Jesus and the Desert of the Real

I forgot I wrote this a while back (2007), in response to an essay test, and uncovered it today:

Book reference: Slavoj Zizek, Welcome to the Desert of the Real

What does Zizek mean by “the desert of the Real?”

What if the world that we were living in was actually a carefully constructed fake, and only a few of us began to realize this, the rest of the world completely unawares? Whether described by the Truman Show, the Matrix, or perhaps even the ‘brain in a vat’ theory, the idea of a virtual, reality-that-is-not-Real is deeply troubling.

Much of this can be seen in today’s mainstream media. What kind of ‘reality’ would be constructed for and assumed by a person who only got their news from FOX or Clearchannel or the New York Times? (What about the reality for a person who only got their news from Democracy Now or NPR? Just curious). We live in an age where we may believe that we have freer, better access to ‘the real world’ than our ancestors may have—and yet, given passive receptivity patterns on behalf of the media consumer, and the multibillion-dollar ‘news industry’s’ practices, we may be just as ignorant as ever before.

This is particularly true in the grand theme Zizek is responding to in this text: September 11th. He argues that rather than taking stock of its behaviors and relationships in the world, we entered a Reality ™ (a constructed product) that painted us as the innocent victims in all things and those whom we had oppressed as the wanton Enemy ™ [I use this designation for enemy here, given that our so-called enemies are always being invented and marketed to us, made ‘new and improved’ every few seasons].

In the next few paragraphs, I would like to practice Zizek’s ‘relational cure’ by speaking to that which I experience directly and relationally in my daily life. I would argue that even mainstream liberal theological education suffers in the desert of the Real. Any time we (particularly those of us coming from white, privileged backgrounds) pontificate and theorize about what’s going on half a world away and why, without having any direct relationships to that place or other authentic praxological engagement; or even when we theorize about what’s going on a neighborhood away from our classrooms without similar authentic interpersonal relationship and experiential knowledge of some kind, or whenever we shift an academic conversation to the theoretical level, not for the reasons of analyzing and critiquing that theory, but rather to avoid engagement with uncomfortable emotions and experiences that may exist within our immediate learning community, we tragically construct a liberal ‘virtual reality’ of that place and the people involved. This is likely unhelpful to them and to us, perhaps just as much so as if these same behaviors took place in a conservative theological education classroom. Theological education that refuses to ‘get its hands dirty’ may be real ™ but it’s not Real.

I believe there was a Jesus of the real ™ and a Jesus of the Real. This is often expressed as a Theology of Glory vs. the Theology of the Cross. The Real Jesus was Really born into poverty. In a wooden, stinky manger. Being incarnate, He pooped, just like the rest of us. And He died a gruesome, torturous death at the hands of the State and the will of religious leadership.

In the portrayal of the real ™ Jesus, Mary and Joseph wear new clothes. The Holy Family is White, and probably blond. The manger doesn’t smell bad when we buy the commercial crèche in the discount store. The infant never cries, let alone poops or spits up, in our Christmas lore,[1] two basic Realities we know from any experience with infants. There is also no blood on the Precious Moments ™ cross that comes in a keepsake box, or usually any other commercial model crucifix we might purchase to decorate ourselves or our homes[2].

What helps a person to break through the walls of ‘real’ ™ to Real? The Real is that which we come to know deeply—not absorbing third and fourth-hand as through a gossip chain, but face to face. This breakthrough could happen in a classroom where I am challenged to hear and deal with the authentic encounter of my classmate in his or her life, rather than just assuming what he or she would likely say, given my years of liberal (or conservative) social academic training. This could happen in any place on the planet where people are brought together to listen and speak to one another in a truly authentic manner. Let us then be authentic and present in our classrooms and hallways, in our congregations and homes and sidewalks and places of gathering. Let us not isolate ourselves any further to the numbing comforts of constructed reality ™.

Let’s get Real.

[1] ‘The little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes’ from the popular hymn ‘Away in the Manger.’
[2] Although I did once receive a handmade cross made of two large nails dipped in red nail polish for Confirmation class, an interesting take on the symbolism of then and now.

April 19

This morning by design or accident, the guards have done us a great favor and left off the overhead lights (which are terribly bright and usually hit you in the eye at 5 AM). This could be their way of saying “Happy Saturday” and its working, since most of us have gone back to bed.

More yelling and screaming last night – a few girls have sidled up to the airvents in their rooms and use them as Alpen horns, in which they call “Ricola!” – just like the cough drop commercial – and I finally fell asleep last night promising myself I’d accidentally drop my breakfast tray on them in the morning – oatmeal and all – but I was feeling more charitable/sluggish by then and anyway we had grits, which I do like here.

At the moment I am waiting for laundry call – sheets and pillowcases today – and reflecting on taking pleasure in simple routines. For example, I love laundry call, trading in old stuff for new. I really like uniform exchange, since by then we’ve been wearing ours for 3-4 days straight and they can stand up on their own. Underwear exchange is usually mjore of a gamble, hard to get anything that fits since they’re all so old and worn out. Sheets and towels though are alright.

I am happy to report nearly all the mail has gotten through – and I get a little slip of paper to sign when something doesn’t make it through inspection. Usually the problem is photos glued to a card, or something similar. I also heard back that my early general letters have been posted to my blog and e-mailed around. In the meantime, if I haven’t said earlier, I’ve received so many beautiful letters here I would like to try to do a book on them. I don’t know if it will work, but I’ll see.

Last night I read most of 1st Kings, I don’t know how long it's been since doing so. I’m reading it in “Free on the Inside” the Prison Fellowship Bible, which is a paraphrase edition for new Christians. It’s actually not too bad, written at about the 8th grade level, which is closer to where I think most liberal theology books should be written. 8th grade is the reading level of most of the U.S. The trouble with liberal theologians is that there is that they’re usually PhD’s writing to impress other PhD’s in order to get tenure, etc. which generally excludes most other potential readers. Meanwhile, one thing Fundamentalism does well is produce a lot of reading material with simple, down-to-earth vocabulary. I venture that it is easier for most people to be convinced by an argument when they can understand the argument. So, I think this may be one more reason liberal churches continue to decline. It is a class issue as a politics issue, and here I am afraid liberals have much to account for.

--
Saturday and Sunday have been quite good – I was excited to see Catherine and catch up on news from school and “talk seminary” for a while – a relief! - and then to see Tom and Erin this morning and share some good laughs about the kitties going to the vet, and the upcoming chili cookoff, and about a Bible study that may have gone worse than the the ones around here usually do (though in the story I heard, not due to the teacher’s ignorance – this time it was a student in histronics). And a call home and hearing my niece Gracie’s giggling questions about life in jail. (I told her it was mostly like high school –true!) The rest of the weekend I slept in and napped plenty – which in retrospect was probable an excellent idea – I’ve manage so far to avoid a violent respiratory and gastrointestinal cold that’s hit nearly everyone else. I’ve also been washing my hands like a maniac.

A woman came in for a weekend sentence, and had some kind of catatonic anxiety attack. The guards came and took her out in a wheelchair. We had some pretty obnoxious rubber-neckers, so our pod got locked down for awhile, too. Another woman came in later, probably paranoid schizophrenic I guessed from our brief chat – later vomited in her cell and the guards took her away.

Just now I had the opportunity to debate the merits of half a bag of Jolly Ranchers versus a Milky Way bar. While incarcerated, Jolly Ranchers are a trade currency (trade food with cellmates, buy erases, favors, etc.) that is easily divisible, plus they double up as cough drops. Meanwhile a Milky Way is … chocolate, good in its own right. (Snickers, my first choice, wasn’t an option in the negotiations). I received the Ranchers as a thank you for tending a girl in the next cell with a raging toothache with all my commissary acetaminophen packets. My lunch table-mate likes Ranchers for a reason I forgot to mention earlier, that is, they are excellent “ammo.” They have a connect-to-target satisfaction level roughly akin to paintball, I think.

--No TV this evening. I enjoy the quiet enough, but its not fun being blamed for things we can’t help. There’s been a mechanical problem with the electromagnetic cell doors – they read as open while in real life they’re closed – so sometimes this past week, we’ve been stuck inside our cells when the command post thinks they let us out, and other times, like now, they yell at us for having our doors open when they’re closed tighter than anything we could do to open them. Hence, the no TV as punishment. We’ve gone through this with every shift of guards, but no luck yet. You’d think that in maximum security they’d want the cell doors to work…

After 2 weeks, I’m still waiting to get to the library. We’ve only been allowed once, but it was later in the evening after medical rounds when most of the readers were already in bed. (Once you go in your cell at night, you can’t get back out). Meanwhile, we get to go to the “gym” nearly every day. I think the difference is that there’s security cameras and a window from the command post to the gym, and there’s nothing for security in the library, so they have to send a guard. So if a guard doesn’t want to go, we don’t go. Sounds like most guards don’t. I think it would make the most sense if each pod got even 1 hour a week to get new books, at a time we could count on. The library and AA are the only two truly rehabilitative programs they offer here.

--
Meanwhile in happier news, I had a wonderfully quiet night last night. I simply advised everyone that whosoever chose to scream into the air vents that night would have a lunch tray dropped on their heads because I would be too tired to know otherwise. That garnered a few shocked looks and a comment that “if the preacher’s threatening, she must mean it,” and it was quite surprisingly effective. Two girls sheepishly asked this morning if I’d slept well, and I found my culprits. All is forgiven☺

--
It seems I went through a very sluggish spell – not quite sick – and I haven’t written for several days. I also see that by the time some of these letters make it home, I will possibly be home already. The days are flying – not in all ways, but in many. I think some letters I won’t manage to reply to until after I’m out. No matter how many supplies I get, it’s still not quite enough, but that’s also a good problem to have – it means I am loved, and that gives me great hope here. So many of the women get no mail, and several have no one to write to at all.

--
Yesterday at 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning while they were distributing razors, I decided to try shaving. It’s not easy or appealing in one’s cell, but it was t-shirt exchange day later on, and I could use a dirty one to clean the floor afterwards. And I could handle the “Mountain Woman-Look” only about three weeks. So, they give you a few sample size packets of cream, which are a bit tough to tear open that early in the a.m., and a disposable razor. I discovered quickly that the water and suds flies everywhere and also unfortunately stains the stainless steel, but I guess the quality of the job was about as good as at home.

--
In the mail this morning I received two disconcerting letters, and I was surprised they got past the screeners. The first was from a Neo-Nazi/anti-Semitic/Anarchist group, many crinkled photocopied pages with swastikas and red and black ink, the other was an inmate from a prison in Texas who said he wanted a “pen pal” but his letter sounded much more like a personal ad. Both letters proclaimed that we had so much in common. Oh, Lordy, I just don’t think so, and don’t plan to respond to either of them. Since both letters contained contraband (staples, pamphlets, and letters from another inmate) my cellmates thought perhaps the guards downstairs have give up trying to screen my mail.

--
I don’t think I wrote earlier about being taken out for my Federal Bureau of Prison physical when I got here – they put me in full shackles and a matching orange prison-issue coat, and I went in the back of a heavily armored paddy wagon – this was fine albeit bumpy. The fun part came when walking through the hospital in full get-up, realizing this is quite a shock to the families and elderly women – so – I tried to smile and say, “Oh, don’t mind me!”