Matthew 1:1-17 … Decolonising a Genealogy

It was the conversations of some FaceBook friends that finally provoked me to do what I kept intending to do, to write about the Bible instead of around it all the time. To get back to the oldest task of the theologian, implicit in the name: to discern the Word(s) of God. I must admit, it has been several years even where I have failed to, or rather, chosen not to read and study the book(s) that give life in a unique and central way to the People of the Book(s), us who call ourselves either Christians or Jesus followers. I have been wanting to come back to that Biblical world which we call home and from where we get our particular home truths, that world which is at once so foreign, especially to me now after years away and apart from its wisdom and wonder. The task of starting with the rather uninspiring “Genealogy” that begins Matthew’s gospel is kind of appropriate: I am after all, returning to look at the traditions of my own ancestors, my own spiritual genealogy and lineage, the beliefs and practices from whom I have inherited so much of my own self.

The first FaceBook conversation frustrated me. The second inspired me. But the fact that there were two seemed synchronous and a sign to jump back into the strange texture of the texts we call the Bible. The brilliant New Testament scholar, Michael Bird, was responsible for the first.

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[Image: Screenshot of Facebook Status, dated August 13, saying “White Christians should remember that they worship a brown-skinned Aramaic-speaking Palestinian man seated at the right hand of the Father.” 250+ likes. 36 shares. 30+ comments]

The Australian scholar’s post came in the wake of the violence that went viral from the streets of Charlottesville, Virginia and joined a fair outcry from thousands around the world at the disgusting images of White Nationalism, and for Christians the misuse of Christian imagery and rhetoric that continues to accompany White Supremacist movements in the West.

The second post was from Don Matthews, a professor of Religious Studies who focuses on Black/African Religion as it relates to the roots of Christianity. His post was a response to H. Talat Halman, another professor of Religion whose focus is on Islamic Studies. It reads:

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[Image: Screenshot of Facebook Status, dated August 20, saying “Great question. It is important on several levels. It has to do with the direct Black Egyptian/African Lineage of Jesus. In the Gospel of Matthew, Pharoah’s Daughter is named as one of the women from whom Jesus was descended. So, this confirms that the Jewish Christians believed that Jesus was of royal Black African ancestry. I emphasize Black African ancestry since Solomon ruled Israel when the native Black Egyptian African, not the Hyskos, Pharoahs were in power. Some early sources believe that the Queen of Sheba is a reference to Pharoah’s daughter and believe that she was the Queen of Egypt and Ethiopia. Many thanks for bringing this to my attention, my scholastic colleague and Islamic Brother! If only there were more scholars like yourself who were willing to acknowledge the historical (Josephus) Biblical and Quaranic references to the Black heritage of Jesus. Asalaam Alaikim. You have blessed my soul.”]

The first post — Bird’s — caused quite a stir, liked and unliked by many colleagues and commenters and Christians in his circle. The second was largely taken for granted. The New Testament scholar was talking to a white majority audience, predominantly Evangelical, who —  according to the majority of the replies — either protested the description of “Palestinian” by saying the obvious, the Jesus was Jewish, or by asking what the point of Jesus’s ethnicity is for his mission as God With Us.

Not so with Matthew’s post, one of a series on the deconstruction of the White Jesus. I suppose it is only White folk who don’t take for granted that Jesus and history generally are Blacker than the Western renderings that Whitewash him. And largely among White folks that a kind of colour blindness is required in all things but especially in spiritual matters. It reminds me of a quote that went something like this: White Christians follow Christ, POC Christians follow Jesus. Western theology spiritualises, deifies, and makes abstract ; Majority-World theology has its feet firmly on the ground. Christ is Other. Jesus is one of us. Whatever one highlights about the ethnicity of Jesus — Jewish, Black, Palestinian, Brown, etc. — the gospels of Matthew and of Luke saw fit to include his genealogy, albeit two contradictory versions for reason we can only make educated guesses on.

Theologians, New Testament scholars, historians, and those in literary and cultural studies fields have come up with plenty of meanings attached to the recorded lineage of Jesus of Nazareth, meanings and interpretations that diverge sharply from one another depending on the assumptions of the reader. While some have sort to prove or disprove these testimonies, others have wondered what the literature might be meaning to communicate back then and even to us today. I’m interested in the latter questions, particularly from the horizon of postcolonial, feminist, literary, empire studies, and other politically engaged reading, hence why I was provoked by Michael Bird’s and Donald Matthew’s Facebook statuses.

My first stop was, of course, the archives on this site: Bible Studies: New Testament: and scroll down to Matthew. Among the resources collected their, three stand out as relevant:

  1. Carter, Warren (New Zealand & USA): “The Gospel of Matthew” in A Postcolonial Commentary on the New Testament Writings, eds. Fernando F. Segovia and R.S. Sugirtharajah. 2009: T&T Clark
  2. Duarte, Alejandro Alberto (Ceuta, Spain & Argentina): “Matthew” in Global Bible Commentary, eds. Daniel Patte, José Severino Croatto, Teresa Okure. 2004: Abingdon
  3. Ezeogu, Ernest M. (Nigeria & Canada): “The African Origin of Jesus: An Afrocentric Reading of Matthew’s Infancy Narrative (Matthew 1–2)” in Postcolonial Perspectives in African Biblical Scholarship, eds. Musa W. Dube, Andrew M. Mbuvi, and Dora Mbuwayesango. 2012: Society of Biblical Literature

Let’s see what they have to say about that family tree in Matthew 1:1-17. But first, why not open up the word itself.


The Genealogy of Jesus the Messiah

This is the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah[b] the son of David, the son of Abraham:

Abraham was the father of Isaac,

Isaac the father of Jacob,

Jacob the father of Judah and his brothers,

Judah the father of Perez and Zerah, whose mother was Tamar,

Perez the father of Hezron,

Hezron the father of Ram,

Ram the father of Amminadab,

Amminadab the father of Nahshon,

Nahshon the father of Salmon,

Salmon the father of Boaz, whose mother was Rahab,

Boaz the father of Obed, whose mother was Ruth,

Obed the father of Jesse,

and Jesse the father of King David.

David was the father of Solomon, whose mother had been Uriah’s wife,

Solomon the father of Rehoboam,

Rehoboam the father of Abijah,

Abijah the father of Asa,

Asa the father of Jehoshaphat,

Jehoshaphat the father of Jehoram,

Jehoram the father of Uzziah,

Uzziah the father of Jotham,

Jotham the father of Ahaz,

Ahaz the father of Hezekiah,

10 Hezekiah the father of Manasseh,

Manasseh the father of Amon,

Amon the father of Josiah,

11 and Josiah the father of Jeconiah[c] and his brothers at the time of the exile to Babylon.

12 After the exile to Babylon:

Jeconiah was the father of Shealtiel,

Shealtiel the father of Zerubbabel,

13 Zerubbabel the father of Abihud,

Abihud the father of Eliakim,

Eliakim the father of Azor,

14 Azor the father of Zadok,

Zadok the father of Akim,

Akim the father of Elihud,

15 Elihud the father of Eleazar,

Eleazar the father of Matthan,

Matthan the father of Jacob,

16 and Jacob the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary, and Mary was the mother of Jesus who is called the Messiah.

17 Thus there were fourteen generations in all from Abraham to David, fourteen from David to the exile to Babylon, and fourteen from the exile to the Messiah.


I’m sure I’m not the only one who grew up knowing this genealogy while paying it no attention, finding it of no interest, and rather wishing it wasn’t there to start the otherwise compelling narrative of Jesus ‘who is called the Messiah.’ Plus, I’ve only even heard half of those names, and only a ten or so have any meaning at all for me. Some seem completely obscure, and other seem to fade into the long and usually unread histories of the divided Israelite kingdom from the Books of 1 and 2 Kings and 1 and 2 Chronicles. There’s not much that jumps out as interesting at first glance. So I wonder what the three commentaries selected above (Carter, Duarte and Ezeogu) make of it, coming from their different angles. Let’s see what they reveal about the way politically-minded interpreters today are looking at these well worn but alien texts with fresh eyes today.

Let’s start with you, Warren Carter of New Zealand and the United States, specialist in Matthew studies. Carter’s view of the genealogy of Jesus sits within his guiding framework, where Matthew’s gospel is written around 80 AD in the Roman Imperial context of Antioch, in Syria. The genealogy is not busy trying to prove the Jewishness of Jesus to Jews, as was previously taken for granted in studies of Matthew that focused on the inter-religious dispute between those who thought and did not think Jesus was the promised Messiah. The genealogy’s interest is in placing Jesus’ role in God’s history firmly in Jewish ground against the ideas, at once utilised by the gospel writer, that Rome and Caesar were God’s plan. In the Carter chapter I selected above, he can only go into this in brief, saying:

The Gospel contextualizes the significance of Matthew’s Jesus in the opening genealogy not in conventional imperial terms of wealth, power and elite status, but in relation to God’s just purposes (1.1-17). These purposes, evoked by the genealogy, were previously manifested and enacted not in the mighty Roman Empire but in the small and often subjugated (see 1.11-16) nation of Israel. As God’s anointed (Messiah, 1.1, 16-17), Jesus continues God’s promise to Abraham (not to Rome) to bless all the nations of the earth with life (Gen. 12.1-3), not just the powerful, wealthy elite and allies of Rome. (p. 79)

And he wants to say that these accounts, that situate Jesus as a Jewish and not a Roman-style Messiah, are the prelim to the also subversive account of Mary’s unconsummated birth. The whole lineage of Jesus up to conception and his first new-born cries are counter-culturally awkward and imperially skewed. Carter has space to say more on it in his Matthew and Empire, written eight years prior:

“The opening seventeen verses of the Gospel display God’s sovereign purposes at work in human history. The genealogy embraces a sweep of Israel’s history from Abraham to King David (l:2-6a), to Babylonian exile (1:11-12), to the birth of the Christ (1:17). It views this history in a Christological perspective in that the coming of Jesus is the decisive event in a history that involves a whole host of characters beginning with Abraham. The genealogy demonstrates, among other things, that God supervises human history, that God’s purposes especially run through Israel (not Rome), that God’s purposes are not always faithfully embodied by humans but they are not thereby hindered (kings, exile), and that all sorts of humans (wicked and faithful, famous and obscure, firstborn and insignificant, male and female, Jew and Gentile) are caught up in those purposes.” (p. 60)

That’ll preach! A list comes to life here and isn’t so boring after all. I wonder what the Spanish / Argentino Alejandro Alberto Duarte will reveal, coming from the context of “an Argentinean who experienced the murder of eleven close friends at the hands of the military dictatorship of the late 1970s and early 1980s of his country” (as said by Sharon Betsworth in her contribution to an edited volume from which we’ll take two more genealogical readings after).

 

 

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Honouring Padre Aldo

Last night I received word from Padre Matías Camussi, parish priest of Cristo Obrero Church, in Villa Del Parque neighbourhood of Argentina’s Santa Fe city: word that the remains of the late Padre Aldo Büntig, a forerunner of liberation theology, little known outside of Latin America, even outside of Santa Fe, had been repatriated from where they had remained since his death in exile, in 1978.

“Hola Alex! Han llevado al Padre Aldo a la parroquia Jesús Resucitado! Has conseguido información sobre él? God bless you!!!”

The short message was accompanied by an article in Sante Fe’s El Litoral newpaper. It was from the article that I first learned of Bùntig’s escape to Puerto Rico, sent there by Archbishop Zazpe who had feared for the priest’s life. The El Litoral article joined the few other sources of information I had on the activist priest and intellectual. His written work, as far as I can see, has never been translated to English. A search on Amazon or even AbeBooks for his name shows how few of his untranslated works are available for purchase. It was this that sparked my immediate curiosity about why, then, Aldo Büntig’s name appeared alongside the likes of Gustavo Gutiérrez and other well known liberation theologians in Christian Smith’s The Emergence of Liberation Theology — the key English-language text on the history of the movement in Latin America.

For that reason I had contacted Father Matías in May, 2016, searching out more on the priest who had worked decades before in Alto Verde, 20 minutes drive from Matías’ own parish. I was grateful Padre Matías remembered me and brought the news to my attention. It is an opportunity to try and write again something of a short biography on Aldo Büntig, a legend of liberation theology in his own right, a local man of the people, one for whom parades are carried out in the streets of his hometown.

Aldo Büntig, 1969

“Era un chico feliz que ya daba indicios de convertirse en lo que fue: un ser excepcional, de esos que ya no se encuentran.”

Those were the words uttered by Taher Elías Bude, a worker, a pen manufacturer from Santa Fe, a friend of Aldo’s: “He was a happy boy who already showed signs of becoming what he was: an exceptional being, those who are no longer found.” These words are all I know of Büntig’s life before he became a priest, when he was a child growing up in Progreso. Of his life and work as the priest at Jesùs Resucitado I have managed to get only glimpses, glimpses that are telling, however, of the character of a man committed to the wellbeing of the people, which, in the context of the Onganía regime, meant commitment despite the danger.

Along with Raúl Sufritti and Osvaldo Catena, Büntig was instrumental in creating Act 5110, establishing the ‘Social Pension Fund of the Province of Santa Fe aiming to provide social assistance by granting pensions to the elderly, disabled, homeless mothers and children.’ These are the typical areas that the activist priests like Büntig committed themselves to, concerned with the conditions of their communities: whether workers are treated fairly, whether the young can access education, whether the elderly are valued and listened to. It is these types of concrete social action alongside the sectores populares that radicalised the priests both in their Christian understanding of solidarity with the people, who are mostly poor, and in the eyes of the state who saw the dangers of popular action. To stand alongside workers during the years of the Onganía regime, which lasted from 1966 to 1970, demanded courage. Labour strikes were outlawed, and violence could be expected for those who did not comply.

It was from this context of commitment to the people in the face of military and corporate control, violence and inequality that Büntig, like so many of his generation, began to think anew on the role of the church in Latin America. The involvement on the side of the masses under dictatorial rule — in opposition to the exploitation of the ruling classes — was a move away from a civil religion which had been handed down from the time of conquest, a pacifying faith which had nothing to say to human conditions.

For Padre Büntig it meant a new analysis of popular religion was necessary: Where was faith serving liberation? Where was it serving oppression? How was religion, as popular culture, serving ambivalent cross-purposes in an Argentina facing so many sharp crises?

Those questions were being asked across Latin America. Put in the words of the poet-priest and former Sandinista revolutionary, Ernesto Cardenal:

“They told me that the Argentine priest Aldo Buntig, who was here not long ago, said that the earliest Christians celebrated their liturgy clandestinely in the catacombs but lived their lives immersed in the world. Here the Christians do the opposite: they celebrate their liturgy in public and live their lives in the catacombs. They told me that Sergio Arce, Professor of Theology at Matanzas Evangelical Seminary, said that the Christians here were like the Apostles before the Pentecost: ‘The Church shut itself in upon itself, and when the Church closes its doors the Lord is left outside the doors. The Church must serve the world, and in Cuba that means serve the new society, not sabotage it.'”

The liberationist theologians, philosophers, and sociologists like Büntig saw themselves living between the death-dealing old order and the emerging new epoch, and that in-betweenness was characterised by revolutionaries and dictators and the sharpening of difference between right and left-wing leaning social movements. Meanwhile, the church, maybe particularly in Argentina, had remained an ambivalent force: at once ubiquitous as a cultural reality for all major sectors of society — elite, middle class, and impoverished; conservative, liberal, and radical; white, black, Indigenous, and mestizo — and yet had remained in the stasis of the status quo, unable to respond to new realities. The liberationists, committed to the marginalised sectors in which the real progressive politics was manifesting itself alongside the old conservatism, would become the intellectual arm — and so sometimes elitist in itself — of those fighting for a new social reality.

Büntig’s contribution to the liberación paradigm would be his studies on what he dubbed ‘popular religion’ and ‘popular catholicism’. He would be one of the major thinkers exploring that religious-political ambivalence, if not the major figure, joined by the well-known Argentinos Lucio Gera, Juan Carlos Scannone, the world-renowned philosopher and historian Enrique Dussel — names associated with what Michael R. Candelaria calls ‘the theology of the people’ — and Fernando Boasso (a name I have just learned through Candelaria’s book on the same subject, Popular Religion and Liberation: The Dilemma of Liberation Theology, 1990). Büntig’s understanding of the catolicismo popular was characterised by his own ambivalence towards the religion expressions in Argentina among the masses. He saw “a religion of vows and the promises of pilgrimage, sacraments received endlessly, devotions given endlessly — all with social repercussions” (Jorge Delgado). At the same time, Büntig saw the anti-hierarchical sentiment of the lay religious, a positive trait during the populist Perón regime that came into power (for the second time) when he wrote in 1973:

“Mientras el pueblo es tradicionalmente católico, las jerarquías nunca han sido populares, salvo honrosas y contadas excepciones. […] El pueblo, verdadero depositario y sujeto de la liberación nacional y social, sigue identificándose con el catolicismo aunque no entienda, ni justifique, las ambigüedades de una institución eclesiástica, inserta estrechamente en la trama de los Poderes del Mundo.”

Translated:

“While the people are traditionally Catholic, hierarchies have never been popular, despite a few honourable exceptions […]
The people, the true Subject and custodian of national and social liberation, still identify with Catholicism but do not understand and will not justify the ambiguities found in a church institution bound to the ‘World Powers.'”

The popular faith expressions of the people had neither the power to promote the overthrow of the oppressive system, nor the force to keep them subsumed to that system. The people themselves were “the true Subject and custodian of national and social liberation”. The sacraments, parades, and shrines were simple part and parcel of Argentine life, but the prayers of the masses were for a better life. Would the devotions they made to popular saints, would the rosaries they repeated, would the popular pieties turn those prayers into reality? Büntig seemed to think ‘yes’ and ‘no’, and that it was the responsibility of priests and pastoral workers to better know the people, the cry of their hearts, the injustices and humiliations and the dreams of those working class masses:

“Toda sana pedagogía dice que debemos saber quién es el sujeto, conocerlo, antes de iniciar la acción evangelizadora, y el acento recae sobre este punto.

¿Conocemos nosotros al sujeto al que queremos evangelizar? Se magnifica el problema cuando descubrimos que no sólo debemos evangelizar a personas aisladas sino a comunidades, grupos de personas, con valores y cuasi culturas propias y distintas.”

I loosely translated this:

“All sound pedagogy says that we must know who the Subject is, know before starting to evangelise, and the emphasis is on this point.

Do we know the Subject to whom we evangelise? The problem magnifies as we discover that not only do we evangelise to isolated people but to communities, to groups of people with values and cultures almost distinctly their own.”

These thoughts on the starting point of pastoral-theological-pedagogical work being the life world of the people themselves is the hallmark of all contextual theologies of liberation. Gutiérrez saw “in these peoples, at once poor and Christian, there is a concrete point of departure, charged with consequences, for Church life and theological reflection” (quoted in Candelaria, 1990, p. ix). The practical work Büntig had committed to, such as the instigation of working class networks for improving living conditions, was the other side of the coin of this approach to popular culture and religion amid struggle.

The breadth and depth of Büntig’s assessment of the role of popular religiosity in the struggle for liberation and in the ongoing oppression in Argentina and Latin America was not without its detractors. Most of Büntig’s views are hidden to me in the books I do not own, in a language I do not possess, containing concepts I am a novice to. Candelaria’s book on the subject of popular religion and liberation theology is of service to us here. It is in English, for starters, is a thorough treatment of the subject, and is the major source I have found so far engaging Büntig’s line of thinking. It does so through it’s focus on two other major thinkers: the Argentine, Juan Carlos Scannone, and Juan Luis Segundo, from Uruguay. They both detract from Büntig (and from each other) on certain key points, agreeing on others, and providing unique insights into the dilemma of liberation theologians trying to make sense of the religious life of the continent and the church which they had committed themselves to change alongside the masses.

From the threshold of birth to the threshold of death, religion pervades the popular cultural ethos. At critical junctures of human development–birth, childhood, puberty, marriage–ceremonies, festivity, and ritual reinforce human ties with the sacred. […] Everywhere Latino people march in processions, walk in pilgrimages, undertake vows, light candles, worship the Virgin Mother, supplicate saints, ward of demons and ghosts with gestures, recite creeds and formulas.” (Candelaria, 1990, p. vii, vii-viii)

Candelaria quotes the Mexico-based sociologist Pierre Bastian:

“The masses oppressed by colonization, then neo-colonialism and imperialism, have created their own cultures of silence, their own means of giving meaning to their lives and of liberating themselves in the very midst of their captivity. It is in this perspective that the religious factor takes on interest as the determining factor of the social practices of the dominated classes.”

Büntig was involved in this turn toward liberation from (and into!) the popular piety that had grown over the centuries among the poor masses: mestizo, migrant, black, indigenous in the colonial, neo-colonial and imperial matrix of the Americas. He was there at El Escorial in 1972 where the Liberation Theologians and their Spanish counterparts met to discuss the emerging theme of liberación and found themselves discussing popular religion. He was there at the establishment of the Equipo Coordinador de Investigaciones de Sociedad y Religion and edited its 6-volume series in which Dussel and Gera contributed. The Chilean theologian priest Segundo Galilea noted how the “renewed focus on people’s religion ‘has–in general terms–coincide with the emergence of the theme of liberation in social struggle for justice, and, therefore, in the pastoral theology and practice of the Church'” (Candelaria, p. xi). Galilea goes further:

“the poor and the oppressed are the subjects of our liberation endeavors and the subjects of their own form of religion; hence, folk piety is of singular importance in mobilizing the masses for the struggle of liberation” (quoted in Candelaria, p. xii).

 

 

1975, Theological Intersections and Social Movements

 

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B+W photo of James Cone, Dorothe Sölle, Gustavo Gutiérrez, Christopher Morse and Jürgen Moltmann at Union Theological Seminary some time in the 1970s. Although a different conference, these represent the major streams present at Detroit, 1975: U.S. Black Theology (Cone), European Political Theology (Sölle), Latin American Liberation Theology (Gutiérrez), U.S. Political Theology (Morse) and European Hope Theology (Moltmann).

In Detroit, 1975, an event took place that would be something of a watershed moment in Christian theology. A week-long conference in August brought together ministers, activists, sociologists and theologians under the banner ‘Theology in the Americas’. The attendees and speakers represented different social and political perspectives as well as different church traditions. It would be an ecumenical, multi-ethnic affair, with participants from all parts of the Americas, South and North, Central and Caribbean, from dominant and minority communities, First World and Third World. This series is about what took place at that meeting, as well as directly before and after it, and how these groups came into conversation, competition, and collaboration over time.

This was not the first but probably the major meeting of minds in the fields of Feminist Theology, Black Theology, Political Theology and Latin American teología de la liberación (Liberation Theology). Today the insights cultivated by these different groupings are commonly talked about and practiced in concert with each other. We do not only focus on patriarchy and women’s liberation but on racism the liberation of people of colour, not only of wealth, poverty and class but on the myriad forms of oppression that affect our communities: homophobia, ableism, transphobia, xenophobia and other sins committed against people who are ‘othered’ by a dominant system.

We call it ‘intersectionality’, a term coined by critical race theorist and civil rights activist Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw in 1989, and described by Patricia Hill Collins as “the critical insight that race, class, gender, sexuality, ethnicity, nation, ability, and age operate not as unitary, mutually exclusive entities, but rather as reciprocally constructing phenomena” and “as a knowledge project whose raison d’être lies in its attentiveness to power relations and social inequalities.” This insight was already articulated during Black Women’s struggle for representation during the Feminist movements of the late 1800s and the first half of the 20th Century. bell hooks had also brought into question the validity of sexism as the main oppression facing all women; Black women had other oppressions facing them, including from White feminists.

Already in 1975, one participant/presenter at the Theology in the Americas would describe the same dilemma in almost exactly the same language. Rosemary Radford-Ruether called it not ‘intersectionality’ but ‘interstructuring’, with the same thought in mind. As Elina Vuola reminds us, this understanding was present in Feminist Theology earlier than in Feminist theory or Gender Studies generally. But these insights were only beginning to become apparent to many of those attending the conference, and the meeting was characterised by the opposite of intersectional thinking, with each main group-perspective declaring the primacy of its own activist focus.

The Latin Americans, coming from oppressed societies, experiencing fascism and poverty in the face of corporate wealth and landowning elites insisted on class as the key rubric for understanding the plight of the poor, los pobres, to whom they were committed.

The Black North Americans, coming from an engagement with the Civil Rights and Black Power struggle against White racism, the terror of lynchings and police dogs, and the blocking of equality by White institutions, insisted that race was the key to understanding North American life and religious life.

The Feminist Theologians, who were mostly European-American, realised that common to almost all societies was the persistence of patriarchy, not only its glass ceilings but also its violence. For them gender was the aspect that would be essential for any theology of human liberation.

Political theologians, also European-American, arrived at the conferences and meetings with their own concerns, which, influenced by European figures such as Moltmann and Metz, included post-WWII democracy and democratic socialism, and the alienation and disenfranchisement among the masses. They warned against theologies that could be utilised for further violence and cautioned against following false routes.

These groups and the other groups represented — to some extent Womanist, Native American, Chicano, Latino, and Asian-American voices were heard at Detroit — would disagree on the starting point and end points of theologising based upon the challenges they faced and the solutions they could envision. Class, Race, Gender — these are commonly treated as the mainstay intersections in which people live and struggle for freedom, to which we add sexuality, (dis)ability, education access, Indigeneity, migration, and other identities and life situations seen in relation to social power in a given society.

We will proceed, then, in four sections, beginning with the Latin American perspective that arrived in Detroit with its focus on class/wealth/poverty/economic domination, and then move through the other sections until we wrap up with an intersectional view of the theologies that were brought into conversation fatefully in 1975 and the surrounding years.

What will we learn from these early debates and dialogues on such critical issues? What has the church learned since then?

This is one of the most interesting parts of 20th Century church history and the questions arising around Detroit have continued to cause a stir and renewal in the the fields of theology, biblical studies and in community-based ministry itself. The conversations have come a long way, and they had begun in fragments before the Theology in the Americas group convened their conference, but 1975 was a watershed and our starting point. Now let’s turn to what Latin American theologians brought to that important meeting.

 

Un altro mondo

“Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day I can hear her breathing.”

Non é solo possibile.

This blog is called “non solo possibile” (not only possible),

The title is inspired by the words of novelist and political writer Arundhati Roy.

Un altro mondo non é solo possibile …

It is about those voice disrupting the world as it is, voices of the world erupting, arriving amongst us.

These voices are theological, pastoral and political voices belonging to people and their communities, people and communities living between real danger and hope.

These are my teachers and my friends, to whom I owe a great debt and a great gratitude.

This an old blog, being remade for the purpose of sharing directly from those friends and teachers, without mediation.

I hope to let the words stand as they are. Although I may have the courage to contribute some of my own… in time.

Subscribe to the FaceBook page for Non Solo Possibile to receive more regular thoughts from these critical scholarly and activist voices from across the world.

Thank you for visiting.

Alex Holmes-Brown