Deconstruction is a term that is almost impossible to avoid when I write about faith. However, there are a ton of terrible takes on Deconstruction, and even decent ones can leave you more confused than when you started reading the article. Deconstruction, like Critical Race Theory, is a graduate-level (Master's Degree and up) idea. It is meant for only some people to understand fully. Even then, it's no excuse for those who do understand not to make it at least intelligible. While I am far from an expert on the work of Jacques Derrida, I have read and listened enough to other people to offer you something that can apply to your life. My read gives you some tools moving forward rather than the profuse misunderstandings in our present moment.
The author who coined the philosophical discipline of Deconstruction is Jacques Derrida. Derrida's work “Of Grammatology” carries with it the French language's depth, nuance, and complexities. I am not fluent in French; therefore, his complete thoughts will elude me. French, in general, is a complex language to translate into English. You can look at Jules Verne's work (re: 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea), read some reviews, and inevitably see someone complain about the translation. However, it is, perhaps, precisely these complexities that enabled Derrida to ask the question that is a part of the basis of Deconstruction: "What does it mean when I say thus?" The question allows us to turn philosopher, thinker, faith, word, or position in on itself. Once it has turned in on itself, we may deconstruct what we mean when we say or think something.
A. W. Tozer arrived at a similar conclusion in his Pursuit of God.
“What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us."
And Maya Angelou points out.
"When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time."
We may examine politicians, pastors, and teachers, and we should certainly look at ourselves using the deconstructive method.
So, let's use the word "God" as an example of the various meanings that words can take on and understand Derrida's work better. Likewise, we will use images to help us visualize the changes in what people mean/meant when they use(d) the word “God.”
The goal of this exercise is not to specify what any particular person meant. The goal is to demonstrate the process, differences, and outcomes of using the same word in different contexts. The context could be the same, but the person changes. I hope you see how tricky this is and how this is a graduate-level study. Ultimately, I hope you can begin to discern what you mean when you say one thing or another and become aware of the good and bad consequences of that denotation and connotation.
Perhaps the best argument for this exercise comes from the leadership axiom: "This system is perfectly designed to acquire the results you are getting." If you want a different outcome, you must design another system. That task is far more difficult if you lack the tools to disentangle the system.
Suppose your divine affiliation or human tribalism is letting you down. In that case, it is either time for new faiths or - and this usually ends better from my experience - a change in the terms of the relationship.
Now, let's return to the word "God." One of my favorite images of “God” is this one from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. The image is spectacularly irreverent and damningly truthful. Using that image, I could argue that this is the view most Western Christians, particularly White Protestants, have of “God.” He is an old, angry man-king. His presence smites our wrongdoing and commands obedience with the power of death. The internet has begun to move us on from the image, but the vestige of the angry “God” who would kill us for our misdeeds permeates many of us.
Contrast that with a different understanding from the New Testament in the form of Jesus Christ. As I have traveled abroad, it is fascinating to behold the various adaptations of Jesus. Jesus in my every day is the White Norwegian, but he is also Black, Native, Hispanic, Asian, and his original visage is of Mediterranean Jew. But if Jesus is the image of the invisible “God” and “God” is the angry old man-king wielding death, how does “God” die in shame on a cross? How does Jesus, who offers a light yoke, square with a “God” smiting us for disobedience? Are they different "Gods?" Well, you are beginning to ask questions theologians have worried about for 2,000 years. Is your "God" of forgiveness or demands?
Neither of these is the exact image of the Hebrew “God” from the Old Testament.
The “who/what is “God” question points us to the numerous options between and even devoid of the forgiveness/demands conflict. I imagine most of us hold a tension of one or more depictions of what we mean when we say "God." The tension and entanglements of the images, feelings, and thoughts are what Derrida is encouraging us to deconstruct. Not so we may throw our beliefs away as many a "deconstructionist" would have of you, but so we can achieve the outcomes we desire.
The angry man-king “God” is excellent at driving people to conquest. If they aren't passionate enough, you can always scare them to the front lines of the crusade. The Jesus “God” of forgiveness is excellent at compassion for the oppressed and expanding beyond the bounds of empire and death. What outcomes do you want to see? Where does your faith lie? Are those the only two outcomes? What happens when you must choose between one or the other? These are the questions of a deconstructionist.
Derrida knew people had complex and conflicting views of ideas such as “God” within themselves and between others. But exposing ourselves to our soupy mess of definitions allows us to gain clarity. Once we have clarity, we can adjust outcomes. More importantly, we can make our cake tastier and determine if it even is cake in the first place.
On another level, for those not self-motivated, our soupy mess is passed on to our children. Those children might be biological or otherwise. The more clarity we have, the deeper our children can achieve the goals of faith. We are all passing on our beliefs to our children and grandchildren. It is nice to know what I am passing on. After all, a mist in the pulpit is a fog in the pews.
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