanding zone that defines who counts as a neighbor. Already in the same chapter readers are told, The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you, and then commanded, love the alien as yourself (Lev 19:34). So even here neighbor clearly means something more than another member of the covenant community. And, as in Deuteronomy, such love in Leviticus involves vast social, ethical, and economic obligations. Leviticus 19 is concerned primarily with legislating practices that ensure that all one’s neighbors, especially the poor and vulnerable, are not taken advantage of but rather are given what they need for a viable, sustainable life.

The three appendixes offer personal reflections from Brueggemann about current issues and future directions in biblical interpretation. The first identifies four areas of inquiry that he anticipates will remain fruitful in future work on prophetic literature. The second adds his foundational concept of totalism to the rubric of testimony developed in his 1997 tome Theology of the Old Testament.[14] He argues that the testimony of biblical literature characteristically counters totalisms by originating in and thus witnessing to a reality that the totalism is unable to silence or contain. He roots this capacity in his claim, following David Carr, that biblical literature emerges out of a series of traumatic events. The final appendix begins like an extended review of Theodore Ziolkowski’s book on the rich and varied array of renderings of Moses in various cultural objects.[15] It becomes, however, an overview of the characteristics and limitations of the dominant interpretive approaches to the Bible as well as new reading practices that have emerged out of those limitations.

III. Conclusion: Social Totality against Antisocial Totalism

Despite his trenchant critiques in these essays of the totalizing hold that the market ideology of late capitalism has on us, it seems to me that one of Brueggemann’s fundamental contributions is his insistent efforts to perceive and conceptualize what we can call totality so as to distinguish it from totalism. He proves consistently adept at describing social relations and cultural products in terms of their place and function within the complex interconnections of vast systems. At the core of these systems one finds the political economy and the antagonistic relationships of class. One can see this not only in his ability to diagnose the totalizing effects of market ideology, but also in his prescriptions regarding the common good as well as in his practices of reading across the canon of biblical literature. And after all, if the diagnosis of what he calls totalism is correct, it would seem necessary for the prescription to be no less totalizing. Otherwise, on offer would only be weak or reactionary gestures that may provide a sense of subjective freedom but ultimately serve to prolong the totalizing reach of the dominant ideology.

One of the symptoms that Brueggemann identifies of our current totalism is the automated fragmentation of social life such that we habitually and callously disregard our relations with others. Brueggemann finds in the suppressed content of the biblical past possibilities for renewing our sense of society as an intersectional totality, which may in turn enable us to live into a radically different future. The Bible and the God that emerges from it possess an agency upon which Brueggemann rightfully insists. His work shows how the Bible can cease being an inert object from the distant past and instead become an agent that calls our own form of social life into question. Through this dialectical move, our attempt to understand the Bible becomes a lesson from the Bible about ourselves. Therein may lie the ultimate power of Brueggemann’s storytelling, when he perceives and relates how the biblical text, in form and content, exposes who we are and invites us with what Ernst Bloch called a Utopian impulse to follow its lead into a radically transformed future.[16] The content of such a future is not clear, and in any case its arrival is surely not guaranteed. What is certain, however, is that its arrival will require a heavy dose of imaginative, gracious, even tenacious solidarity.

Walter Benjamin, The Storyteller: Reflections on the Works of Nikolai Leskov, in Illuminations: Essays and Reflections, ed. Hannah Arendt, trans. Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken Books, 1968), 83–109. For further discussions of Brueggemann’s unique approach to biblical criticism, including fuller developments of my own thoughts about his work, see Brent A. Strawn and Davis Hankins, with contributions from Ellen Davis, John Goldingay, Timothy K. Beal, and Walter Brueggemann, The Meaning(s) of Walter Brueggemann: Testimonies, Disputes, Advocacies (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, forthcoming). See also my Introduction, in Walter Brueggemann, Ice Axes for Frozen Seas: A Biblical Theology of Provocation, ed. Davis Hankins (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2014), 1–19. ↵

Benjamin, Storyteller, 90. ↵

See chapter 17. ↵

See pages 221–22, 387, 392. ↵

See pages 422–23, 430. ↵

Cathleen Kaveny, Prophecy without Contempt: Religious Discourse in the Public Square (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2016). ↵

Kaveny, Prophecy without Contempt, 287. ↵

See the discussion of Jeremiah and Baruch in chapter 18. ↵

See chapter 10 in particular. ↵

Page 69. ↵

One can find a program that celebrates craftsmanship in the United States, but it is tellingly available only through public television. A Craftsman’s Legacy is directed by Kelly Davis, my colleague at Appalachian State University, and produced by Selena Lauterer, my neighbor in Boone, North Carolina. ↵

See Manny Fernandez and Richard Fausset, A Limitless City, Now Envisioning New Limitations, New York Times, August 31, 2017, A1. ↵

See Walter Brueggemann, The Prophetic Imagination, 40th anniv. ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2018). ↵

Walter Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1997) ↵

Theodore Ziolkowski, Uses and Abuses of Moses: Literary Representations since the Enlightenment (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2016). ↵

On Bloch and Utopia, see Fredric Jameson, Marxism and Form: Twentieth-Century Dialectical Theories of Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971), 116–59. ↵

Preface

As I near the end of my publishing work, I am overwhelmed with acres of amazement and thick waves of gratitude for the many ways in which I have been blessed. I am grateful for family, teachers, colleagues, publishers and editors, and students who have been for me ample gifts from God.

I am grateful to my family—Hilda my mother, August my father, and Edward my brother—who nurtured me in the tradition of German evangelical pietism, a tradition that is theologically innocent and ethically generous. It is happily my home from which I have not departed.

I am grateful to my teachers. In retrospect there is a clear line that flows from my first curmudgeonly college teacher, Th. W. Mueller, to my Doctor Father, James Muilenburg, a line that runs through my seminary teachers, the most venturesome of whom were Allen O. Miller and Lionel Whiston Jr. This sequence of teachers taught me not only a passion for good learning but the awareness that the world in front of us is a constructed world that can be differently constructed. Mueller led to into the mysteries of Durkheim, Weber, Veblin, Tonnes, Graham, and their company, and Muilenburg into the wonders of artful rhetoric. From beginning to end my teachers refused to absolutize our presumed world as a given world.

I am fortunate to have had good colleagues at both of my schools, Eden Theological Seminary and Columbia Theological Seminary, many beyond my two schools, many in my own discipline and many outside my discipline who made connections for me and pressed me to a better, more compelling connection of the dots of lived reality.

I am grateful for good pastoral colleagues who have valorized my work in practical ways and evoked from me more faithful discernment and more courageous interpretation. I am especially grateful for Roger Greene and Joe Phelps, who let the evangelical juice of their work spill over into my work and life with wisdom and passion, and who show me ways in which my work may connect to the reality of the church, both its treasure and responsibility. I am grateful for a host of editors and publishers, for the often unnamed, unacknowledged gremlins at Fortress Press who skillfully turn words into books, and for senior editors and book makers, a stalwart sequence that for me runs from Roland Sieboldt to Scott Tunseth and in between Norman Hjelm, Marshall Johnson, Michael West, and Neil Elliott. Among them is John Hollar who did so much for me as the most generative of them all and whose death I continue to grieve. I am most singularly grateful to Davis Hankins, who has labored mightily in editing this book. He is the sine qua non for its final appearance.

I am grateful for a host of good students, many of whom have become faithful, effective pastors, some of whom have joined me in the work of teaching and research, some of whom have gone well beyond me and have pressed me in new directions. That good teaching company of my former students is a point of singular pride for me.

To all of the above:

I can no other answer make,

but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks (Twelfth Night)

Through the sweep of my years of teaching I have, along with my discipline, morphed from historical criticism to critical hermeneutics in a variety of forms. Had my discipline remained closely wedded to historical criticism, I would not have been able to do what I have done, because the illusion of objective descriptive work set a barrier to serious generative interpretation. As I articulated imagination, via Paul Ricoeur, as the key to my interpretive work, I have been able to engage in both the suspicious work of ideological criticism and indispensible work of retrieval that features alternative discernment, alternative thinking, and finally alternative policy. When I consider how my mind has changed, I went through my Secular City phase as did many of us, and arrived at a  sense of the urgency of church ministry and its vocation as a singular vehicle for courage, for keeping  alive and for performing a more excellent way in the world. For all of the flaws and failures of the church it is still the case that it is the church that shows up first in  justice questions, that by its very life attests to hospitality, generosity, and forgiveness as engines for a livable life for all creatures. Thus I have worked, quite beyond the permits of historical criticism, to evoke in pastors some lost courage for truthfulness and for hope, practices that are so urgent in our society that has lost its way in pretence and despair.

I make no great claim for my work but I have reflected on the gift and burden of being, a la Gramsci, an organic intellectual, that is, one who invests energy toward the revolutionary cause. I believe that in the face of greed and fear, an ideology of scarcity, and willingness to act violently the gospel of emancipation is a revolutionary summons to counter-imagination and counter-performance of social reality. I am, moreover, glad when the church can find allies in other traditions for that urgent work.

I am glad to dedicate this book to my most long-standing colleagues who have been my steadfast companions in my scholarship. Bill Bellinger, whom I first met in a Psalms class, has been my continuing partner on the Psalms for many years. Sam Balentine has been variously my editor and wise counselor from whose work on Job I continue to learn. Terry Fretheim has been my constant counterpoint as we have together parsed the tricky issue of divine agency and human agency. Louis Stulman has been my go-to guy on Jeremiah studies with enough puckishness to keep us from crying too much with the prophet. Above all, Patrick Miller has been my faithful kinsman and a wise bridge for our discipline between historical and hermeneutical enterprises. He has expended great energy in the editing of much of my work.

Finally I mention Davis Hankins, wise young scholar that he is, for his thick engagement with my work, much to the distraction from his own research. In addition to his judicious editing of my work, he has taught me a great deal in spheres of interpretation that are very difficult for me. Since I believe in academic apostolic succession, this is it with Davis for me to whom I am profoundly grateful.

Walter Brueggemann

September 13, 2017

I

Economics and Social Possibilities

1

Totalized Techne vs. Neighborly Metis

Portions of this chapter were presented to The Jacques Ellul Society in Vancouver in June 2018.

First, a disclaimer: I am no Jacques Ellul scholar, though I have been much influenced by him ever since he published The Technological Society.[1] Most recently in my study of Money and Possessions in the Bible, I have found his discussion of money to be the most serious analysis that I could find.[2] Here I take the liberty to use his book, The Word of God and the Word of Man, as a point of entry to my topic, even if I am unwittingly not faithful to Ellul or, more likely, even if I am only an echo of Ellul.

I

I will begin by drawing two other scholars into the orbit of Ellul’s work. First, Robert Lifton has spent his life studying totalitarian regimes, notably that of German National Socialism, Japanese militarism, and the effect of the nuclear arms race on the American psyche. In his recent memoir, Lifton has catalogued the eight deadly sins that regularly mark every totalism:

milieu control

mystical manipulation

the demand for purity

the cult of confession

the sacred science

loading the language

doctrine over person

the dispensing of existence[3]

Each of these phrases is for Lifton a shorthand summary of a larger analysis. Taken together these eight markers make a totalism possible that not only monopolizes technology but also monopolizes imagination so that nothing significant is imaginable beyond the scope and administration of the governing regime. I take such totalism to be an extreme expression of the specificity of Ellul’s technology that is aimed at control, conformity, production, prediction, and ultimately monetization. Thus, I judge that monetization is the inevitable outcome of such totalism, for I am unable to think of a totalism that has not ended in commoditization with its subjects being reduced to manageable commodities. I dare to imagine, moreover, that this impulse is reflected in the commitments, practices, and worldview of President Donald Trump in a way that makes our deliberations immediately contemporary.

Second after Lifton, Ellul studies might well take James C. Scott, a Yale anthropologist, as an evocative conversation partner. In two books, Weapons of the Weak and Domination and the Arts of Resistance, Scott has reflected from his anthropological study on how peasant societies can shrewdly resist the immense power of domination of the larger economy without an outcome of execution or imprisonment.[4] It is, however, a third book by Scott to which I call attention, namely, Seeing like a State.[5] In this study, Scott considers the ways in which states (he might also speak of large corporations) aim to regularize and order life in ways of uniformity and quantification in order to manage production. After a while, the urgency of conformity may become an end in itself whereby everything is quantified without any capacity or allowance for local differentiation. Thus the state becomes an instrument of totalism that may be administered in benign ways.

Two instances of such thinking occur to me from my own experience. On the faculty of Eden Seminary were thirteen of us, all of whom lived in seminary housing. Once the administration generously decided we would all get new garage doors, and we did. We did, even if we had old garages not used, or new garages with new doors. We all got new garage doors, even though it was an intimate informal community. Or, second, in the early days of the United Church of Christ, administration was propelled from a major church board in New York City. In St. Louis where I lived, we had a modest church publishing house, nearly a mom-and-pop enterprise that now fell to the national administration. Into that modest operation came all kinds of administrative directives from New York City, most of which were unnecessary and unwanted by the local managers, which rankled but did not increase productivity. Seeing like a state justified uniformity of administration with an inability and lack of interest in dealing with actual social reality. The publishing peasants in St. Louis were as affronted as any Galilean or Soviet peasant could be.

Scott’s judgment about such quantifying uniformity is that life ordered in this way inescapably causes a dreadful loss of metis. That is a word I did not know before reading Scott. The term refers to cunning intuition about how to engage with and manage the irrepressible hiddenness of worldly reality that refuses ordered thinking.

Usually translated, inadequately, as cunning, mētis is better understood as the kind of knowledge that can be acquired only by long practice at similar but rarely identical tasks, which require constant adaptation to changing circumstance. . . . Mētis, far from being rigid and monolithic, is plastic, local, and divergent. It is in fact the idiosyncrasies of mētis, its contextualness, and its fragmentation that make it so permeable, so open to new ideas. Mētis [sic] has no doctrine or centralized training; each practitioner has his or her own angle. . . . The practice and experience reflected in mētis is almost always local. . . . We might reasonably think of situated, local knowledge as being partisan knowledge as opposed to generic knowledge. . . . It would be a serious error to believe that the destruction of mētis was merely the inadvertent and necessary by-product of economic progress. The destruction of mētis and its replacement by standardized formulas legible only from the center is virtually inscribed in the activities of both the state and large-scale bureaucratic capitalism.[6]

Examples of metis, some of which are mentioned by Scott include:

The gift whereby a seasoned physician can do a diagnosis, but cannot quite tell us the basis of such knowledge.

The awareness of a seasoned farmer who knows when it is time to plant potatoes or plow corn, knowledge that is not found in any agricultural manual.

A good cook who uses no recipes but fully knows what to add when and for how long in order to have good outcomes.

A competent teacher who can wisely depart at the right moment from the lesson plan for the sake of educational imagination.

Such metis is transmitted informally from generation to generation, mostly orally, passed on by observation and practice, in intimate local contact.[7] Seeing like a state is inimical to the valuing, practice, and transmission of metis. Indeed the state is likely to disregard and dismiss such artistry as folk magic or hokum in the interest of omniscience and uniformity. Thus, I propose in what follows that we consider the technical capacity of the state to quantify, produce, control, predict, maximize, and monetize as an exercise of totalism and the antithesis of neighborly metis that is hosted in local community in ways that generate abundance and that can foster health in human and nonhuman environments. The conflict and contrast between techne and metis are my entry point for a reconsideration of the narrative of the books of Kings in the Hebrew Bible, a narrative that Ellul has richly exposited in The Politics of God and the Politics of Man.

II

In his book The Politics of God and the Politics of Man, Ellul has considered the prophetic narratives of Elijah and Elisha.[8] He has fully appreciated and called attention to the way in which these narratives present these two remarkable characters as embodiments of the Word of God that comes as transformative force into the history of Israel and into the history of the world. Ellul is of course a faithful reader and sees exactly the claim of the text. It is also the case, however, that Ellul did this work in the wake of National Socialism and under the impact of Karl Barth and his compelling theology of the word, which is also reflected in the defining Old Testament scholarship of Gerhard von Rad. As a result, Ellul’s reading of these narratives is, as it were, from above, from the perspective of the transcendent God who freely intrudes into the affairs of human persons and human society. In his study of the Samuel narratives, von Rad has noticed that there is a propensity toward Enlightenment sensibility wherein the directness of God in the narrative recedes and human agents are increasingly left on their own.[9] This progressive withdrawal of God from human affairs is traced further by Jack Miles, who suggests that God readily disappears from the narrative of the Hebrew Bible, a judgment echoed by Richard Elliott Friedman.[10]

My interest is not in the disappearance of God; rather, I want to see what happens in the narratives when we read from below in the context of techne and metis. I suggest that Ellul in his exposition of the text did not linger long on the larger narrative intent of these prophetic tales. The prophetic narratives of Elijah (1 Kings 17–19; 21) and Elisha (2 Kings 2–10) are situated in the longer narrative recital of 1 Kings 1–22 and 2 Kings 1–25 that provide a time line and map of four hundred years of governance. The prophetic narratives, I suggest, can be understood only if they are seen to be a disruption of the royal totalizing tradition of Jerusalem and to a lesser extent Samaria. Read from above they attest the lively Word of God. Read from below, they exhibit metis to which the kings had no access.

Thus we must begin our exposition of the prophetic narratives with a consideration of the royal recital that contains the prophetic narratives. The substance of the royal recital is the domination of the political economy by the urban elites who clustered around the throne. We must surely identify King Solomon as the founder of that totalism that regulated political economic advantage that came to be exhibited in magic ways by his enormous building program that centered in the temple with its opulent display of gold.[11] That same exhibit of advantage is expressed in a lesser way in the extravagance of the royal entourage that ate very well indeed, with a menu of endless meat:

Solomon’s provision for one day was thirty measures of choice flour, and sixty measures of meal, ten fat oxen and sheep, besides deer, gazelles, roebucks, and fatted fowl. (1 Kgs 4:22–23)

There is no doubt that the temple and its royal liturgy functioned as legitimator for the regime; it gave a pious facade to raw usurpatious power, thus creating a hegemony that needed to host no question or critique.

The enormous wealth of the Solomonic system, we may judge from the recital, was made possible by three strategic initiatives. First, Solomon installed an orderly tax system wherein each of the twelve tribes was required to provide revenue for one month of the royal year. The tax districts are traced out in detail (1 Kgs 4:7–19). The administration of this system must have been lucrative, for two of Solomon’s sons-in-law are administrators of district programs (1 Kgs 4:11, 15). It is a stunning mark of pre-Ellul or anti-Ellul historical criticism that scholars have used great energy detailing the boundaries of the tax districts but have never noticed that the entire system was predatory, and never saw reason to critique the tax system. It is a measure of the predatory quality of the tax system that, at Solomon’s death, Rehoboam, his son and heir, had to renegotiate the tax rate. In that negotiation, his agent was stoned to death (1 Kgs 12:18), and the new king himself had to flee in his chariot for his life (1 Kgs 12:19).

Second, the opulence of the Jerusalem elite was made possible—as it always is—by cheap labor. In 1 Kings 5:13–18 it is reported that Solomon conscripted forced labor from all Israel, as many as ten thousand in rotating shifts, seventy thousand laborers, ten thousand stonecutters, and thirty-three hundred supervisors. While the numbers seem inordinate, the point of the recital is to exhibit seeing like a state, in large organized quantities. To be sure, in 1 Kings 9:22 it is insisted that Solomon conscripted only foreigners and non-Israelites. But the point is the same. The totalizing regime reduced human persons to functionaries in a predatory system.

Third, Solomon is portrayed as a global trader who dominated international exchange and profited greatly from it. This was not the normal profit from trade but rather tribute money (protection money) paid by lesser political powers who were dependent on Solomon. Thus the money poured into Jerusalem through its shrewd monetization of the global network (see 1 Kgs 10:14–25.).

Beyond that, Solomon was an arms dealer who functioned as middleman trading horses and chariots:

Solomon’s import of horses was from Egypt and Kue, and the king’s traders received them from Kue at a price. A chariot could be imported from Egypt for six hundred shekels of silver, and a horse for one hundred and fifty; so through the king’s traders they were exported to all the kings of the Hittites and the kings of Aram. (1 Kgs 10:28–29)

James Risen, a contemporary journalist, has chronicled the profiteering that is inherent in the promotion of war and military armaments:

Fear sells. Fear has convinced the White House and Congress to pour hundreds of billions of dollars—more money than anyone knows what to do with—into counterterrorism and homeland security programs, often with little management or oversight, and often to the detriment of the Americans they are supposed to protect. Fear is hard to question. It is central to the financial well-being of countless federal bureaucrats, contractors, subcontractors, consultants, analysts, and pundits. Fear generates funds. . . . They have built a cottage industry out of fear.[12]

Risen, moreover, identified one particular administrator of fear of terrorism, Steven Emerson:

Emerson has been able to turn his anti-Muslim rhetoric and research into fundraising prowess. . . . Emerson’s for-profit company, SAE Productions, received $3.39 million in 2008 to research connections between Muslims in the United States and foreign terrorism. . . . In his 2010 tax return, Emerson’s nonprofit foundation reported paying more than $3.4 million to Emerson’s SAE Productions for management services.[13]

Of course it is not clear that this can all be read back into our royal recital; but the royal account permits such a reading:

This is the account of the forced labor that King Solomon conscripted to build the house of the Lord and his own house, the Millo and the wall of Jerusalem, Hazor, Megiddo, Gezer. . . . So Solomon rebuilt Gezer . . . as well as all of Solomon’s storage cities, the cities for his chariots, the cities for his cavalry, and whatever Solomon desired to build, in Jerusalem, in Lebanon, and in all the land of his dominion. (1 Kgs 9:15–19)

Slave labor was to build storage cities (banks), and military cities for chariots and cavalry. The summary ends with the laconic phrase, whatever Solomon desired to build. That comment sounds like a ruler who only wanted to build, and he had unlimited funds to follow every whim, thus the quintessence of limitless monetization.

The sum of taxation, forced labor (low wages), and tribute money sustained a regime of surplus wealth that depended on subsistence peasants. In this account it mattered not at all what the peasants thought or needed. It was enough to see what the state thought. And what the state thought was uniformity, production, prediction, quantification, and domination. In 1 Kings 11:14–40, moreover, it is reported that Solomon ruthlessly pursued his adversaries to contain or eliminate them, brooking no challenge to his monetized monopoly.