David M. Moss III
Published online: 28 April 2009
Springer Science+Business Media, LLC 2009 Abstract beliefs as profound deceptions. The biblical prophets exemplify such confrontation as do
certain atheists ardently opposed to the images of God created by those seers. The German
philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche dramatically illustrates this type of counterforce to the
Judeo-Christian tradition. His prophet Zarathustra is intended to be a model for the modern
mind, one free of superstitions inflicted by antiquated religious dogma. Nietzsche’s credo
‘‘God is dead’’ served as a declaration for the nineteenth century. In the twentieth century,
it became a theological diagnosis. As a ‘‘movement,’’ or ‘‘tenor,’’ the death of God or
radical theology was spearheaded by Thomas Altizer, a well-published young professor
center-staged during the turbulent 1960s. His work foreshadows a new strain of atheism
currently represented by biologist Richard Dawkins (Houghton Mifflin), philosopher Daniel Dennett (
Penquin), neuroscientist Sam Harris (
against belief in God is best understood as a psychodynamic ignited by Altizer’s Christian
atheism. The present dialogue reflects that dynamic while the prologue and epilogue reveal
Prophets provoke psychological unrest, especially when exposing accepted2006, The God delusion. New York:2006, Breaking the spell. New York:2004, The end of faith. New York: W.W. Norton; 2008 ((Paulos , Letter to a Christian nation. New York: Vintage), journalist Christopher Hitchens2007, God is not great. New York: Twelve), and mathematician John Allen Paulos2008, Irreligion. New York: Hill & Wang). This twenty-first century crusade Keywords
Thomas Altizer Death of God Allen Ginsberg Pastoral Psychology Providence
Prologue
I bought a glass of beer for a stranger one rainy evening in 1966 because our bartender kept
ignoring him. The bar, part of a small trattoria on the corner of Olive Street and Grand
D. M. Moss III (
The Coventry Association for Pastoral Psychology, Atlanta, GA 30305, USA
e-mail: dmacbeth3@gmail.com; dmoss154@earthlink.net
&) 123
J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137
DOI 10.1007/s10943-009-9239-9
Avenue in St. Louis, was an old neighborhood haunt populated by second generation
Italians who were being slowly forced into the suburbs. College students were always
welcomed clientele but, to quote the bartender, ‘‘This other guy was a cultural misfit.’’
The stranger sat by himself at the far corner of the bar, enveloped in cigarette smoke. He
looked like an eccentric intellectual. His wild-appearing presence seemed almost intimidating.
His hair and beard were long, thick, and wet from the April rain. He had on a black
trench coat and a gray turtle neck sweater. Thick horn rimmed glasses magnified the most
intense pair of eyes I had ever seen. I remember musing, ‘‘it’s Friedrich Nietzsche’s
‘doublewalker.’ Treat him with respect.’’
I had a lot on my mind that evening, so the bartender’s prejudice felt particularly
intrusive. I was self-absorbed because that afternoon I had received a letter of acceptance
from the seminary I wanted to enter in the fall. The next day I was to sit for the Graduate
Record Examination. Because I had not prepared for the latter, I was silently chastising
myself for careless planning. I was also waiting for the early show of a mindless movie that
I was sure would distract my attention for the next couple of hours.
When the bartender finally served the stranger, he told him that it was on me.
‘‘Nietzsche’’ smiled and motioned for me to join him. Instantly, I forgot about the exam
and walked over to meet him. When we shook hands he stunned me by introducing himself
as Allen Ginsberg.
I had seen only one photograph of Friedrich Nietzsche and I had no idea what Allen
Ginsberg looked like. I had just, however, finished
poetry was a constant topic of conversation among some of my contemporaries at
Washington University. Now, ‘‘fate’’ had intersected the lives of an Episcopal seminarian
and the poet laureate of the Beat Generation. Immediately, I told him that I would like to
question him about his poetry if he had the time. His answer was, ‘‘Why don’t you buy us a
pitcher?’’
Ginsberg was not sure when his ride was going to pick him up. An hour went by in
minutes. During this time we discussed ‘‘Howl’’ and ‘‘Kiddish,’’ as well as two of his dear
friends, Jack Kerouac, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. But the poet was also interested in a new
theological tenor that he believed I ought to consider as ‘‘a serious challenge’’ to contemporary
religious thought—the death of God controversy.
Our conversation turned toward Theothanatology, or the study of God’s death. Both of
us had just read the controversial Easter issue of
he had recently been given a copy of a book written by Thomas Altizer and William
Hamilton and been told that translations of it were already in preparation: French, German,
Japanese, Korean, and Spanish. I had not yet seen this anthology,
Death of God
Eschatology
about God.
For Ginsberg, God’s existence was starkly challenged by the Holocaust. When he
started into this demonic territory, his eyes began to glow like bond fires. The tone of his
voice also changed. At one point I thought he might be crying in some internal way. Then I
realized what I was hearing was a howl.
Peter Ortovsky, Ginsberg’s companion, stuck his head in the front door and yelled
‘‘Allen, I’m double parked.’’ The poet promptly left in the midst of a long sentence. I
finished my beer bewildered. Feeling somewhat intellectually seduced and abandoned, I
paid the bill and got up to leave. Just then Ginsberg rushed back into the trattoria and
handed me his copy of the book by Altizer and Hamilton. He shook my hand again and
Thus Spoke Zarathustra and Ginsberg’sTime entitled ‘‘Is God Dead?’’ Furthermore,Radical Theology and the(1966), but I had read Altizer’s first book, Oriental Mysticism and Biblical(1961). Our course was chartered. The next hour consisted of a discussion J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137 119
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said, ‘‘This is for that first beer.’’ His eyes flickered with intensity. Smiling, he made the
peace sign and stepped back into the rain.
For a few minutes I surveyed the contents of this anthology. My curiosity was excited,
but I was not yet interested enough to read it because it was designed to be a popular
publication and ‘‘best sellers’’ did not interest me. My father had educated me in the
classics, a standard that had proven to be academically pragmatic. In any case, I set
Theology and the Death of God
suddenly of a massive heart attack at 53. I was psychologically shattered. Even my faith
was in shock. It was during this period that I opened Ginsberg’s gift again.
I read the entire anthology the night I packed for seminary. While I found it absorbing,
my most valuable insight was that I knew I was not alone with doubts about an omnipotent,
omniscient, metaphysical Reality. It was obvious to me that Altizer’s basic beliefs had
radically changed since the publication of his first book in
on the dust jacket of that text was even denominational.
Thomas J. J. Altizer is a native of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and an Episcopalian
layman. He attended St. John’s College, Annapolis, Maryland, and later received his
degrees of A.B., A.M., and Ph.D. at the University of Chicago. Since 1956, Dr.
Altizer has been Assistant Professor of Bible and Religion at Emory University,
Atlanta, Georgia.
I began to wonder about the course of Altizer’s pilgrimage, but seminary soon prompted
me to put the death of God controversy aside. Instead, the creeds of the ancient Church
became a comfortable obsession, thus, most of my work was focused on early church
history. The major professor in this field was a renaissance thinker, Jules Moreau, who was
also one of my thesis advisors. He seriously respected Altizer’s work. They even published
together. In a conversation about my thesis project, I surprised Jules by asking if I could
change my major from church history to theology and write on the death of God controversy.
My reason was simple. I wanted to do some narrative research with living
theologians rather than repeat an investigation into the Apostolic Fathers who had shaped
the first centuries of Christian orthodoxy. He thought it was an excellent idea, but he
wondered if I was ready for such a shift. He knew that the death of my father was still a
source of grief for me—pain that I avoided with strict academic discipline. I will never
forget his cautionary note: ‘‘This could be a very different type of experience for you—
perhaps, unpleasant.’’ When I told him, however, about my meeting with Ginsberg, he sat
back and paused for a moment. Finally, he nodded and remarked, ‘‘That’s Providence—by
all means, go ahead.’’
Consequently, two years after Allen Ginsberg gave me his copy of
and the Death of God
ordination. Entitled
overview of each of the major exponents of radical theology: William Hamilton, Paul Van
Buren, Gabriel Vahanian and, of course, Thomas Jonathan Jackson Altizer.
The importance of Altizer became more apparent to me after I had read everything he
had written, including his masters thesis and doctoral dissertation for the University of
Chicago’s Divinity School. But the real value of Altizer was his encouragement by correspondence
and, ultimately, a suggestion that I visit him at Emory University during the
summer of 1968. I accepted this invitation and drove to Atlanta that August. We spent a
long afternoon together discussing his work, as well as his plans for the future. Emory
seemed to have become politically difficult for him because of his ‘‘Christian atheism.’’ As
a result, he was ready to move on to the State University of New York in Stony Brook. He
Radicalaside for 3 months. Then, on Fathers’ Day, my dad died1961. The biographical sketchRadical Theology, I converted it into a touchstone for an honors thesis leading towardProlegomena Post Mortem Dei, this study consisted of a critical 120 J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137
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looked forward to this change optimistically; even though I was sure he would miss and be
missed by many friends and countless students. Personally, I experienced him as a brilliant
thinker of far-reaching theological focus. To use a biblical term, I saw him as
prophet. I have continued to read his books from a projective perspective of psychohistorical
value. Collectively, they are to theology what Freud’s
and
Freud himself illustrates a basic truth about literary productivity: prolific authors—
especially prophetic writers—are usually aware of the steps they have taken to develop
their ideas into print. Frequently, they will keep some type of written record of their
journeys. Diaries and letters are examples that many historians consider to be treasures.
With this in mind, I wrote Tom in 1992 and asked him for ‘‘an evolutionary critique’’ of his
work. A few weeks later—just before my 50th birthday—I received a long letter into which
he inserted a 10-page chronological review of his books, aptly entitled ‘‘Altizer on Altizer.’’
I was able to see the growth of his thought in a panoramic way.
Altizer concluded this lengthy letter with another invitation for me to visit him—this
time as a house guest in Stony Brook, New York. A few months later we settled into a twoday
conversation in the comfortable downstairs library of his beautiful home. Repeatedly,
the intensity of our dialogue reminded me of that evening with Allen Ginsberg 27 years
ago. Like the Beat poet, Tom was consistently ready for the ‘‘extra mile.’’ In this dialogical
whirlwind, his passion was so apparent. Odd as it seems, I have rarely met anyone as
committed to a Christocentric belief system as this prophet of God’s death.
To anchor our dialogue in time, Waco, Texas had just become a chilling example of
needless death. David Koresh’s Mt. Carmel compound was a war zone. On March 1, 1993,
the 51 day siege had begun. Ten people were already dead; 16 more had been wounded.
Consequently, this crisis and the issue of cults took much of our attention. We both saw it as
cancerous. Nevertheless, we were both convinced—even before we met—that the Waco
tragedy would soon become a matter of bureaucratic distortion and face saving on the part of
the FBI, as well as the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. We also speculated about
the media coverage of this apocalyptic event. With an easy transition, our conversation
slowly returned to the stormy climate of the late 1960s and the public nature of another
explosive subject—the death of God ‘‘in our cosmos, in our history, in our
nabi, aFuture of an Illusion (1927)Moses and Monotheism (1939) are to psychoanalysis.Existenz.’’ Dialogue
DM Let me read the first and last sentences from an article by William Hamilton in
New Handbook of Christian Theologians
really two things: a media event and a serious theological movement
of God theology today is neither victorious nor ubiquitous. But within Christianity it
continues to explore that possible space between what used to be called belief and
unbelief’’ (Musser and Price
I remember when we first met at Emory; your desk was covered with
correspondence from all over the world—questions about radical theology. At
that time you were a very public image.
had insured that.
TA Of course, that’s virtually ended. I have no public image anymore. That has all gone
away.
A: ‘‘The death of God or radical theology is…. The death1992, pp. 120–121). That media event was remarkable.The New York Times and Time magazine J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137 121
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DM Do you miss that?
TA I must say that I do miss it. I can’t deny that.
DM During our meeting in Atlanta, I recall you saying that being in that ‘‘spotlight’’ was
like having your own pulpit. Do you still feel that way?
TA Yes, and I certainly miss that, more than anything else. After all, I think that it was
largely accidental that I or the death of God movement happened to be an object of
such intense public concern. Sometimes people forget that this was the late 1960s a
time of rebellion, crisis, and transformation. It was certainly traumatic for us as a
nation, as witnessed by the fact that this was the period we became involved in the
Vietnam War, an act that many of us believed to be the most destructive experience
in our country’s history.
Now, it just so happens that at this particular point in history, some of us were
deeply involved in death of God theology. This, in a way, related one crisis to
another, but it was largely because of our nation’s crisis that this intense concern
with the death of God theology arose. It is very important to remember just how big
a turning point this was for America. A deep transformation was occurring which,
of course, was the culmination of a long history becoming decisively manifest. It
was a realization of total divorce between religion and culture, and religion and
society. This death of God theology was a public symbol of a transformation in
America, or, at the very least, in Christianity. People were concerned. There was
something fundamental being said, something that gripped large numbers of people.
Actually, it gripped society as a whole.
All that sense of epiphany is gone now, but it marked a final moment in American
history during which the Christian God was revealed to many of us as absent or
dissolved. That absence reflected a fundamental identity crisis of this people and
this culture and this civilization. Many people—certainly including me—have long
thought that God is dead. But then this thought became a type of universal event, as
it were. So, in the end, radical theology did attract an enormous amount of attention
in this century.
DM For me, one of the values of the death of God controversy was that it called into
focus the death of certain kinds of ministry and a need for a deeper more
interpersonal style of pastoral counseling. To follow Hegel, we have on the right
hand of the continuum a thesis, which is the traditional model of the parochial
ministry, and on the left hand the Pastoral Psychology Movement, an antithesis of
sorts.
Unfortunately we do have some ‘‘expatriates’’ among the latter. Often they seem to
lose their native language. There are some pastoral counselors today who do not
preach, write about, or even discuss words like soul or Providence. They talk about
‘‘self’’ and psychological diagnosis but when it comes down to the deepest
dimensions of human being, they stop short. Theology is not an essential part of
their toolbox. You might say this is a symptom of the death of God. In any event
these are two ends of the continuum that concern me, the parochial and the pastoral.
In the midst of those apparent ‘‘opposites,’’ right now, there is an emerging group
that sees, as an ideal, a synthesis developing—particularly in the first quarter of the
twenty-first century. This synthesis would consist of a new breed of ministers.
Trained in an interdisciplinarily manner, they would have the agility or dexterity to
step out of, as well as into, a psychotherapeutic posture, so that they could return to
certain functions that have to do with their history as clergy.
122 J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137
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TA Give me an example of what you mean.
DM Okay. During my 20 years of practice, I have lost three patients to murder. In each case
I ended up conducting the funeral service, visiting with family and friends, as well as
talking to police and estate lawyers. That professional dexterity grows out of my
history as a parish priest. I learned a great deal about group dynamics in the parish, and
I continue to draw on those lessons. Most of that would never have happened in the
context of psychoanalysis proper. An office visit with the family, perhaps. May be the
doctor might attend the funeral service or write a sympathy note. I don’t think one
would expect much more. But when the therapist is ordained, it is another process
altogether—no matter what model of psychotherapy is being practiced.
Incidentally, I brought you the reprint of one of these homicide cases addressed from a
theological perspective. It was very peculiar because the house where the murder
occurred was surrounded by Santerı´a paraphernalia. Under each window, crosses had
been painted with chicken blood. Carefully arranged gourds and candles were placed
just below these symbols. Now, how does a death of God theologian react to such a
primitive religious reality?
TA Oh, it’s quite easy. I once read that Jurgen Moltmann told a reporter, ‘‘When God is
dead religion is everywhere.’’ There is a deep truth in that. In the very deepest sense,
the death of God has released a whole world that itself was negating God. Now, this
release has been very slow, but then again the entire death of God is a slow process.
It seems to me like the most natural thing in the world that the primitive, primordial,
archaic sensibilities, acts, rites, myths would come forward in conjunction with the
realization of God’s death.
DM With the death of Jesus, could we say that ‘‘religion is everywhere?’’
TA No. The death of Jesus is a negation of religion. As a result of that negation, religion
can only be present in alien or repressive forms—like the Church.
DM You mentioned in your last letter to me that the Church and the university mirror
each other. Is what you’re saying related to that?
TA Yes. Please remember, these two institutions are the ones that I care most about. I
think that the Church and the university, even though they
worlds—and, in many ways, they are vastly different—they share a very deep
pathology in an inverse fashion. Each could be characterized as having reached the
end of its own cycle, the end of its own life. In that ending, they are mirror images
of each other, not in the sense they are identical, but rather that in their ending, each
as it were has ended a dimension that was an opposite of the other. Nevertheless,
there’s a coincidence in that ending. Just as the Church has lost virtually all point of
contact with the thinking of culture, so likewise has the university lost all point of
contact with anything that is ultimately real. From my point of view, I see it very
concretely because many people that I know are profoundly disillusioned with both.
I also believe that each trend of disillusionment is parallel in many ways. Of course,
I know that you’ve seen it in the Church in countless fashions. For instance, the
pathology of the Church is fully manifest in the current fundamentalisms. And there
is something comparable to that in the academic world.
DM Certainly, the Branch Davidians have presented us with an unusual closeup of one
type of fundamentalism. David Koresh has a virtuosic skill in using the Bible to
provoke the apocalyptic dreams of his disciples. The Waco crisis is a tragedy.
TA As I said earlier, Waco, to me, is not necessarily a
certainly violent.
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DM But the religious ideation involved is so unquestionably pathological. We know that
the marketplace will be flooded with books about the cultic nature of the Mt. Carmel
compound.
TA Yes, but right now, I think we ought to be a little more tolerant of these people. I don’t
know anything about them except from a purely negative point of view, so I think we
ought to withhold judgement. There are so many different kinds of cults. There are
some that seem quite innocuous. For example, the new age religions are cultic.
DM The subject of cults always raises the subject of the Devil. This is a topic you do not
avoid.
TA As far as I know, I am the only living theologian of Satan. Do you believe in the
Devil?
DM Yes, I do. I’ve seen the Devil in the Ku Klux Klan and the Neo-Nazi party. Apart
from experiencing the demonic in black and white racial conflicts, I believe Satan is
the architect of anti-Semitism. Hitler was, in my opinion, the greatest manifestation
of the Devil in the twentieth century. Wouldn’t you expect to find beliefs about the
Devil, hell, and damnation in extreme right-wing Christian groups?
TA Yes. But, for me that’s not where the real danger lies.
DM Where’s the greater danger?
TA Again, I see it in the Church and the academic world at large. It is the rebellion
against, hatred of, murder of, or negation of the original source. It is the deep
rebellion against any source, any origin, any history, any tradition. There seems to
be a drive in both which wants to obliterate that source, to dissolve it, to make it into
nothingness—which the academic world is doing right now. I think the Church is
the mirror image of the academic world because I believe that the Church has done
an incredible job of obliterating its origins, its roots, its traditions and its history.
You know, one of the most fascinating things about fundamentalism is the way in
which it is absolutely non-historical. It’s also fascinating that virtually all of the
major Christian groups or denominations have obliterated their own origins and
their own traditions. They are moving into a very sectarian direction of isolating
themselves from any kind of history, any kind of tradition. They are in profound
rebellion. More specifically, they are engaged in comprehensive negations and
dissolutions of the very traditions and origins out of which they have come—which
have given them life.
DM In the last 25 years a lot of the mainline churches have concentrated on what one
bishop calls ‘‘scalps and wampum’’—the more people you have in the pew, the
bigger the building. Of course, the equation continues: the bigger the building, the
more ‘‘successful’’ the Church,
TA Oh, don’t think that isn’t true in the academic world, because it is. That dynamic
seems to be active in a different way, of course, but it is still a destructive reality.
DM Sticking with the Church for a moment, there is a troubling stereotype of some
ministers that has emerged in the last 25 years: an ordained community figurehead
with an MBA mind-set.
TA To some extent the Master of Divinity degree is like an MBA, isn’t it? What you
really have to learn is how to organize, how to raise money, how to handle the
community and public relations, right? That’s what really counts. I had a friend who
became the Dean of Boston University’s School of Theology, an institution with a
fascinating tradition. His name is Bob Neville. When he became dean of that school,
they didn’t have a single course in theology. They had virtually nothing in church
ergo, the more effective the institution. 124 J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137
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history. Most of what was offered was either in pastoral counseling or social ethics.
He was horrified, of course, and decided to turn things around. But think about that!
Here was a big school with a large faculty and student body, and they were overtly,
systematically ignoring the discipline of theology altogether.
One of the most fascinating things about the academic world, in my opinion, is its
so-called
in the academic world, and the Church as well. It’s phoney. In the academic world
there is a ‘‘professed’’ oneness: an embracing and acceptance of the fullness of
human diversity and how equal we all are even though we are from different
communities. Now, that goes hand-in-hand with a total indifference to the deep
living traditions of each of these peoples. Of course, I can’t speak for all of the
academic world, just the provincial university where I teach. But I think this is
typical of most universities, as far as I can tell. This total embrace of multiculturalism
is, in effect, a full refusal of the histories, cultures, traditions which are
deeply grounded in these peoples. Thus, it is an assault upon these same peoples.
You are professing to love them, accept them, and so on, but in fact you are totally
negating the very people themselves. I’m sure the Church has something along these
lines right now. I suppose the feminist issue is a pretty deep one in that respect,
don’t you think?
DM That certainly is something that the Church has wrestled with since the time we met
at Emory. I remember us talking about this in 1968. I think we agreed that the full
acceptance of female priests would probably not occur in this century.
TA And 25 years later, there are still bishops who refuse to ordain women. But I don’t
know that I am really qualified to speak about feminist theology. It is not a field I
know a great deal about. Who is your favorite woman theorist?
DM Anna Freud.
TA I mean someone who is alive and bridges the disciplines of psychology and religion.
DM The last time I was at Freud’s home—which is now a museum—I was given a
manuscript of an anthology to read entitled,
multi-culturalism and its ‘‘political correctness.’’ This topic is so in vogueIs Psychoanalysis Another Religion? (Ward
Julia Kristeva, who captured my attention immediately. Currently, she is my
favorite living woman theorist because she bridges the disciplines of theology and
psychoanalysis. I am thinking about using
Psychoanalysis and Faith
also nice work. She will definitely impact the future, and I hope she will write more
fiction. Like Andrew Greeley, she has the capacity to use the novel as a pulpit.
TA I think of Julia as a major intellectual. She is very important for most feminists in
many ways. She’s one of the finest French thinkers of today and, as you know,
deeply Lacanian. She has also become a radical theologian, but not many people in
this country know that even though she comes to the States often. In a conversation
with her she admitted to me that she was very disappointed with the theologians
here because they never wanted to talk about theology. So, of course, our
conversation was completely theological. As we were finishing our talk, she said to
me, ‘‘I want you to think of me as the French death of God theologian.’’ And I do.
DM This makes particular sense to me. I just received a review copy of the seventh
volume of Jacques Lacan’s seminars (
psychoanalysis, but it includes a critical section on the death of God. Listen to this
passage:
1993). It will be published soon. The most stimulating contribution was byIn the Beginning was Love:(1987) as a textbook. Her novel The Samurai (1992) is1992). It is focused on the ethics of J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137 125
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But if for us God is dead, it is because he always has been dead, and that’s
what Freud says. He has never been the father except in the mythology of the
son, or, in other words, in that of the commandment which commands that he,
the father, be loved, and in the drama of the passion which reveals that there is
a resurrection after death. That is to say, the man who made incarnate the
death of God still exists. He still exists with the commandment which orders
him to love God. That’s the place where Freud stops, and he stops at the same
time—the theme is developed in
place that concerns the love of one’s neighbor, which is something that
appears to be insurmountable for us, indeed incomprehensible (pp. 177–178).
TA I want to read that. Lacan knew. However, I think Julia Kristeva reflects that
understanding in an even brighter light. Oh, another woman thinker that interests me
is Mary Daly. But one of my problems is, insofar as I am aware, feminist theology is
not really theology. It is some kind of ethics. Mary Daly and Julia Kristeva are
exceptions, which is why they are the only ones I’m really interested in. Overall, I
do not find feminist theologians to be concerned with God. And, in my opinion,
unless you are concerned with God, you are not serious. But, then again, almost no
one is really interested in theology, so the feminists are not alone in that respect.
DM Does this ultimately leave us with a form of humanism?
TA No, not exactly. I don’t think they are humanist in a simple sense. But they do
reflect an absence of God which is true of the theological world in general. Most
simply stated, where there is little interest in God, there is little serious thought.
DM That can make it difficult for those of us who are interested in the Pastoral
Psychology Movement, particularly those of us who practice psychotherapy. We
need the insights of theology about the fundamental issues we face with our clients.
Our history is rooted in an empirical theology that is based on an historical Judeo-
Christian belief system. Theological dialogue is vital for the pastoral
psychotherapist—especially, for those of us who are psychoanalytic.
TA I think you people are facing a catastrophe because psychoanalysis and Freudianism
are as dead as Marxism. Both are coming to an end. I have said many times that there
is almost no interest remaining in what we consider to be theological thinking in most
of our best seminaries and divinity schools, but there is an alarming emphasis on
pastoral psychology. You represent a very forceful side of this. Of course, there is
also great interest in social ethics and church management. But in vocational
theological education today,
irrelevant, or, I suppose, disruptive of the goals that are now being lauded.
The Episcopal Church is an example of this. The Episcopal Church, as far as its
intellectual life is concerned, is in a tight little private world of its own, isolated from
almost everything else. In a sense, however, it is not just the Episcopal Church, it’s
time for the Church as a whole to consider itself to be a theological center where
people of all different kinds of religious beliefs can dialogue.
Churches should become more like centers where intellectual explorations and
mutual encounters dealing with fundamental issues in the life of Christians today can
be discussed. It seems to me that there are all kinds of things the seminaries could be
doing if they would just get away from this idea that their whole function is to train
clergy for parochial positions that do not exist. There is already an over supply of
clergy. To keep churning them out when there is no place for them to go seems to be
demonic.
Civilization and Its Discontents—at theclassical theology is suspended. It is as if it’s considered 126 J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137
123
DM This sounds like a discussion we had in 1972 at O’Hare Airport. You had been on a
panel discussion that was part of Armen Jorjorian’s installation as the new Dean of
Seabury-Western. Briefly, we talked about the Church’s need for a more specialized
ministry or priestcraft. We also had a long conversation about my Ph.D.
dissertation. I was having difficulty narrowing my subject which was alcoholism.
You sensed the same thing my Northwestern advisor did earlier that same day:
‘‘Perhaps I was more interested in something else?’’ It was not the first time I had
changed subjects. What you suggested was most helpful. You simply asked, ‘‘What
concerns you the most?’’ The answer came to me immediately: marriage. I was
doing a lot of pre-marital counseling, and I was just beginning to see different
patterns in mate selection.
TA Did you publish this?
DM Several times, and I still use the tools I discovered. It was a very functional project.
But let’s look at the subject of the dissertation from a more general perspective. I am
supervising a Ed.D. dissertation at the University of Georgia (Daniell
complex research study using the most current statistical procedures. The subject is
the widespread nature of cheating in universities. When it comes to the
dissertation—the ultimate assignment or academic task—you can cheat yourself
by avoiding a powerful avenue of personal insight. Insightful compensation is one
of the best skills we can acquire in academe. For the graduate student, ‘‘I will’’
becomes more important than I.Q. Nothing can test that more than a doctoral
dissertation. In a unique way, the dissertation reflects the intellectual core of the
university which can be weak or strong, depending on its discipline.
TA You sound convinced about that.
DM I am. That idea was forged when I wrote my first masters thesis on the death of God.
When I started to read for this project, I ordered two doctoral dissertations through
the library at Seabury-Western. One was yours, and the other was Martin Luther
King’s.
TA What did you do with his?
DM I used it for an ethics course on Tillich. King was a very important figure for me.
I will always regret not meeting him. Just after his death, I represented Seabury-
Western at an ecumenical service held at Ebenezer Baptist Church. That was my
first trip to Atlanta, and it was a very powerful experience for me. In some
respects, King influenced my choice to move there 10 years later. He was an
imago. You can imagine how I felt when the news leaked out that his doctoral
dissertation was seriously flawed by plagiarism (e.g., DePalma
students, like those in any other academic discipline, have principles and
procedures to follow. Now, it is doubtful that Boston University would have
revoked King’s Ph.D. Neither he nor his dissertation advisor is alive to defend the
work. In turn, we are left with an idea that King was awarded a doctoral degree in
spite of the fact that at least one member of his committee knew that some of the
concepts, sentences, and longer passages in his dissertation were, to use a
euphemism, ‘‘borrowed’’ without reference.
TA You could also attribute that to prejudice. There are still white professors that don’t
think blacks are capable of solid academic work.
DM But what if we set aside that possibility and just look at the dissertation itself—what
it stands for academically. I have always thought that a person who gets a Ph.D.
produces a written dissertation on his or her own. In King’s case, there is enough
1993). It is a1990). Theology J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137 127
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evidence of ‘‘borrowing’’ to raise questions about the legitimacy of his final
academic task, and that troubles me. It is a hard thing to say about such an important
ethical model. But it also raises another question, ‘‘How common is that practice of
‘borrowing’ on the doctoral level?’’
TA I have no statistical or hard evidence to support his, but I believe that this sort of
borrowing is more common than we think. In one form or another, I think
plagiarism is the rule among graduate students today. But there is another problem:
How do you define plagiarism? Almost nobody can agree about that definition. It’s
extraordinarily difficult to define.
In light of such problems, I think we have to revise our whole sense of what the
dissertation is about, in its truest form. I personally don’t think many people are
capable of independent scholarship. They can be very capable of splendid
‘‘borrowing’’ without being capable of original work. That is why I think we have to
revise and strengthen the dissertation. A dissertation should be a contribution of
serious magnitude, consisting of original thoughts. Unfortunately, if there was a
way we could scientifically measure how many are actually original, I think we
would find that number to be very small.
DM Let’s talk about your dissertation for a minute. It was
Jung’s Understanding of Religion
Why is that?
TA I never refer to Jung. I wrote on him largely for pathological reasons. And I’d like to
think that was a pathology. I certainly didn’t surmount it but I think in some sense I
transformed it or moved it into another direction. I wanted to be a priest in the
Episcopal Church and was dedicated to that. I had spent a fair amount of time in the
pastoral ministry on the south side of Chicago being in charge of a small interracial
mission—which at that time was the only interracial mission or community in the
Diocese of Chicago.
Then, I ran into that whirlwind of psychological evaluation. I was a candidate for the
priesthood in the Episcopal Church and wanted to enter Seabury-Western. I was also
being forced to undergo extensive psychological exams by presumably the most
advanced clinic in the United States. It was at Northwestern. I discovered that,
according to the results of these extensive inquiries, I was, to use layman’s terms,
‘‘crazy’’ or ‘‘insane.’’ Therefore, in the Diocese’s eyes, I could not possibly be a
candidate for the priesthood of the Episcopal Church. They predicted, very forcibly,
that I would be institutionalized within a year or two because I was so extraordinarily
troubled.
That whole process was, to say the least, disquieting. And I dealt with it in a way that
you are familiar with: I immersed myself in academic work. Ultimately, I decided
that I would deal with this rejection by devoting myself to scholarship. One
pragmatic way of doing that was to do a dissertation on that which most concerned
me. But here’s the catch. I wanted to do a dissertation on Freud and psychoanalysis,
but the Divinity School wouldn’t allow that. This was many years ago, and it was
thought that Freudian psychoanalysis was ‘‘beyond the pale’’ as far as religious
studies were concerned. So, as a replacement for Freud, I was allowed to do a
dissertation on Jung. I really did not want to do the paper on Jung, but since I could
not do it on Freud, or psychoanalysis proper, I took up the Jung dissertation and
quickly became disillusioned. I had done little work on Jung previously, but the more
I read the more disillusioned I became. However, I was determined to finish the
A Critical Analysis of C. G.(1955). But he is not someone you write about. 128 J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137
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dissertation because I wanted to graduate as quickly as possible. So I rushed through
it, and it turned out to be dreadful. In spite of that, I was later approached by a
publisher. But I wouldn’t allow it. Since then I have largely forgotten about Jung.
DM But that’s not entirely true.
TA You’re right, ‘‘not entirely.’’ I have Jungian friends, theologians with whom I
sometimes enter into dialogue. It’s just that I have never been able to read Jung
seriously since the dissertation. An achievement through compensation.
DM Do you think that you might have been in quest of some resolution through the
dissertation?
TA You mean to destroy the Church?
DM No. I didn’t mean that. I was speaking of your history prior to this rejection by the
Diocese of Chicago. All of us face some type of conflict. In my instance, it was an
alcoholic home.
TA I had that, too.
DM I know. You told me during our O’Hare conversation. It helped me to understand
you better—and myself for that matter. I have coped with my history primarily
through compensation. As a psychotherapist, I have also found that certain conflicts
are best resolved that way. Your work on Jung sounds frustrating, especially if you
wanted to write on Freud. Working on a dissertation halfheartedly is like living in a
lackluster marriage. I hope your masters thesis on Augustine was more satisfying—
more compensatory. Incidentally, was the seminary denial prior to that?
TA I completed the masters thesis the same spring that the psychological judgement
period took place. In other words, I was in the course of writing that masters thesis
when I underwent those psychological exams.
DM How might what you were dealing with in that thesis be reflective of you as you
were then?
TA I’m sure that all of this was interrelated. But, let us consider that issue from a
different perspective. It is interesting how you point out that, at least overtly or
manifestly, I abandoned Jung. I say this because I have never abandoned Augustine.
I have remained an Augustinian theologian throughout my career. Indeed, I think I
have been more deeply rooted in Augustinian theology in the last ten years than I
have been at any time in my life. Therefore, I view my own development as being in
full continuity with the work that I did in writing the masters thesis. Even though
my topic was sin and the nature of grace in the theology of Augustine, the masters
thesis was most deeply concerned with evil and with nothingness.
There were things going on within all of this that I was not aware of at the time. I
am sure I am not aware of all of them now. Nevertheless, I have become more
aware of what was going on then, and it is true, that one year—this was 1950 or
1951—was very traumatic for me. By the way, I’ve been trying to write about this
indirectly, in a novel
DM I didn’t know you wrote fiction. What is the title? And how does your thesis fit in?
TA
was delve into the area of predestination or at least not seriously. I have been getting
more serious with this in recent years. During the masters, I certainly had a deep
sense of sin,
problem and with a genuine theoretical problem. Let it also be said that, at this time,
I was fighting a battle between Catholicism and Protestantism. I was being drawn in
a Catholic direction, and I even explored monastic life. I almost converted to
Laura, A Portrait of a Saint is the title. Oh, one thing that I didn’t do in the thesisangst, and nothingness. I was simultaneously dealing with an internal J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137 129
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Catholicism. I was attending Mass daily and receiving instruction from the Roman
Catholic chaplain at the University of Chicago. The masters thesis was related to all
of this because I believed that the deepest division between Protestantism and
Catholicism was the nature of grace.
DM I’m interested in how your concern with predestination evolved. Can you
summarize where you are with that now?
TA That’s a big question. The two theologians who have most profoundly affected me
in this area are Augustine and Barth. Both, in my judgement, identified
predestination as that doctrine or dogma which most fully manifests the identity
of the Christian God. The word ‘‘election’’ was often used by Barth as meaning
predestination. The word predestination has become such a contaminated term that
even Barth had to select an alternative. At any rate, I agree with both of them. I do
think that the real meaning of predestination or election has been largely lost. I
firmly believe that one reason for this lies in the fact that modern Christianity
simply cannot deal with hell or damnation. And when this happens you cannot deal
with God. A most decisive sign of the Church’s loss of God is its inability to speak
about damnation or hell. Even these recent fundamentalists, so far as I know, do not
talk about either one very much.
DM Why is that?
TA In my opinion, the fundamentalists are not Christian to begin with. I do not think
that they can deal with anything that is central or truly fundamental in the Christian
faith because they are so totally turned away from it. Of course, I realize that
‘‘fundamentalism’’ is a strange word. I am not talking about a type of evangelical
Calvinism. I am talking about the popular fundamentalists. Even though we have
many varieties of this, they all seem to all be characterized by a non-Christian
center. Please understand, I think the same thing of liberal Protestants. So as far as I
am concerned, the liberal Protestants and the Protestant fundamentalists are equally
estranged and alienated from the Christian faith.
DM But when it comes down to the manifestation of God for Christians, that is still
going to be Jesus. The moral focus here is going to be Jesus’s worldview and his
ethical conduct.
TA Yes and no. I don’t think we know anything about his actual ethical life.
DM What?
TA I just don’t think the evidence is there, except through a sort of mainstream New
Testament judgement. We really know very, very little about his actual life. We
project a great deal into that void—including distorted notions about God.
DM Let me tell you about something that I have observed not only in our
correspondence but in our other meetings in 1968 and 1972 as well. You stay
clear of areas that are outside your field of expertise. In all three of our
conversations, you have continuously come back to the subject of God.
TA Well, I’m a theologian.
DM I’ve always felt you were an atheistic poet passionately preoccupied with God. And
of the theologians that I have known, you seem to be the one that talks about God
the most.
TA In our times, nothing is more deeply forgotten than thinking about God. One sees
this most dramatically perhaps in the arena which is extraordinarily important and
yet deeply revealing, the whole world of Biblical criticism. In the last 20 years,
theological language has virtually disappeared from the body of critical, biblical
130 J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137
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scholarship and thinking. This has been true throughout the whole world of
theological and religious thinking.
I am alone in remaining deeply concerned with the question of God as my primary
reference for faith. I am certainly isolated and alone, for even though there may be
one or two who share this with me, there is really no one who I’m aware of who has
given themselves to writing as directly or openly about God as I have been doing in
recent years. I don’t think that there are many people who are truly interested in this
anymore. It radically isolates me.
DM In some ways, you are as you were before you applied to seminary. Given this, is
there still present, way down deep, a Tom Altizer who wishes to celebrate the
Eucharist?
TA No. At least, consciously, I’ve lost that altogether. I have not lost my loyalty to the
Church, but I no longer have any desire to be a priest at the Eucharist. I still think of
myself as a preacher; that’s another matter. But there is no part of me that
consciously desires the liturgical priesthood. That’s dead!
DM But back in the 1950s, was it a feeling of, ‘‘I must do this’’?
TA There can be no question that I had a strong sense of calling to the priesthood—not
so much to the liturgical priesthood but to the ministry of preaching. It was an
identity issue that I’m sure you have confronted.
DM Yes. I know other clergy that practice psychotherapy who experience the same
professional marginality. Personally, I enjoy the position. I think that in my
professional discipline—and any other, for that matter—the real creative work
occurs on the boundaries, where the forces of explanation are least developed and
the professional’s vulnerability to outside attack is most pronounced. As you know,
only a small number venture near this edge. But there are those that do. Some of
them, mostly people who came out of the 1960s, were affected by your ideas.
TA That is hard to believe.
DM Those of us who read
contemporary fusion of doubt and faith. In my case, I believe that Providence
brought us together, and I have followed your work with great interest because of
that. Our first encounter at Emory also helped me to understand how some
psychiatrists might have felt when they read Freud’s writings on religion. It is not
that I was unable to appreciate his atheism, it is just that he did not speak to me in
my native language—theology. You did. Freud’s message about religion became
more understandable because of radical theology. And I know that I am not the only
pastoral counselor who has experienced that realization. Your message was too
diagnostic for us to dismiss. Periodically, I meet up with a few of these people at
conventions and we discuss radical theology. Do you have some close colleagues
that you exchange ideas with from time to time?
TA I do have some theological colleagues, and I am very grateful for that.
DM Are these scholars who write and trade ideas with you?
TA Yes, sometimes, and I would like to develop more of that.
DM What is your next step?
TA To be honest, I have reached a kind of impasse or, rather, a period of transition. On
the one hand, I had hoped to write
But problems have arisen in my competence as a narrative writer. On the other
hand, my last two books constitute a kind of set. I had intended to go forward with
another volume entitled
Radical Theology and the Death of God recognized aLaura, Portrait of a Saint—and may still do that.The Apocalypse of God—and I may still do that. But I am J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137 131
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not ready for it right now. So, I am at an impasse. I also plan to retire soon. I would
like to find a different kind of life in retirement. I would like for my thinking and
writing to take a new turn.
DM Given your literary productivity, you do not sound like you are really talking about
retirement.
TA True. It’s not really retirement from productivity. It’s merely retirement from my
job as a university professor.
DM Could you actually retire?
TA No. My work is only peripherally related to my job. My job is only a relatively
small part of my life and I have had little enthusiasm for it for many years. The only
thing I really enjoy about it is an occasional good relationship with a student. I’ve
just been teaching for so many years that I think the time has come to end it. I’ve
been in the academic world far too long, and it has been damaging even though I
have distanced myself from it in recent years. At this time, I think it’s important that
I get away from it altogether. You see, I do not think it is really possible to move
into something without simultaneously closing out what you are coming from. You
cannot really enter a new world without leaving an old world. This is very dramatic
to me, and very symbolic in religious language.
The Ascension symbolizes the way in which traditional Christians understand Christ
as having come to this world to make possible for the elect a turning away from this
world and a voyage to Heaven above, and to the glories of life everlasting. To me
that is gnostic. Is the Christian life to be focused on preparing oneself for that glory
that awaits us in Heaven? It seems to me that if you are given internally to this goal,
to this quest, that you must inevitably be turned away from, or at least in a
fundamental sense refuse and negate, a fullness of life here and now. It’s very ironic
in so many ways.
I think Christianity—historical Christianity—has evolved and became real by
reversing its original ground. I think the ancient Patristic church was more
passionately, more totally in quest of Heaven and immortality than any other
religious movement in history. And to me that is just a reversal of what the Gospel
is all about—a reversal of Jesus. And unless we reverse that reversal or negate that
negation, we are going to be blocked from any true oneness with the actuality of the
Other here and now.
I will illustrate what I mean by reading a passage from the rough draft of my novel,
Laura, A Portrait of a Saint
encounter with God.
Laura, I must ask you how you could make the affirmation, which you just
did, if you never previously knew God or experienced God as God, for that is
what you said and I believe you. Could it be that you only truly knew God
today and knew God in His total judgement, a judgement that you can now
affirm?’’ ‘‘Yes,’’ Laura replied. ‘‘I know that I did not know God until today,
not truly. For even if I did know that abyss and even if I affirmed it, I did not
know it as God. Certainly I did not experience it as God; that only happened
today. And that’s why I didn’t know God until today. Don’t you see? Can’t
you see? I could affirm that abyss, or finally affirm it. Somehow I could accept
it in its awesome terror, but that couldn’t have been a real or full acceptance if
I couldn’t know what it was. But if I did accept it, and truly accept it, that
could only be because I was accepting God. Accepting God without knowing
. Laura and Pastor Morton have been discussing her 132 J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137
123
God. But I knew Him today, knew Him in His terrible darkness, and His
terrible abyss but only just now could I actually accept God as that dark abyss.
There is
accept it in accepting God.
At first Morton couldn’t believe that he was actually hearing what he heard.
She really did know what had happened to her. She accepted it and accepted it
without hope, without any hope at all. ‘‘But that’s what real acceptance is,’’ he
reminded himself. This was a truth which he never had been able fully to
accept much less practice. Now it was being realized before his very eyes and
he couldn’t doubt it. He knew that it was real, as real as anything which he
had witnessed and unquestionably real despite the fact that it was wholly
inexplicable. Laura had accepted the darkness, accepted it in its deepest
ground for she had accepted it as God, had affirmed it as God, and this without
illusion, without any real hope or anything nameable or manifest. She really
did know God.
DM Tom, that’s a profound, mystic truth. Let me modify Laura’s conclusion from my
own perspective: ‘‘There is
now and I accept it in accepting God.’’ This will be a very important book for you to
complete. Now, let me use Pastor Morton as a turning point. He might be someone
who came out of the university or seminary you characterized earlier. You have said
that in many of our best seminaries—particularly those with fine pastoral counseling
programs—classical theology is not an attractive subject. But you implied more.
TA Again, from my point of view, a deep question in the university today is whether or
not the ministry should be theological in any fundamental sense at all. There is so
little classical theological education occurring in our seminaries today. By classical,
I mean those issues that are strictly concerned with classical or traditional
theological subjects. If you will indulge me, I will use something I just wrote to
clarify my point.
Surely one reason theology has become so peripheral in our time is that it has
withdrawn itself from our deeper traditions, and above all from our deeper
modern traditions, so that conservative theologians can now laud the advent of
a ‘‘post modernity’’ which is seemingly a disillusion of the modern world. But
the simple truth is that a fully modern theology has not yet been written or
conceived, so that there cannot yet be a post-modern theology, but only a
renewed medieval or patristic, or pagan theology, even if such a renewal
forecloses all possibility of either a truly imaginative or genuinely philosophical
ground.
DM I agree and I’m not surprised to hear you say that but I will always remember one of
your other works that I read with great surprise. It was the conclusion to your Ph.D.
dissertation:
This writer is an Anglican who accepts the canonical authority of the Bible, as
well as the ecclesiastical authority of the creeds and practices of the ancient
church catholic as normative standards for Christian life and belief. He
believes that Christianity is nothing if it is not founded in the life and
teachings of Jesus Christ, and that without its Christological foundations as
normatively established by the ancient church, it cannot preserve its authentic
nothing beyond that abyss, nothing at all. I know that now and Ino-thing beyond that abyss, no thing at all. I know that J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137 133
123
nature. Therefore, he is forced to reject Jung’s conception of the figure of
Christ
processes of a collective unconscious which has artificially been engrafted by
tradition into the insignificant figure of history (
A great many changes have taken place since you wrote that. Tell me, do you have a
creed today? Is there some kind of statement that articulates the core of radical
theology, and how it might become a conduit for future dialogues about God?
TA As a matter of fact, I do have such an article of faith. It is another conclusion. I refer
to it as an ‘‘Apocalyptic Creed.’’
I believe in the triumph of the Kingdom of God, in that Kingdom which is the
final life of the spirit, a life incarnate in Jesus, and consummated in his death.
That death is the self-embodiment of the Kingdom of God, and a death which
is the resurrection of incarnate body, a body which is a glorified body, but
glorified only in its crucifixion, which is the death of all heavenly spirit, and
the life of a joy which is grace incarnate. That joy and grace are all in all,
offered everywhere and to everyone, and invisible and unreal only to those
who refuse them, a refusal which is everyone’s but a refusal which is annulled
in the death of the incarnate and crucified God, and transfigured in that
resurrection, a resurrection which is the actual and present glory of the
Kingdom of God. Amen (Altizer
DM A fitting conclusion. A liturgical conclusion. I need some time to think that over. I
have to read it. Hearing you state your creed took me back to my very first editorial
encounter with the death of God—a 1966 issue of the
liturgical statement accompanied that article. I am sure you recall that it concludes
with Nietzsche’s echo:
Your god is dead
He died in the darkness of your image
He died because he grew ill from your dream of salvation
He died because you held his hand too tightly
God is dead.
TA We will hear that echo again—even louder in the coming century.
…that Jesus Christ is wholly a mythical figure arising from the deeper1955, pp. 265–267).1993, p. 185).New York Times. Another Epilogue
I was packing when Tom handed me a Navy Peacoat that he had recently purchased at a
seconds shop run by the Junior League. He told me that the weather report predicted heavy
snow; he knew I arrived without an overcoat. Naturally, I told him I would return it as soon
as I got back to Atlanta.
‘‘No, this is a gift.’’ I started to politely protest but he interrupted, ‘‘Follow me, I want to
show you something.’’ We went downstairs to the basement which, like the rest of the
house, was clean and well ordered. In one area, there were several racks of new clothes in
different sizes. ‘‘I find good buys at thrift shops.’’ He smiled, ‘‘As you should know from
Chicago, one can never be sure about the weather. Besides, I like to give my friends
clothes, particularly when they need them.’’
134 J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137
123
I wondered if his mission work in Chicago was related to this friendly practice, which
he described as if it were a hobby. Then I realized that the coat was a symbol of something
I had not identified before. In the twenty-five years I had known him, Tom Altizer had
consistently treated me with generosity. He was generous with his time, ideas, and hospitality.
I put the Peacoat on and thanked him.
Tom drove me to the quaint train station in Stoneybrook. We had an hour to wait until I
returned to New York where, oddly enough, I was spending the night in Hell’s Kitchen. It
was a wonderful afternoon, and I was intellectually satiated. We each got a cup of coffee
and, without exchanging a word, walked straight to a used bookstore just across the street.
When we got to the door, Tom looked at me with a grin. ‘‘You’ve got radar. You’re
going to love this shop.’’ I did.
He introduced me to the owner of the bookstore. He asked me who or what I was most
interested in and when I replied, ‘‘Schweitzer,’’ he respectfully pointed toward a glass
bookcase in the next room. It was marked,
ransom.
I discovered five books about Schweitzer that I had never seen before, two were in
German, two published exclusively in Great Britain, and the last was a numbered limited
edition signed by the editor, A. A. Roback. I also found a small book in French,
Pe´lican du Docteur Schweitze
Likewise, the German texts contained valuable contributions by people such as Buber,
Einstein, and Tillich. I was overjoyed by this find and decided to share my excitement
with Tom by giving him a book as a memento of our time together. I looked down at a
book I was holding. It was open to a page of pictures of Albert Schweitzer and Nikos
Kazantzakis.
I knew then that I wanted to give Tom
Kazantzakis—if, of course, this bookstore had a copy. I had looked through Altizer’s entire
library, which was nicely organized in two different studies, the second including a work
area which was obviously that of a professional writer. If my eyes had crossed the spine of
this book, it would have registered. As a seminarian I kept a copy in my carrel next to an
English dictionary which belonged to my grandfather. I consulted both often.
As we walked back to the train station, I showed Tom the new additions to my library as
we discussed our common interests in Schweitzer. We both recognized the Reverence for
Life as a moral directive for the atheist as well as the theist. I also gave Tom
God
a book of poetic epigrams. So far this is the best example I’ve ever seen. I use it.’’ My
inscription read, ‘‘For TJJA, ‘thrice blessed’—Until Providence beckons again,
DMM.’’
As the train pulled out of Stoneybrook, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine I was on
the Orient Express headed for Paris. When I finally relaxed, I reviewed my visit with Tom
from start to finish—especially the improbable details which I understood as signals of
Providence. In doing so I reconsidered my gift to Tom. I was particularly curious about his
reaction to the ‘‘Credo’’ Kazantzakis used to conclude his spiritual exercises, one which
proclaims human freedom from every source of impediment to an increasingly spiritual
concept of God. My inscription to Tom was based on the final verses.
Blessed be all those who hear and rush to free you, Lord, and who say: ‘‘Only you
and I exist.’’
Blessed be all those who free you and become united with you, Lord, and who say:
‘‘You and I are one.’’
Schweitzeriana, which to me was a king’sLe, published long before it had been translated into English.The Saviors of God: Spiritual Exercises byThe Saviors of, wrapped in brown paper by the owner of the bookstore: ‘‘You might consider writingShalom, J Relig Health (2010) 49:118–137 135
123
And thrice blessed be those who bear on their shoulders and do not buckle under this
great sublime, and terrifying secret:
That even this one does not exist! (Kazantzakis 1960
I dozed for the next hour and woke up in Grand Central Station. I thought my mind was
clear when I got off the train but before I reached the turnstile, I knew I had left something
behind. Instinctively, I turned around and walked back toward the train. As I did I checked
my valise and mentally reviewed everything I had with me. The temperature was dropping
by the minute. Chicago winters should have trained me to be suspicious about New York
snow. My Peacoat took on another meaning for me, a practical one. I did need it. I also
realized what was missing, a disposable camera that I had left in Tom’s downstairs library.
I became angry, primarily because I forgot to use it. Then I realized that my mental
pictures were more succinct reminders of this dialogue than even a video tape might be.
I started to turn around when I was stopped by a memory. I saw someone that I thought I
knew inside a train car about ten feet in front of me. He was sitting next to a frosted
window looking at a group of Orthodox Jews who had just started to board. Minus a black
hat, he looked like a member of the windblown minyan entering his passenger area. When
he spoke to them, I realized that I knew him from a long time ago. I walked up to the
window and tapped on the glass with my pen. The train started to move, so I stepped
backward and raised my right hand with two fingers outstretched in the form of a V, the
peace symbol of the 1960s.
He got up and said something humorous to his Orthodox audience, then turned toward
me and made the peace sign with both hands. Our eyes fused for the millisecond that time
stopped. Chronology and geography, like statistical probability, were irrelevant in this
religious experience. As such, I knew that most was open to scientific criticism. Perhaps it
could be dismissed as a fortuitous event in the life of a superstitious intellectual who was
cognitively drained, and, therefore, perceptually hypersensitive and potentially hallucinatory.
Yet even if that were the case, the message would be the same: to ignore Providence
is to deny the Reality which creates and transforms all of life. I felt that Presence embrace
me as the last passenger car faded into the winter darkness, and with it, Allen Ginsberg.
My grandfather used to say, ‘‘If you’ve got a lot, you should give a lot.’’ Like Altizer’s,
Ginsberg’s psyche was complex, prophetic, and generous. Certainly, my life was enriched
by experiencing theirs. I sensed I would see Tom again, but I was unsure about Nietzsche’s
double walker. I also wondered if the poet remembered drinking beer with a young theology
student challenged by an echo.
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ORIGINAL PAPER
Nietzche’s Echo—A Dialogue with Thomas Altizer
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