Dispatches from Lockdown

I thought I had an idea for a book. I would call it “Corona Theology: Dispatches from Lockdown”. It would examine my own personal and theological responses to the crisis, and draw out themes for reflection. It would be an example of Contextual Theology: a contextual theology of Covid-19 and also a model of how to do any contextual theology. As such it would be a blend of the theoretical and practical. Consequently, like Jacques Ellul’s work, the finished product would embody a dialectical oscillation, and draw on writings from my column, “Edgenotes”, for The Prisma (an online multicultural newspaper), and this blog, “Jeremiad”. The former contains notes on society and culture, leaving aside my own faith commitments, as I try to analyse what’s going on. The latter expresses my own personal faith convictions much more explicitly.

Many of these essays highlight developments which are not specific to Covid. But Covid both accelerates already-existing trends, and accentuates otherwise common concerns. I write about what emerges from this mix of the situation, and my own situatedness within it. I see it as a Christian version of Franco ‘Bifo’ Berardi’s Skizomails, based on his online postings during a year of crisis, and Mark Fisher’s posthumous book of blogposts, K-Punk. Any book based on my own blogposts and columns would therefore also be similarly ‘bitty’, fragmentary. Contextual theology is always ‘theology on the run’, under pressure of circumstances; in my case a frantic pressure to continue ministry in the middle of the emergency. Such a collection of (p)articles would be opposite to systematic, or the academic pre-occupation with ‘completionism’. It would be more akin to Marshall McLuhan’s impressionistic, imaginative and intuitive practice of sending out ‘probes’ into the culture, to elicit possible trajectories and pathways, with none of them incontrovertible, but all corrigible; valuable only in provoking further reflection and action. Paraphrasing Nietzsche, this would be ‘theologising with a hammer’.

The book remains an unachieved ambition. I asked some friends, who had published books, what they thought of the idea. They suggested that publishers always consider (naturally) whether there is a market for a book. In my case, I think not. Too specialised, and from someone who is unknown, and therefore unlikely to attract a readership. I think it has not been given to me to write a book. Although I feel I have something to give, it seems that no one wants it. I have to be careful this doesn’t represent my usual depressive outlook, with the sledgehammer crashing on my head, whenever I threaten to have a positive thought. But, in this case, it seems accurate. So, for whom do I write? Myself. Perhaps some may read these blogposts, but not many. I write as part of my spiritual journey, the spiritual discipline of intellectual reflection. Just as some walk in the woods, or along the beach, to enter into mystery, I think. Not as a form of apologetics, to defend the faith. No, but as Anselm said: “faith seeking understanding”.