Laughing at Theology

As I sat in the midst of 100 pages of reading this evening, following a fairly intense day, I ended up laughing at myself. This is almost never a bad thing.

Earlier today, Brandon and I talked through theological differences (Hebrew Bible discussions in which one can ask anything are wonderfully dangerous). He's a tad more conservative than I am, and I had to know that he was okay with me being as I am--you know, crazy hippie heretical liberal. It wasn't an easy conversation--we have some real differences--but we both ended up feeling good about it at the end. I definitely needed a nap afterward, though.

And then this evening I got to read all about theology of religions. I love this topic, actually, in part because it holds a lot of unanswered questions for me. Who is Jesus to me when I want desperately to affirm and learn from other religious traditions? What does it mean to be a Christian who's also a pluralist? How do I reconcile being a part of the same faith tradition for, well, pretty much my whole life, and having it look so radically different over the course of the last decade?

All these are loaded questions. Any theological question ends up having a lot at stake, especially depending on who you ask. As I read about theologies of dialogue this evening, I began to identify strongly with a particular ("Mutualist") model. And then, of course, the author posits all sorts of negative critiques of said model, which made me defensive (I am not a relativist! Or an imperialist!) and unable to actually defend myself (I am a baby theologian), but I still wanted to hold onto the good, the truth that I found in being a mutualist. In good theological fashion, the author goes on to say that the next and final model tries to overcome the weaknesses of this one. Of course it does.

And so, I laughed. I laughed at Paul Knitter for being unknowingly and obnoxiously biased (but, I think, in mostly good ways). I laughed at myself for being unknowingly and obnoxiously biased. More than either of those, I laughed at how finely we theologians parse things. I agree quite a lot with Raimon Pannikar and with Mark Heim, and yet they don't necessarily agree with each other. It's like how I agree with Brandon on a lot in practice, and yet when we start talking about finer theological points we find that we have some significant differences (he's for total depravity, I'm for total hopefulness).

And so, I keep laughing. I'm remembering that part of what it means to learn is to laugh at oneself, to realize that you don't have all of the answers at once, and that you'll keep changing. Theologically, though, I just hope it all comes down to love. That's a horribly unrefined, obtuse claim that should really be explicated further before I decide to posit it as a basis for my entire theology.

But I don't really care all that much, despite all the theological wrangling that I've done today. I think it all comes down to love, which makes some differences seem so much less important. Love is my ethic, my modus operandi, my Christology, my ecclesiology, my soteriology, my eschatology. And, perhaps most pertinently, my sleepy-girl midnight answer.

I just want to love you, and everyone else in the world. (Oh, and I want to laugh, too.)