On Tragedy and Transcendence: An Essay on the Metaphysics of Donald MacKinnon and Rowan Williams

By Khegan M. Delport and Graham Ward

From the time of Plato's proposed expulsion of the poets, tragedy has repeatedly proposed a challenge to philosophical and theological certainties. This is apparent already in early Christianity amongst leading figures during the patristic age. But this raises the question: Why was the theme of tragedy still accepted and deployed throughout the history of Christianity nevertheless? Is this merely an accident or is there something more substantial at play? Can Christian theology take the tragic seriously? Must Christianity ultimately deny the tragic to be coherent, or might it be able to sustain its negativity? Some like George Steiner, David Bentley Hart, and John Milbank have doubts about such a coherency, but others think differently. This book aims to examine this debate, laying out the lines of disagreement and continuing tensions. Through a critical examination of the work of Donald MacKinnon and the eminent Christian thinker Rowan Williams, the book aims to show that there is a path for reconciling the claims of Christian orthodoxy and the experience of tragedy, one that is able to maintain a metaphysical foundation for both real transcendence and unfolding historicity, without denying either.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pickwick Publications
• Release date: Oct 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781532697784

Khegan M. Delport

Khegan M. Delport is a Research Fellow at the Department of Systematic Theology and Ecclesiology, University of Stellenbosch and Department of Historical and Constructive Theology, University of the Free State. He has published his work in Modern Theology, The Heythrop Journal, and The Journal of Anglican Studies, amongst others.

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Preface

It is a kind of comic irony that my first attendance of theatrical tragedy should happen after I wrote a dissertation on the tragic. This might seem somewhat odd to those raised near the likes of the West End, or Broadway, or the Market Theatre, or the Baxter. I admit that this is a mildly embarrassing factoid, but I find some comfort in that there is nothing historically unprecedented about this. The birth of tragic theory for good or ill coincides with a decline in performances of staged tragedy. One could be somewhat flippant and say something like the Owl of Minerva only flies at dusk (as Hegel would have it), but such a narrative of decline is not the whole story. It is true that with the rise of the novel and private reading, the textuality of tragedy comes to hold priority, stimulating a surge in philosophical exploration. And in many ways, this essay on transcendence and tragedy is a continuation of this trajectory. The reasons for this on my part, however, are highly idiosyncratic and contingent: I come from a decidedly middle-brow family; attendance of the theatre or even musical concerts was (and still is) decidedly rare. Moreover, my teenage years were spent in a small town, hours away from any major metropolitan district. Also, it is not irrelevant to add that the theatre can be a rather costly affair, something out of the price range for the majority of South Africans—never mind as a normal family outing. In short, for the majority of my life, going to the theatre would have been rather eccentric.

In any case, on 21 September 2019 I decided to go to watch a tragedy with a friend of mine. A local production of Mark Fleishman’s new play Antigone (not quite/quiet): "Ninganiki Okungcwele Ezinjeni"¹ was premiering at the Baxter for a limited time. It formed part of a series of events hosted by the Centre for Theatre and Performance Studies at the University of Cape Town. I did not know quite what to expect, but from the given title and the hand-outs, one had suspicions this was going to be a rather deconstructive affair—like King Lear à la Godard, or Lee Breuer’s The Gospel at Colonus, and so on. It was a wonderfully ‘faithless’ adaptation: one part self-agonizing soliloquy (Ismene), one part dance choreography (Antigone), and one part multimedia presentation (Tiresias).² The first dramatizes Ismene (a white woman) coming to terms with her betrayal of Antigone, and her conflicting emotions of self-justification. Ismene is emblematic of the collective psyche of white South Africa, poised between acceptance and denial. She is caught in a tragic and destructive middle that is not resolved by the end of the first act.³ Her failure to act has wide ramifications, for her betrayal is not of an individual, or of the blood-bond; instead, she has forsaken a future collective, the generations of mostly black youth who are still to come. Unlike the original play, this Antigone is represented by a chorus rather than a single character—a troupe of toyi-toying⁴ singers and dancers.⁵ They are symbolic of the post-1994 generation and those disenchanted with rainbowism.⁶

A deep pessimism is visible in this play. Its mood is crepuscular and apocalyptic, especially in the third act. Tiresias’s foreboding invocation of Mqhayi is a prophetic threat: The days of reckoning are coming / Days of inquiries and cross-/ examinations / Of being prodded with a weapon / When you can be over-thrown / without reserve.⁷ Who exactly is going to do the overthrowing is not entirely clear, but it is centred on the imagery of Mbambushe, a mythical and nebulous dog-human, who returns periodically to sow havoc in the nation. All of this is not comforting for us: the future imaged is not Panglossian. The atmosphere and the music are darkly ambient and unsettling. In confirmation of this disconcerting undertone, at one point the chorus of singers release a punning, bitter re-imagining of Silenus: "Better not to be born free."⁸ It is at this point that art, philosophy and life are drawn together provocatively.

I mention this play and this story because the trajectory of this study might, at first glance, seem to be removed from contextual elements, being an exposition of a European tradition of theology and metaphysics. But this distance in idiom does not necessarily imply a disconnection of content. Transcendence and tragedy, I believe, have transcultural resonance. Tragedy is just as real for my continent of Africa as anywhere else, and maybe even more so. Tragedy staged or otherwise is not merely a Western importation, but one that has been creatively indigenized on the continent for decades. There is already sizable scholarship on the reception of classical tragedy in Africa, and it continues to grow as more tragedies are produced.⁹ From Soyinka to Fugard, from Rotimi to Osofisan, across the expanse of the continent and its diaspora, the re-imagination of the tragic for Africa continues. These bear witness to the continuing reality of post-colonial violence, failed states, and setbacks related to transitional justice.¹⁰ Situations like these, in countries like South Africa and others on the continent, lend themselves to tragic interpretations. There is something fitting in their mutual relating and juxtaposition; and when one combines this factor with the massive historical influence of Christianity on the continent, for good and bad, these questions become even more pertinent. Donald MacKinnon and Rowan Williams’s implication of Christ and the Church in a tragic paradigm has resonance with such experience, even though it touches little upon African experience as such. Essential for them is the way that staged tragedy attempts to represent those destructive and fatal contiguities that connect us to one another and the world. On their reading, we are not free to invent ourselves in whatever manner we choose, apart that is from a matrix of implication and effect, and the immanent restrictions that we are born into. Tragedy provokes us to reflect on these limits, suggesting not so much that we are doomed to inevitable outcomes, but that actions can come at a cost. This is a question that tragedy raises for us, both theologically and philosophically.

For example, when one hears a statement like "Better not to be born free, it is hard not to pick up deeper ontological questions. It speaks to the problem of hopelessness, a sense of lost futurity, an echo reverberating across millennia. More and more, in the times of recessions and pandemics, there is a growing sensibility that cultural death and failed promises are intrinsic to the social functioning of late capitalism, a cruel optimism" to reference Lauren Berlant.¹¹ These are global affects that cannot be narrowed down to one segment of the North Atlantic. Tragic ideas are not ghettoized concepts, and are certainly not cloistered within Eurocentric discursive regimes.¹² There are events that impact us globally, of which the impending climate crisis is the most obvious. It is of course possible to overemphasise the importance of this tradition especially within Occidental criticism (Ochieng has provocatively spoken of the fetishization of tragedy¹³). Observing the mass of literature on the tragic, as well the philosophical reception of its themes, one could say there is some basis for this concern. There are certainly many other registers into which human experience and art can be encompassed. Tragedy should not be hypostatized into some catch-all experience, a totality into which all the disparities of daily life and practice should be included. We should be wary of a tragic theory of life. Much of this will be repeated and emphasized in the study to follow. My main point here, however, is that ontological questions, including options such as pessimism, are certainly not enclosed within a Western enclave—which remains a disparate tradition even in its own setting.¹⁴ Within critical theory, Afropessimism is a living and influential option, and has produced a significant amount of reflection and discussion in recent times.¹⁵ While I will not enter explicitly into a discussion of these ideas, one of the questions I will ask here is whether ontological pessimism is a necessary outcome of the tragic imagination. Does respect for tragedy imply an account of transcendence which is necessarily threatening and destructive? And if we configure a transcendence that bypasses this option, then what do we say about history, which so often is experienced as afflictive? Does the arc of the universe bend towards justice or is this simply a deceptive fantasy? Are there deeper grounds for hope and redemption, or is pessimism the only realism? This is a vital query, because it appears recurrently in secular disputations of the relation between Christianity and the tragic, as seen in the likes of Christopher Hamilton and Simon Critchley (amongst others).¹⁶

Many might think that an emphasis on tragedy leads towards the latter proclivity, that is, towards ontological despair. This would naturally be the impression if one read someone like Schopenhauer. However, this is not a foregone conclusion. In many ways, the bipolarities of hope and despair are internal to tragic representation. If we put aside for the moment ideas of absolute tragedy, as offered by George Steiner, one can see how tragedy dramatizes both of these options. There are plays that appear unremitting, that offer scarce consolation. The Persians ends in catastrophe for Xerxes at the Battle of Salamis: his mother Atossa opines When waves of trouble burst on us, each new event / Fills us with terror; but when Fortune’s wind blows soft / We think to enjoy the same fair weather all our lives. / Now, ringed with fears, in every threat I see Heaven’s wrath; / My ears are dinned with notes that bear no healing spell.¹⁷ One could also think here of Euripides’s The Women of Troy, The Bacchae and Medea. However, The Oresteia portrays an ordeal of suffering pedagogy, where internecine conflict is gradually realized as an unsustainable option. Here something is gained: a moral growth in the perception of justice and mutual recognition beyond violent reprisals. In this sense, Aeschylus dramatizes the dictum of Agamemnon that we have to "suffer to be wise" (pathei mathos).¹⁸ Similar polarities could be found in the other ancient dramatists: Sophocles’s Ajax, Trachiniae, Electra, as well as his Theban trilogy—the undoubted masterpiece of Attic tragedy—all contain deeply unsettling elements. But even a cursory reading of Oedipus Tyrannus and Oedipus at Colonus will show that the expulsion and pollution of the blinded protagonist are not the conclusion in this rather sad story. Even in Oedipus at Colonus there is the marked transition from the nihilistic desperation of the Chorus’s earlier commentary, like when they say Not to be born is best,¹⁹ towards something much more affirmatory (Well, no more sound, / raise no more lamenting: / these things are bound / firmly to this ending.).²⁰ This is only a very short sample of the Greek corpus, but in summary what it tells us is that tragedy is not always as tragic as we imagine it to be. As I hope to show in this essay, it is precisely a departure from the particularity of tragic texts that creates problems further down the road in its reception, and leads to certain tensions which will have to be unpacked. Tragedy, like life, resists the systems and categories we place on it.

It is a persistent theme of this study that tragedy is not merely reflective of the stage or the writing desk, but the stuff of everyday reality, and especially the quotidian tragedy of the Two-Thirds World. I have already indicated that the reason tragedy speaks to us both aesthetically and philosophically across continents is because it touches upon the real conflicts and unforeseen consequences of human action, events which can never be eliminated, at least this side of finitude. This will be a pressing concern as we look at the figures of Donald MacKinnon and Rowan Williams, because, as churchman of differing stripes, they were both concerned with the theological question of how Christianity is able to speak to a world in which these things happen, without evasion and without cheaply-acquired reductions. They are convinced that a truthful meditation on suffering was not in fact negated by the Christian faith, but sustained and transformed by its basic teachings regarding creation and the cross. Rather than implying avoidance, for them Christianity provides resources for some kind of meaningful perseverance through the surd and aporetic perplexities of human loss. It is a theme that runs throughout their scholarly output. As I will argue, I think that Williams maintains the balance somewhat better than MacKinnon; but nevertheless it is clear that both have attempted to reiterate these issues through their careers, with varying degrees of emphasis. But what is central for both of them is that tragedy is not just an intellectual or aesthetic affair. To stay within this register alone would just be another avoidance of the tragic itself.

This was impressed on me rather violently later on the same night that I went to the theatre. On my drive home from the Baxter, not far from the suburb where I live, I came across a minibus accident that had just happened. Several cars had stopped. The minibus was on its right side, mangled, with its front lying partially in the road. I stopped, parked near the curb, and put on my emergency lights. There were no police vans, emergency response vehicles, or fire services in sight. A small crowd had already formed. From what I could piece together, the taxi had lost control and collided head-on with a tree, with such impact that it crushed the front of the van, spun around, and landed on its side. Ostensibly, no other motor vehicles were involved. Several people were still inside the minibus—all black women and men. Shrapnel was dispersed all around the grassy pavement and in the adjacent road that led to a local storage company and car dealership. There was a woman, lying prone near the tree in question; she had either been ejected during the crash or had crawled their on her own. She was alive and communicative, but barely moving. The tree stood there, partially stripped by the collision, but still stout and unsparing in its rigidity. I then noticed what others already saw: that there was young man trapped beneath the minibus. The full weight of the bus was on him along with the passengers still inside. He was non-responsive. O Lord Jesus, he’s dead! one woman cried. She had seen similar scenes before: the everydayness of death. The crowd was discussing what we should do next. Break the window, some shouted. There was an emergency exit at the top of the minibus. Not wanting to be bystander, I retrieved a wooden implement from my car. By the time I returned, however, the window was broken. Still no one appeared to be moving inside. I do not know if there was communication with the wounded, but the sudden consensus was that the bus needed to be hoisted. A young man’s life was at stake.

There were risks: besides the precarity of lifting a minibus, there were people in the vehicle, possibly dead or with life-threatening injuries. Common wisdom says that one should wait for paramedics to arrive before moving anyone. But there was a human being trapped. The choice was: either wait for the experts to arrive or try to lift the minibus ourselves. Neither choice was perfect. Pushing the bus upwards would move those still inside, possibly injuring them further, while leaving the bus as it was would certainly make things worse for the man still being crushed. Was this a tragic choice? Within a few seconds, and after some hard lifting, the minibus bounced as it came down again on its wheels. Those inside ricocheted about before the bus came to a standstill. There was no response from the passengers. An arm dislodges, hanging lifelessly out of the compacted frame. It was the driver’s. I could see the young man was unencumbered now. He was motionless, except for a ruptured artery. A fountain of blood was pumping intermittently: the stream formed a dark puddle and started to flow down the curb. I went around to the other side to the taxi door and peered inside. Did I see something move, or had a limb just come to its natural resting place? I am still not sure. I then noticed that the local community-watch were on the scene, gently telling the woman near the tree not to move. She was still communicating but clearly traumatized. She kept her movements to a minimum. She was able to do so. Those inside were not as lucky. We had already decided for them. Soon thereafter the police and paramedics arrived and I departed from the scene. I have no idea who survived and who did not. I heard reports later of several deaths.

I am left with the question: was the decision to move the minibus right? Was the man not already deceased? Did we worsen the injuries of several passengers to save someone who might have already been dead? What if someone had a severe spinal injury and was left paralyzed by our actions? Was it worth the risk? Then again, who knows? Possibly no-one had spinal injuries and maybe the movement of bodies did no further damage. Maybe the risk was worthwhile, to save the life of one person. Of course, they all could have been dead already. I do not have the answers. Ideally the experts should have got there sooner. But should we have just stood around, waiting? Would that have been responsible? Now I tell this story not to invoke the narrative of a tragic hero thrust into impossible circumstances. I do not know if there were any heroes in this awful story. And yet it does point us to something substantially tragic, to those times where there are no harmless options, where our choices can come at the expense of others—and even our own lives. What I do know is that at this moment, tragedy had descended from the stage and confronted me directly.

And little did I know that there was another tragedy brewing beneath the surface. This would be the last night I would see my friend Alease Brown alive. She had graduated with her PhD earlier that year, the same as me. We had attended the production of Antigone together. She was a postdoc and was thriving in her position. She had recently written a paper on Persephone. We spoke about it before we went inside to the watch the performance. We did not see each other again after that night. I walked away as she waited for her Uber. We had made plans to meet up again but never got around to it, even though we live in the same city. We had kept in contact through the usual channels, still hoping to catch up, to hear how postdoc life was treating her. And then in the following March, I was informed that she had passed away. She had recently returned from a long stint in New York, and on her way back she had passed through Athens. It was during Lent, before the hard lockdown hit South Africa during Covid-19. A few weeks after returning, she started to feel ill. What began as an irritating headache had turned into hospitalization, and finally ended in death. It was sudden and unexpected. I had no idea of any underlying health conditions. I was informed that she had died of a genetic blood condition more prevalent in those of African descent. You are born with it, you do not contract it, and you die relatively young. There is no cure for it. I was obviously taken aback by the news. She was at the beginning of her academic career; so much left undone. The cosmic lunacy of it all was impressed upon me. It seemed like such a waste: to reach a lifetime goal only to be snuffed out. But then something else came to mind: this was a congenital and terminal condition. It is a disease that will eventually kill you. You do not know when exactly, but it will. Like the proverbial Sword of Damocles, it is always hanging around. Yet despite this chronic prognosis, she nevertheless upended her whole life. She left behind a promising law career and began to study theology. She moved to South Africa, adopting it as her own. She probably knew she would die young, but that did not stop her. She did not allow the logic of death to govern her life decisions. For me there is a beautiful, albeit tragic grandeur in all that: the willingness to risk everything without a guarantee of completion or success. This is very poignant for me. It reminds one of Antigone in her determination to bury her brother. There is something Greek in this decisiveness, a sense that some things are worth doing even if failure is highly probable. But Alease was a Christian, she also believed in miracles. She believed in resurrection, in Good Friday and Easter. She came from a tradition of the blues, but also of the spirituals. It was a deeply hopeful act. I am reminded of Luther’s willingness to plant a tree on the eve of the apocalypse, of saying yes when everything screams no. Maybe she thought: is a medical prognosis the end of the story? Like Carl Theodor Dreyer’s masterpiece Ordet (1955), who knows whether one’s prayers might not be met by the seemingly impossible gift of reprieve, of a life beyond the terminal sentence of death? Alease lived in this tension, seemingly until the end.

For the past few pages, I have spoken about tragedy as a description of the stage, of thought and of life. In many ways, this study seeks to move between these poles of experience. It stems from where my headspace has been for the past several years, especially since the beginning of my postgraduate studies. Along the way, I have many people I need to thank. Special thanks should be given to Prof. Robert Vosloo for his gracious accommodation and direction, most notably in the final stages of preparation of the doctoral research. Additional thanks should also go to my examiners of the original dissertation upon which this book is based, namely Prof. Dion Forster, Prof. Danie Veldsman and Dr. Stephen Martin, for their patient and often insightful commentary. I also cannot avoid thanking my cohort of fellow PhD students for their support and friendship, here in particular Dr. Marnus Havenga, Dr. Calvin Ullrich, and (soon-to-be Drs.), Louis van der Riet and Helgard Pretorius. Dr. Selina Palm also deserves mention for her honest and realistic advice throughout my PhD journey. I must also thank the various anonymous peer-reviewers who have looked over previous iterations and portions of this text, and who have helped to sharpen the argument of the book. Additional thanks must be given to the team at Wipf & Stock, and especially Dr. Charlie Collier for his guidance in the final stages of the manuscript preparation. And I must express my heartfelt thanks to Prof. Graham Ward for providing the Foreword to the book.

In terms of resources, I must also express my gratitude to the librarians at the Theology Library (University of Stellenbosch) for their unfailing assistance in providing books and inter-loan articles upon request. I also recall the help granted by Prof. Mike Higton and Dr. Benjamin Myers in the early period of my postgraduate research, particularly as regards their provision of hard-to-find texts penned by Rowan Williams. Dr. André Muller also deserves mention for granting me access to some early drafts of his biography of Donald MacKinnon, as well as several other documents he was editing. In the exploratory phases of the research, he sharpened my reading of MacKinnon and thoughtfully indicated the directions I should follow. All mistakes in interpretation, however, remain my own.

I would also like to express my thanks to Stellenbosch University for granting permission to re-publish my doctoral dissertation in the revised format here presented. Additionally, I would acknowledge and thank John Wiley and Sons and Cambridge University Press for allowing me to reprint material published in The Heythrop Journal, Modern Theology, and the Journal of Anglican Studies in Chapters Five and Eight.

Second-to-last, I would like to express gratefulness to my grandparents for their spiritual and material support, and their constant belief that I would see the process through. And lastly, I cannot avoid thanking my parents for their love and assistance throughout all my studies and research up till now.

This book, for the all reasons given above, is dedicated to the memory of the late Dr. Alease A. Brown.

1

. IsiXhosa for Give not unto dogs sacred things, an allusion of course to Matt

7

:

6

, but also a poem by S. E. K. Mqhayi—which is central to the third part of the play’s triptych.

2

. Tiresias is portrayed as a sangoma—a Zulu word for a traditional healer.

3

. The language of middle is drawn from the work of Gillian Rose.

4

. A form of dancing usually associated with protest in South Africa.

5

. It is not at all unprecedented to depict inter-racial conflict as a problem of inter-familial violence in South African theatre, as can be seen in Yael Farber’s Molora.

6

. An allusion to Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s famous designation of South Africa as a rainbow nation.

7

. Mqhayi, U-Mbambushe; the translation is by Phyllis Ntantala, and is taken from the play’s hand-out.

8

. The so-called born free are those born after

1994

or were too young to remember the period of legal apartheid. I say legal because many would argue that unofficial, neo-apartheid structures remain embodied in institutions until the present day—most clearly evidenced in the persistent racialized geography of South Africa.

9

. Cf. Goff and Simpson, Crossroads in the Black Aegean. On the reception of Greek tragedy in South African theater more generally, see Smit, The Reception of Greek Tragedy, and also Dominik, Reception of Greek Tragedy.

10

. On this, one can consult Scott, Conscripts of Modernity.

11

. Berlant, Cruel Optimism,

23

–

49

.

12

. The language of discursive regime or discursive field is taken from Foucault’s The Archeology of Knowledge,

119

–

32

.

13

. Ochieng, The Intellectual Imagination,

200

.

14

. See Thacker, Cosmic Pessimism.

15

. Scholars influential in this turn include Nahum Chandler, Saidiya Hartman, Fred Moten, Orlando Paterson, Jared Sexton, Hortense Spillers, Calvin Warren, Frank Wilderson III, and Sylvia Wynter.

16

. I am thinking of Hamilton’s A Philosophy of Tragedy and Critchley’s Tragedy, the Greeks and Us.

17

. Aeschylus, The Persians

581

–

618

, in Prometheus Bound, The Suppliants, Seven Against Thebes, The Persians,

139

. However, since this forms part of a trilogy (the other parts of which have been lost), we do not know how Aeschylus planned to end the larger drama. There is a strong likelihood that it would have ended with a somewhat less lugubrious tone. On this, see Wise, Tragedy as ‘An Augury of a Happy Life.’

18

. Aeschylus, Agamemnon

163

–

86

, in The Oresteian Trilogy,

48

. In South Africa, this narrative has been re-imagined in Yael Farber’s Molora, which juxtaposes Aeschylus’s Oresteia to a fictional re-telling of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

19

. Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus

1211

–

38

. This translation is taken from Sophocles, The Three Theban Plays.

20

. Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus

1777

–

79

. The translation is taken from Sophocles: Four Tragedies.

1

Introduction

The Scope

The argument of this book is premised on the interconnections between Christian metaphysics and what has come to be called the philosophy of the tragic. It is the questions surrounding this relation that will animate our discussion, and is something that I hope to clarify a bit more in this extended essay. What will become clearer as we move forward is that this work aims to address some tensions that arise in the juxtaposition of Christianity and the tragic. More specifically, it will be centered on ‘transcendence,’ and how a more ‘classical’ or ‘orthodox’ metaphysics is able to account for, or at least reckon with, the tragic. A relationship between these discourses cannot be assumed to be harmonious, and so it is my task to suggest why this might be the case, and how they might be correlated, both conceptually and existentially. Its central argument is that there are accounts of transcendence that hinder an appropriation of the tragic, at least as regards classical theology. This is exemplified in the debate between, on the one side, David Bentley Hart and John Milbank, and on the other, Donald MacKinnon and Rowan Williams. It is this particular debate, and its wider context, that will form the center of this study.

Here our trajectory is not concerned, primarily, with a Christian metaphysics in toto but rather with a specific tradition, that is, with what has been called classical orthodoxy.¹ It is this point of departure that will inflect our language of transcendence, and how we relate the tragic to its contours. By working within a more classical tradition of Christian metaphysics, I am going forward with specific assumptions in regard to the nature of God and the matrix of beliefs connected to it. Here the language of ‘transcendence’ is particularly emphasized as being central to the grammar of classical orthodoxy, and therefore accrues an elevated place in this discussion. Consequently, this adopted framework provokes special challenges to conceptual reconciliation—or what could be called systematic coherency—which will need to be addressed if one is going to try and relate the classical language of transcendence to the tragic and the overtones it has accrued, especially in recent times.

Both ‘transcendence’ and ‘tragedy’ are multivalent and require longer expositions, but here already I can give some preliminary definitions. For instance, we see that the language of ‘transcendence,’ in everyday usage, often concerns the liminality associated with transition—as seen in the intersections between past, present and future, or moving from somewhere to somewhere else. In a slightly more rarified sense, ‘transcendence’ references experiences which frustrate reduction or ‘elevate’ us to some degree, those moments of wonder and terror where our senses are uplifted, overloaded and destabilized, like when one contemplates the immensity of nature or has an ecstatic experience of some kind. In more extreme cases, they can signify those experiences of intractability or non-negotiability within the world, indicating those events that transport us or shock us into new modes of awareness—the tragic included. As I hope to show later, tragedy is an example of this phenomenological resistance, precisely to the degree it reveals what cannot be repressed or evaded, namely, the world’s untameablity. But transcendence also betokens realities that are not experienceable in the mundane sense of the term, and are rather concerned with questions of meaning, with that which creates experience (that is, religions, myths, philosophy, etc.). In this sense, we can speak of experiences as having a ‘metaphysical’ or even ‘transcendental’ scope.² Furthermore, in this study, ‘transcendence’ is placed within the specific context of a classical account of Christian language regarding ‘divine being’ (e.g., aseity, impassibility, analogical participation,³ the convertibility of being and goodness),⁴ with the aim of showing that this tradition expresses a level of penetration that is not often recognized by revisionists. These questions will come into focus, especially when I discuss the work of Rowan Williams.

To state things concisely, the central question of this book is this: can a classical doctrine of transcendence account for the seriousness and often disturbing singularity of tragedy? This main question implies sub-questions which will also have to be addressed: are there conflicts between these representations of experience? And if there are, where do they lie? Are they substantial or the product of miscomprehension? As I progress, a couple of these tensions will become more apparent: on the one hand, there could be a query about whether classical metaphysics takes tragedy seriously, since (as has been prosecuted by some) it absconds from historicity.⁵ Such interrogation might conclude that this language operates more like an ‘ideology’ than responsible discourse. On the other hand, an objection might arise regarding the acceptance of ‘the tragic’ or ‘tragic theology,’ since respondents could argue that this implies a rejection or a limitation of Christian orthodoxy. In summary: one could argue either that the implications of tragedy should be curtailed or re-imagined—because it remains too refractory and inassimilable—or one should reject classical orthodoxy as an unnecessary hindrance.

And yet the question remains: are these the only two options available, sheer acceptance or rejection? As I argue, the answer should be a qualified no. Rather I suggest a possible third way beyond the extremes of simple acceptance or rejection. But to do this, several things will have to be accounted for: (1) it will have to argue that Christianity, even in its more traditional variety, is not opposed to the tragic, and is able to account for its challenges. For the purposes of this study, it will do so by localizing this tension on an area of deep importance for the classical orthodox tradition, namely, its grammar of transcendence. In this way, it provides a node of concentration for what is otherwise a daunting and complex tradition, showing how its language of transcendence impacts its reception of the tragic. (2) It will have to express sensitivity to the aporias of contingency, since it is precisely these factors which give the tragic its edge, and provides fodder for the critics of orthodoxy. And (3) it will also need to demythologize certain entrenched perspectives on the tragic, which for understandable reasons are often associated with the unremittingly catastrophic. It needs to address these concerns because if they remain in place, they express an incompatibility with a Christian account of redemption. As regards my argument, I will suggest that a ‘MacKinnonesque’ position, as modified by Williams, is one that is able to address these concerns, insofar as it takes historicity and tragedy seriously within a more-or-less orthodox position, while simultaneously addressing the particularity of tragic experience. In this study, I hope to see if such compatibility is a workable and coherent one within the theological assumptions here adopted.

Returning to the over-arching tensions as regards tragedy and transcendence, it appears beneficial to anticipate some of my arguments, so that we can concretize some of the debates I am referencing. On the one hand, one can see that a ‘transcendence’ which avoids historicity evades the problem, since finitude—in theatre and in life—remains an essential trait of the tragic; any theology which avoided this factor would remain unable to address or absorb the insights of tragedy. In terms of an ‘orthodox’ response, one would then have to show that aseity (and the analogy of being⁶) are not opposed to the experience of time and development. On the other hand, if history and its tragic outcomes are transcendentalized then this produces conclusions which a classical theology would want to caution against. As I suggest later, a traditional or classically-orthodox metaphysics would reject three interrelated revisions that are occasioned by this acceptance: namely, the concept of a suffering God, the rejection of evil-as-privation, and the (post)modern aesthetics of the sublime.

Of course, in a genealogical perspective these are distinct phenomena that have arisen in different historical stages, and so are not reducible to each other. But it will be argued,⁷ that they are connected and converge within their substance. For instance, it argues that the concept of a suffering God ultimately ‘ontologizes’ suffering and evil,⁸ and that this move has metaphysical implications, insofar as it tacitly opposes evil-as-privation. Firstly, this is because the transcendent good is conceived as mutable and therefore not infinite, as modified or placed ‘over-against’ contingency and evil; and, secondly, evil is granted a status of its own that is independent of the Good, since it exists as ‘something,’ whereas classically-orthodox metaphysics has asserted that evil has no existence of its own. On this account, evil or suffering becomes a ‘substance’ in itself, replete with a distinct existence, being no longer reducible to an ontological perversion. This revision, moreover, renders ‘Being’ as both good and evil (e.g., Manichaeism), or as ‘beyond good and evil’ (e.g., Nietzschean-postmodern tragic sublime⁹), since once you ascribe a discrete ‘existence’ to evil, then ‘evil’ becomes an expression of ‘Being.’ Once ‘evil’ and ‘suffering’ are given a non-parasitic ‘existence’—to the extent that they exist in a univocal sense to other existents—then this grants them an independence that is equal with the Good. This is irreconcilable with a classical metaphysics which says that the Good is convertible with Infinite Being. If one accords ‘being’ to evil, then it is hard to avoid an equiprimordiality of evil with the Good. It is this conclusion that suggests there is an ontological pessimism within such a tragic vision, since now ‘Being’ is severed from any special affinity to the Good, a move which promotes an ‘ontological violence’ and a politics based on the irreconcilability of human goods (á la Hobbesian liberalism).¹⁰ And it is this ‘pessimism’—as witnessed in the writings of George Steiner—that supports ideas of unremitting disaster as belonging to the essentially tragic, and buttresses arguments that Christianity and the tragic are finally opposed.¹¹

It is at this moment that the debate between our main discussion partners becomes intelligible. All of them, Hart and Milbank, MacKinnon and Williams, serve as representatives of theological orthodoxy, specifically as regards the theme of transcendence. However, it is the differences between them as regards ‘the tragic’ that require explanation; such an explanation pivots around MacKinnon, and the others’s responses to him, since he is a figure central to the modern¹² theological debate surrounding ‘the tragic.’ It is in the critical reception of his work, and the particular tradition he mediates (e.g., Kantianism), that many of the key contentions will be adjudicated.

However, it appears helpful to speak briefly regarding method and my own situatedness in this argument.

On Beginning in the Middle

A word on method and assumptions: as a theologian, one has to begin somewhere, and that ‘somewhere’—as Rowan Williams has suggested—is the middle of things.¹³ One begins where one is at, where one is located, within all the ‘middles’ this implies. Any theology is ‘placed’ and cannot pretend otherwise; even the most systematic or interlaced arrangement can never be totally self-referential or auto-poetic.¹⁴ One should emphasize this once more: theologies arise within contexts and the interplay between locations and their informing traditions (their history, culture, language, religiosity, etc.). Every theology has ‘orthodoxies,’ since theologies—no matter how radical, venerable or established—cannot erase this limitation. Without this factor, we would be unable to say anything with coherency or fidelity. On the one hand, this is an existential necessity since we cannot step out of our own skins, so to speak. But on the other this reality intimates a theological truth also: that out knowledge of God is always socially and historically mediated. As finite beings, our rationality is sequential and diachronic, and so (because of this) theological language is a learned discourse, and is entwined with those habits that cultivate it. Or to adopt Marxist phraseology, orthodoxies are produced,¹⁵ and gather their viability as they capacitate the traversal of ‘symbolic capital’ across diverse contexts and strata.¹⁶ But because these ‘texts’ and ‘contexts’ are continuously produced and appraised, they are neither value-neutral nor ‘natural.’ They are living and vibrant systems fabricated through historical signs and material practices, semantic densities that are subject to time and alteration.¹⁷ Theological reflection occurs within this flux, and the often unsystematized speech that is awakened within it.¹⁸ Once more, as theologians we are placed within ‘the middle.’ We are unable to erase those life-worlds (Lebenwelten) and backgrounds (Umwelten) that shape us—including the present author. As a white African male, a descendent of European colonizers and refugees, I am shaped by Western tendencies of thought. This can be discerned, for example, in my metaphysical and genealogical proclivities, my preference for ‘historicism,’ as well as my choice of subject-matter, which is dominated by North Atlantic, Euro-American men. However, one should also stress that being placed in a country like South Africa makes one sensitive to questions which might not be readily apparent in others. The daily admixture of joy and despair, of laughter within the vallis lacrimarum, that is experienced everyday by a majority of black and brown South Africans, cannot be lost on any sensitive commentator. Tragedy, real or fictional, is not just a Hesperian phenomenon. In this light, my study is contextual, personal and ‘biographical,’ in the sense that it exhibits what Williams has called the lived incoherence of theological writing, a factor which reminds us of the inescapable place of repentance in all theological speech worth the name.¹⁹ Alluding to this should not, however, act as an alibi for ersatz or hazy argumentation, but should rather remind us of the angularity of its composition.

Locatedness and particularity are intrinsic to know where one is speaking from. We cannot escape our ‘middles.’ But then how does one retain rigor or accountability? What approach should we take to maintain ‘objectivity’? Here, I will adapt some concepts used by Vincent Brümmer²⁰ (and others²¹) to unravel my method and assumptions presupposed in this study. Firstly, as previously stated, my argument works within a trajectory of classical and orthodox metaphysics, and therefore aims to express continuity within this stream. I work within this ‘tradition,’ one that traces its origins to those scriptural and patristic sources that provided the early seed-bed for Christian thought.²² This specificity establishes the limits and objectivity of the work, insofar as it projects not just any object, but a particular one. But I know that one cannot simply repeat formulae without an awareness of how such language works in the present, and the overtones this might or might not carry due to changed circumstances and historical resonance.²³ This suggests that translation and ‘non-identical’ repetition remain essential for the process of handing-over, and that Christian ‘identity’ does not persist apart from this, and assists us