abandoning the false god of control

Two books that I’ve recently (re)read have been helpful in making sense of some thoughts I’ve been mulling over for the past few weeks. Let’s begin with my rereading of Gérard Siegwalt’s La réinvention du nom de Dieu (“Reinventing God’s Name”). At a few points in his book, Siegwalt makes some points about “rationalism” having replaced God in the modern world and the need to keep rationalism but put it in its place as we develop a new conception of God that this world needs better.

On its surface, that argument rubs me the wrong way, because I tend to read into it a kind of apologetic approach to tensions about religion versus science. Even when I was a more traditional believer, I often felt uncomfortable with apologists and religious leaders who tried to lift spiritual truth obtained through spiritual practice onto the same level as scientific truth obtained through scientific practice. These days, even as spirituality continues to play an important part in my life, I’m even less comfortable with the idea.

I’d have to revisit Siegwalt to confirm this (and I don’t have my copy of the book on me as I write this), but after mulling over the idea some, I don’t actually think that’s what he’s going for. I get the sense (or at least, I’d like to believe) that his description of rationalism as the god of modernity is something more like the critique that David Graeber and David Wengrow make in one of the last chapters of The Dawn of Everything (and that I mentioned in my review of that book earlier today): That rationalistic science is so eager to identify causes and effects that it doesn’t really leave room for other things.

There are a few different ways that “not leaving room” manifests itself. Graeber and Wengrow’s critique is on the way that there’s not any room left to consider human freedom. In my home discipline of educational technology, I’ve often felt that the emphasis on improving learning (through identifying causes and effects) doesn’t leave room for asking questions about what students ought to be learning—or about potential harms of educational technologies that aren’t directly associated with learning.

As I noted in a recent post, Siegwalt understands God as related to the “meaningful character” and “mystery” of the reality that surrounds us, maybe his thoughts on putting rationality in its place isn’t so much about lifting spiritual knowledge to the level of scientific knowledge as it is about the posture we take when contemplating reality. In some sense, rationalism is about a posture of understanding and control—let’s figure out reality and pick it apart, identifying causes and effects so that we can manipulate things in our favor. Maybe he’s arguing for a different posture: One of meaning and wonder, of appreciating and accepting reality for what it is rather than trying to turn it to our benefit so that everything’s always going our way.

Don’t get me (or Siegwalt) wrong: Rationalism has done a lot for us. I’m glad that we’ve extended human lifespans, developed effective responses to diseases, and made all the discoveries that we have. Yet, I can’t help but worry that each of these discoveries has given us a greater sense of understanding and control, and that there are costs to this. In another book I’ve recently finished, Robin Wall Kimmerer describes another posture toward reality, one that is more relational and humble—one that could go a long way toward repairing our exploitative relationship with our planet.

Personally, though, there’s a different kind of cost that has been weighing on me. In fact, as much fun as I’m having thinking through all of this in an abstract sense, one of the big reasons that I’ve been trying to think all of this through recently is because I too often worship the god of control. Some of the causes and effects that I’m aware of remind me how little control I have over things, and I get caught between trying to salvage some small measure of control over things or getting overwhelmed by my lack of control.

To channel yet another book (well, series) that I’ve read recently, I sometimes feel like Joyce in the following Dumbing of Age strip:

In summary, Joyce is a naïve, slightly neurotic first-year student at Indiana University, and one of her many neuroses is the shared showers on her floor. When her roommate suggests that surely she can afford shower sandals, Joyce responds:

You don’t get it. I’d need a new pair every day. Once a sandal touches grossness, it goes in the garbage.

This is not an attitude I hold, but there are times that I wash my hands twice, then use some hand sanitizer, and then use some more hand sanitizer a little bit later because I remembered that I was recently in the same room as something germy. I’m aware of a cause and effect relationship (germs can make me sick), and I take an absurd number of steps to try to maintain control over that situation.

Good hygiene is, well, good, so I hope it’s obvious that I suggest that we stop washing our hands in deference to the majesty and awe of encounters with reality. I also know that some of my need for control is a function of mild-but-persistent mental illness, not a conscious decision to worry too much about things. There are ways, though, that my worshipping of the false god of control is getting in the way of my ability to live my life. I want to be able to spend more time in nature without worrying about ticks, I want to try new things without worrying about making mistakes, I want to spend time with people without worrying what they think of me.

To reference a final book, I read James Martin’s Seven Last Words : An Invitation to a Deeper Friendship with Jesus several years ago, and this passage is one of a few that I wrote down as really standing out to me:

A few years ago, a vicious stomach bug swept through our community. (When you live in a religious community and one person gets sick, it’s just a matter of time before everyone else does too.) And one night it hit me: I was the sickest I’ve ever been. In any event and without going into unnecessary details, when I was hunched with my face over the toilet for the fifth time that night, I had a strange thought: “Jesus did this.” Yes, Jesus, as indelicate as it may sound, threw up. He was a human being. In fact, he may have had even more severe physical problems than you or I do, since health and sanitation conditions were wretched in first-century Nazareth.

I think that one of the things I like most about the Christian doctrine of the incarnation is that it affirms the value in so much of human existence, even the stomach bugs and the rough edges. Again, I’m glad that sanitation conditions are better in 21st century Kentucky than they were in first-century Nazareth—that’s a win for rationalism and control over our reality. Yet, if Jesus could live a fully divine life while still throwing up every once in a while, I can accept that my life is not any less for being not fully in my control.

This is a bit of a mess of a post—longer than I expected and it would probably be better with some more editing. It’s something that’s been on my mind for weeks, though, and I’m glad to be able to finally write it.

• macro
• Communities
• God
• rationalism
• Gérard Siegwalt
• La réinvention du nom de Dieu
• David Graeber
• David Wengrow
• The Dawn of Everything
• edtech
• causal relationships
• Robin Wall Kimmerer
• Braiding Sweetgrass
• Dumbing of Age
• incarnation
• James Martin
• Seven Last Words