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It is truly right and just, our duty and our salvation, always and everywhere to give you thanks, Lord, Holy Father, almighty and eternal God, through Christ our Lord.

For the days of his saving Passion and glorious Resurrection are approaching, by which the pride of the ancient foe is vanquished and the mystery of our redemption is celebrated. Through him the host of Angels adores your majesty and rejoices in your presence forever. May our voices, we pray, join with theirs in one chorus of exultant praise, as we acclaim: Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might, heaven and earth are full of your glory. Hosanna in the highest. Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest.

Not only a writer’s pride or her humility may lead her to settle on the conviction that the book she has written is extraordinary. Pride and humility are, of course, complicated phenomena that not uncommonly rub off on the work in which they are complicit. Both do sometimes come in handy in the course of carrying out prolonged and difficult tasks, like writing books. Still, neither is always and everywhere helpful even in this particular line of work, perhaps especially because they contend so bitterly with each other in both happy and unhappy memories and hopes. I am pretty sure that, sometimes consecutively and sometimes concurrently, I am and have been both mortally humble and proud. I confess that, because I do find myself against myself comparing myself to others and find that my level of energy is affected by the way they and I appear to measure up. Consequently, in the writing of this book, I have felt alternately good and bad about a word choice, the turn of a phrase, and the way phrases tumble together to make paragraphs and sections and chapters and then a whole book. Still, I have not set out to write a book that has measured up and even when I have been worried about whether or not it has, I have found that I have written otherwise. In other words, though quite a large number of subjects are discussed here—from immigration to education, from the history of metaphysics to the Gospel of Mark, from urban planning to martyrdom, from brain physiology to ecclesiology, from wounded bodies to the forgiveness of sins, from hard work to hard, hard death, from time to resurrection, from theological method to the doctrine of the Trinity, and too much more—this is not a book about certain ideas or practices. This is not actually a book about anything (über etwas, Bultmann might have said). It is rather a book of something (von etwas).1 What I have written, more particularly, is a prayer, a prayer I have prayed precisely in the writing. This is a book that prays and prays in particular that its “speaking voice” would “also be [its] hearing ear.”2 It prays performatively, as an act, as a movement that perhaps without presumption might be called a dance, a perhaps perichoretic one, if the epiclesis of God’s good pleasure happens to be answered. It is a dance, though, that calls for a partner. Which means that this is that awkward moment when I stand before you, having crossed the wide well-waxed hardwood floor, and ask with downcast eyes if you would dance with me.

An extraordinary book, however, is not necessarily a good book. I would not claim that this is a good book—or its opposite, for that matter. I don’t know how I would even begin to make either judgment. It is, it seems to me, simply different, different from ordinary books, and especially those shelved near it in the theology section of university or seminary libraries. Indeed, when asked about what I’ve been writing, for some time now I have typically reached for a harsher adjective: “I am writing a weird introduction to theology,” I have said. Now, as anyone who has been to a junior high school dance knows, the surest way to strike out after that long walk across the dance floor from your side to hers is to be labeled by her and especially by her friends as weird. Still, this book, it seems to me, is just that, in part because it does not secure a defensible position, i.e., it will not stand still long enough to stake a claim.3 Of course, neither does a child’s guilty confession or the barely audible moans haunting the aftermath of battle or an exhausted smile in a labor and delivery unit—or a charging bull, for that matter.

On the other extreme, the phrase “introduction to theology” leaves the exact opposite impression. To encounter someone or something weird may at least at times be interesting. Of the items on the long list of academe’s most perfunctory undertakings, “introduction to theology” has one of the lowest sexiness quotients. Simply utter the phrase and you can feel the room’s net hormone level drop. And yet, I would still say, right out in public, that this book is an introduction, i.e., if it is by way of introduction that one person might invite another to dance. After Crucifixion is an invitation to you, an invitation to dance, to think, to pray, to hear an extraordinary, weird, uncanny beat and move to it—with me.4

At the same time, this is a rigorous text. It is certainly written with hope. It is written toward thanksgiving. And I hope that there will be moments when reading it will in fact have been a prayer of delightful abandon. Still, this book is work. Laboring through it has entailed for me and will likely entail for you, if you take it up, both determination and pain. Life is delightful and it is hard. My task in writing this book has been to be true to life and to those who live it.

This is a book for a wide spectrum of audiences, all of whom I imagine (however naïvely) as ready for good work. I have thought as I have written, actually, of my past and present and future students, among whom are undergraduate students, graduate students in professional programs, graduate students in more strictly academic programs, pastors, laborers, university and seminary professors, social workers, artists, drug traffickers, corporate professionals, military professionals, NGO professionals, psychologists, writers, community organizers, musicians, small business owners and employees, pre- and elementary and middle and junior high and senior high school teachers, chaplains, blue-collar workers, medical doctors and nurses and technicians, politicians, farmers, corporation executives, as well as, of course, those unmarked by formal titles; gentle, violent, kind, cruel, forgiving, exacting, faithful, and treacherous people; victims and perpetrators of child abuse, victims and perpetrators of spousal abuse; people with plans, property, and prestige; people adrift, jobless, homeless; people who say “God!” in such a variety of ways that were they to sing that word at once in the same big room, if only for a minute or two, the cacophony might, like a first viewing of Holbein the Younger’s The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb, “make some people lose their faith.”5 I have written for them, the same way that I have taught them: by refusing to acknowledge the obvious objection that such a wide spectrum of readers will never be well served by the same demanding, complicated text. I have written imagining a future in which both new, raw, untamed, hungry theologians and decades-long, battle-hardened seasoned professional theologians may come gently vis-à-vis this text, whether because of it or in spite of it, to have been swayed to set sail to the other side, to embark upon a kind of thinking and praying as new, raw, untamed, and hungry as I pray they and I to the end will one day all be remembered as having been.

I have been struck for some time by how we, nurtured as we are by modern Western Civilization,6 imagine the locus of thought. Despite the insights of brain research, we still habitually imagine that each of us thinks with her brain, in her head, that elongated sphere suspended on a thin neck between the brilliant, ethereal blue sky far above to which it is drawn, and the thick, heavy torso with its stabilizing limbs held by the force of gravity to the green, brown earth below. The people of ancient Israel imagined otherwise. We think, they believed, with our hearts, that organ in the middle of the chest, in the middle of the body, embraced by lungs alternately filled with sweet, rich air and emptied of it when expended in anticipation of the new breath that may yet come, the heart that pounds out the life-beat of the time that we are given to live together. It seems to me that the Israelites were right. We think from the midst of our bodies, with our bodies, with those social phenomena that are what they are only as they are interrupted and engaged by what they are not. I have written, i.e., for thinking bodies. I have written imagining the sound of words spoken and heard. I have imagined the reading of this book as a moment in which in some unpretentious word-of-mouth underground venue the deep, powerful, resonant percussions of subwoofers roll heavily as a carnal wave across the chest and throat before they become the bass line in a conscious musical thought. I have written for the ears, the chest, the throat, i.e., for a thinking body. I suspect that there are sentences in this book that will be better understood if they are read aloud.

Of course, an academic treatment of any subject is not all song and dance. There are lyrics, too, declarative ones. If a text is not at least in principle vulnerable to a grand or petty professional inquisition as to what is said, it is not strictly theological. And as it turns out there is no shortage of what in this text, even if the writing has gone through considerable pains to make sure that what does not overpower how. I have spent an enormous amount of time agonizing over word choices. Writing at once for so many audiences, for so many personal historic trajectories, has called for that. That this is a book awash with puns may be noticed right away. The frequent citation of the etymologies of words signals the extent to which words seldom speak with only one voice here. However, I more often than not let the awkwardness of certain phrases gesture in the direction of the text’s multiple concurrent personalities. One of the most important tasks of theological writing, it seems to me, is to write words off themselves. Everything we might say, this declaration as well, is entangled in an overtly or covertly memorial past and a wonderfully or fearfully anticipated future. This book has set out to attend to them, this past and this future, without selling them my soul or yours. Of course, neither have I wished to sell our souls to the curiously durable present upon which I have been trained to presume that even now we rest our weight. Thus the words to come are to be read as moving without nostalgia or expressive spontaneity or the calculative drive of purpose or ataraxic mindfulness. They are to be read as expenditures with neither deep pockets nor favorable investment prospects. They are to be read as invocations and supplications toward an event in which the fruit of the knowledge of good and bad will have been unhanded.

This is a book in six chapters, plus a prelude, a postlude, and a series of interludes. Each of the six chapters is concerned with a different subject matter. The pre-, post-, and interludes that precede, follow, and otherwise interrupt the flow of chapters serve those chapters, in certain unruly ways.

The first chapter claims to be introductory. It in a particular way concerns me, as a theologian. It is in that sense “personal.” However, I would contend that it is not autobiography. Whatever “self” might even now be thought to have written of and been written into this (theological) life story and the large book in which it is set is, it seems to me, a legendary beast, a kind of abominable snowman, a portent not long to the warm days of an early springtime thaw. This chapter nonetheless tells the reader something of the history from which this discourse is set to task. It makes clear that somebody wrote this book, even if he wrote it by no means as its chief protagonist and author.

The second chapter is on theological method. Unlike many other treatments of the subject, this one is written on the run. It sets out to say what it says and simultaneously to do what it says, and to do what it says as a kind of outgoing after what this book professes as the way of the cross. It is the task of this chapter to say something of what (and how) “after crucifixion” entails.

The third chapter is an account of work. Its most prominent pun is “liturgy.” Of course, I do very much have formal liturgical worship in mind as I write. However, I also write remembering that the work of the people is by no means confined to a formal worship service, but that in fact most of it is performed far outside a certain large designated room in some mappable location with a property value. Adam and Eve work and work hard on our side of the Garden. Punishment or not, their work and ours is to be an expenditure of thanksgiving, every day of every week.

The fourth chapter is an account of bodies. It is also an eschatological venture. It concerns the resurrection of the flesh. The chapter speaks to the question of the finality of death and damnation and it confesses a future in which the whole damned world will have been emptied, the way a large cage might be emptied of a captured pelican, say, were its barred walls, floor, and ceiling suddenly unhinged at their right angles of intersection and cast away.

The fifth chapter concerns martyrdom. More specifically it concerns what a martyr-church might signify. It is chiefly an examination of the hard command of Jesus in Mark 8, his command to “the crowd with his disciples”: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (8:34). The question of this chapter is not “Should Christians be willing to become martyrs?” or “Should Christian discipleship always include training in the art of martyrdom?” The question is rather, “How would a local church proceed, if it lived every day with the in-its-bones conviction that it does not have to survive?” That question is thought theologically, of course. There is no programmatic prescription here. Rather there is prayer, prayer that remembers the questions and answers in the temple before the holy, holy, holy One high and lifted up.

The last chapter might have been a chapter on theological education, if I had not become disillusioned with that very enterprise. Disillusion concerning education, of course, is not what one might expect of a longtime university professor who loves his students. I have not grown disillusioned with teaching and learning; it’s just that I have given up on “leadership,” and especially on leading the ignorant from darkness to light. I am not sure how that kind of exitus is compatible with the good news that the God we are to follow is the God who is with us irruptively. The task of learning well before the bread and the wine of the eucharist (the bread and the fish of the wilderness feedings) is the task of learning to live with those, let us say, who have been left behind. Therefore, I speak of teaching and learning in contrast with one of the few most revered educators in the history of the world: Socrates. I speak of teaching and learning toward a liberation that he would have found to be, not outrageous, but pure folly.

Of course, there are also interludes between the chapters of this book, five of them. As the word suggests, they play there. They do hold chapters together, but playfully, while holding them apart. The first is a brief glimpse into the very mundane, very fractured labors of a little local church in inner-city San Diego. The second, too, concerns a gathering of working people in an inner-city neighborhood, South Central Los Angeles, where soil, work, and new life mingled for a while in one of L.A.’s bleakest sectors. The third is a report of the findings of brain physiology, of hard socio-biological research. The fourth is a transcript of a conversation between two of my friends concerning a certain ecclesiological question. The last is a travelogue of a trip I took to England sometime around 1990. Theology, this motley parabolic crew suggests, is not done alone and it is not done well; it is hard work with an uncertain outcome, the work of social bodies, and it is never to be confused with the completion of a circle, the solving of a problem, the closing of a wound, but is rather in the end a gratefully excessive expenditure, a wilderness feeding, a prodigal celebration, a resurrection of the dead, face to face with the faces that we meet, the faces the Crucified faces as he plummets, abased, into the abyss and rises, exalted, with glory.

There is also a prelude to this book and a postlude. The first draft of the prelude—the book’s playful overture, really—was delivered at a conference in Granada, Spain, where it was declared (with fanfare and snarky self-confidence) that “metaphysics is the new black!” I thought, “I don’t think so.” The chapter is written, however, not just as a kind of critique of metaphysics; it is more particularly written otherwise than by the rules of classic metaphysics. It is a story, a story that is frequently interrupted by voices that might have joined with other voices to shout out a history of Western metaphysics. At the time, I titled the essay “After Crucifixion: Unhanding Metaphysics in the Liturgy of the Eucharist.” This essay as it then stood and under that title is among the essays and addresses collected in the book The Transgression of the Integrity of God. The piece here makes the same move it did before, but I pray even more humanely. It confesses what After Crucifixion from the beginning is out to confess. I think it and the book’s cover are what I most want to say.

The book’s postlude is a collection of quoted passages, among which are just a handful of phrases I have written. It does not conclude this book, at least if my prayer is answered that this book will not come to a conclusion, but it does send it off in a certain way, a text that may be madness, but (I pray) not just madness.

There are so many people I want to thank. So many friends have spent their time reading and reacting to one or more of the pieces that follow. I would never have started and certainly would never have finished this book without their encouragement. This is true above all of Elesha, with whom I have spent the last forty-two years. She insisted that I write. She insisted! And she kept at me gently, lovingly, kindly, but relentlessly. That I—from deep down in my soul so very uneasy with conclusion—could get a monograph off to a publisher is due above all to her. But it is due to others, too.

Our philosopher daughter, Heather Keen Ross, has spent too many hours reading these chapters and talking through them with me. It is a marvelous gift to have a relationship like that with one’s daughter. Our sons, Stefen and Bryan, also have read chapters from this book and have responded encouragingly. I have received critical guidance on brain research from Warren Brown, on current scholarship in the Gospel of Mark from Matt Hauge, on the relevance of my work to the life of the local church from Josh Smith, the priest of the little local church where I am a member. I am so grateful for Charlie Collier’s readiness to work with me. He has understood and has been receptive to this book from our earliest conversations. I have gotten encouragement and critical help at various stages of writing from Sam Powell, John Wright, Doug Meeks, Teri Merrick, Donna Techau, Billy Abraham, Ted Jennings, Jack Caputo, and other friends and colleagues too numerous to list.

I do want specifically to mention Nate Kerr, however. He in particular has been my dialogue partner and advocate, since we first met when he was a business major and stumbled into an introduction to philosophy course I was teaching. I could never thank him and Thomas Bridges enough for their gift in compiling and editing The Transgression of the Integrity of God. Thomas, too, has in strongly quiet ways supported me in this work, ways to which he will be embarrassed to find me alluding here.

All the students with whom I have worked have marked all over this text. How could I not smile broadly and wave gratefully to them? This is true also, of course, of my teachers. I would like in particular to thank three of them, the last of whom died just a few years ago: Rob Staples, Paul Bassett, and Ken Grider. It is because of Rob that I am a theologian. It is because of Paul that I hope some day to become a scholar. It is because of Ken that I pray that I may yet learn as a writer to love.

I am grateful also to Azusa Pacific University for giving me time to work by providing me with a sabbatical, a Beverly Hardcastle Stanford Award, room, sky, and sea at Writers’ Retreats, a series of Accomplished Scholar Awards, CREV Seminars, and scheduling flexibility. Thanks also to my colleagues who have without complaint taken up the slack left as I have slipped away to research and write.

I would like to draw special attention to Stan Hauerwas. Friendship is a big deal to him, of course. He writes and writes about the importance of friendship. Because he is magnanimous, he has a great number of friends, among whom I am glad to say I am one. In our friendship, however, I have been from him the recipient by far of greater goods, than he from me. I am the beneficiary of his kindness, including his gracious expenditure of time, his time that is so much and so rightly in demand. This book was written and has been published because he has believed in it—from the beginning—beyond anything I could have expected. Stan understood this text immediately and has worked his way through its chapters, responding with a degree of enthusiasm unmatched by anyone outside of my immediate family and closest friends. Thank you, Stan.

Finally, I would like to mention the gift that having a full household has meant for my writing. A few years ago, during a particularly challenging time, Elesha and I opened our house to a handful of friends. We experimented together with a kind of ankle-deep new monasticism. Katrina Alston, Leah Butts (now Rashidyan), Sean Capener, Melanie Dosen, Peter Hawisher (who helped me with the technicalities of writing for Cascade), Tara Roy (now Bishop-Roy), and a number of more temporary houseguests helped us learn how very well the American Dream had smothered our social instincts, and they helped us learn how to live otherwise and especially how to be hospitable. And as we lived together, we talked through ideas at play in this book, and some of them took shape in the days we worked and ate together.

A little over two years ago our household arrangements had to change, because it was time for Elesha and me to take in my very elderly parents. My mother is ninety, my father ninety-three. However, had our compañeras y compañeros not struggled along with us, had they not taught us, the transition to life with my parents would have been much harder, perhaps impossible. As it is and has been, however, life in an extended family—life where we have to lean on each other because we have come to know all the way down that we are not, never have been, and never will be self-reliant or self-sufficient—has risen among us as a beautiful, marvelous, and unmerited gift. We welcome it, throwing open our windows and doors with a joyful yearning to the brisk Wind who bathed the mutilated body of the crucified Jesus with abundant life and gathered the church.

I could never simply lay claim to this book. It is truer that they wrote it—my friends and lovers, my teachers and students, my parents and children, and Elesha, the love of my life—than that I did. In this, too: Te Deum laudamus!

It is with joy that I think now back over the faces of all the people named and unnamed in this preface. But I think in particular of the faces of my parents, and I think of them in the roomy, disclosed countenance of the Slaughtered Lamb in whose future theirs, too, will forever vigilantly shine. It is to them that this book is dedicated.

The Feast Day of Ignatius of Antioch, 2012

1. Bultmann, “Welchen Sinn hat es, von Gott zu reden?”

2. Barth, “Answer to Professor Harnack’s Open Letter,” 178.

3. Cf. Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “weird, n.,” “Etymology.”

4. Lash, Holiness, Speech and Silence, 63: “George Steiner handles, with impressive honesty, the difficulty—in our supposedly ‘post-religious’ culture—of giving intelligible expression to the recognition that the possibility of speech is grounded in the possibility of prayer.’ . . . If, then, there is a sense in which the fundamental form of speech is prayer, response, our words’ acknowledgement that all things come into being through the Word that is with God in the beginning, the Word that God is said to be, of what kind of prayer are we speaking?”

5. Dostoevsky, The Idiot, 238.

6. The words of this phrase are capitalized as a way of acknowledging the presumption of each of them alone and of both together. The phrase is taken as a name, comparable, say, to Church of Scientology or Manifest Destiny or Victor Mature.