Why do we include a certain author or tradition when we write about our own theology? What are we to do when we are inspired by aspects of traditions that are not our own? What role does/should history play in systematic theology? Are we supposed to engage all of Christian history? Do we only engage those parts that help us to make our theoretical/theological points? Do we only dig into the depth of our own traditions? Is it all a zero-sum game: where depth and breadth each take away from each other? These are the questions I want to address.
It is partly due to Catherine Keller's theology of the deep [tehom], and partly due to theologians like Kelly Brown Douglas and Patrick Reyes who deal with theologies and ground. I have been able to find a new way to think of my relationship to the records of Christians past, and my relationship to a variety of traditions (many of which not my own). I started out thinking of constructive theology as a task of scavenging. My job was to rummage through the treasure chests of all the traditions, finding what worked best for me, and piece-mealing them all together in the end. Why? Because then it could truly be an all-encompassing theology that dealt with all of Christianity. (Side note: Even now, I do still struggle with this need for a "theology of everything/everyone", especially when it comes to issues of race. This problem is very much rooted in the modernist thought) Then, as I started doubting this project, I found myself in a deep silence. I felt that I could only speak from and about my own tradition, which led to the problem of not even being able to point to the other traditions that I have found inspiring. Plus, such a method does not lead/lend to discussion with other traditions, and instead states where it is and firmly digs deeper in...And that's where my newest paradigm came in. By thinking of all these various Christians as family/ancestors, some distant and some close. I don't draw from disembodied minds that were converted from matter to words transcribed onto paper. No, I get my inspiration from other human beings, past and present, and from their lives, some of which involved writing. So the paradigm is that I am not sparring with these writers (even when they are influential, and I am in disagreement), nor am I sifting through a pile of randomly strung together words. Instead, I am standing above the catacombs of the saints as their bones hold up the ground. And when I borrow from a tradition that is my own, I know that I am not skimming the surface of the water, but reaching into the depths to bring forth ideas in their fullness, with all of their connections. I might choose to change those connections, but I am aware and acknowledge them in their historical context. And so, while I do think I can interact with less familiar traditions, I find that the ethical way to do so is, again, to refuse to try to skim the surface, but only to reach into the depths. This means deeply engaging and learning about whatever it is I want to include, before attempting to integrate it into my own theology.
I admit that this is still a work in progress. With Eastern Orthodox and Pentecostal traditions especially, I find myself wondering when it is possible that I am appropriating from them. Because I am often interested in parts of their traditions without being interested in the whole. I also find there are certain theologies of the marginalized, especially disability theologies, that challenge certain aspects of my own theology. And so in some ways, to not include and acknowledge them is to silence them and become part of their erasure. So this is the new balance I am figuring out: appropriation and silence/erasure. How do I treat a text, an author, a community, a tradition, with proper/ethical respect? How do I do justice to them in the project of constructing my systematic theology?
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