In Spite of Myself

Fairly recently, I experienced a situation that reminded me--positively--of the literary theory I tried to read two summers ago. Most people who have endured my tendencies to bloviate can attest to my suspicion of theory as it applies to literature and, more generally, theology and politics. Nevertheless, the situation I encountered connected some dots and led me to wonder if I might be missing a necessary tool for my overall approach to all matters literary.
I recently attended a sporting event with family members. It sounded like a pleasant time and, for me at least, a time to sentimentally reconnect with my childhood "glories" on the field of athletic effort. We arrived at the stadium and, after spending more than ten dollars for "food," I sat down to watch the game. Every half inning, the PA Announcer would start to blare some promotion or "Congratulations to ..." for finishing this or that stupendous such and such. If it wasn't the PA Announcer, a young MC of sorts would invite someone from the stands to walk on to the field to play a game "like they do on The Price is Right. and have a chance to win X amount of dollars." If it wasn't either of these folks, still more folks would rush onto the field paralleling the stands to booming displays of music and--on cue--throw t-shirts toward grasping, clawing (but not quite desperate) audience members. The game itself seemed an intermittent after thought surrounded by endless meanderings of "entertainment." I soon realized again that if I want to experience sports as something other than mind-numbing diversions from issues that warp our lives, I could do better sitting home and pay my overpriced cable television bill.
Such is where theory renewed itself in my mind. One of the writers our class read--and it's always fair to say with these folks, "tried to read"--argued that capitalism as a system gets to the point of preserving itself through the mental deadening of its "customers." In so doing, the customers are literally and figuratively duped into continuing participation in the process that is against their own personal, psychological, political, even "spiritual" interests. We buy "stuff" in ever-increasing amounts--say sporting tickets and concessions and t-shirts, caps and ad infinitum--to keep up appearances with our neighbors who then buy more stuff to return the favor to us. We watch Grey's Anatomy and wonder who is sleeping with whom rather than ask ourselves what kind of actual life we have or what we--as my Baptist Grandfather used to say--are doing "to help our fellow man" (he lived in the early 20th Century, so his language reflected that time and its assumptions. His point, however, stands as timeless). Our churches argue over money, committee chair slots or how many banners to hang in the narthex as an enticement for "new members" "since that's what our consultant said to do." We--sadly--write blogs rather than sitting down with pen and paper to experience the mysterious and singular joy of our own handwriting. We, in short, anesthetize ourselves and our societal "base" and "superstructures" reflect the noxious reality of how much gas we pump into our lungs.
In that sense, I realize that theory has a point to make and in so doing, it is much like the best of Judeo-Christian theology as it provides a critique of culture from an admittedly "inside" perspective. I remain not sure that either theory or theology provides an equal measure of solutions alongside its criticisms. Perhaps, however, that's not its job and at its best, theory and theology invite us to reexamine ourselves, our priorities and find culturally-applicable solutions for our present experiences. What provides renewal for Americans, in other words, may not do so for Ireland or Japan or--as it were--someone from Vulcan. Perhaps my sense of theory--as it always has been for theology--is that it invites us to find our own way and, in so doing, discover the fullness of life that can be ours. That's both frightening and invigorating.