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Outline of a Christian Political Philosophical Theology

I defend a position in political thought that I call Christian anarcho-socialist liberalism. The idea is to create a Christian political philosophical theology that integrates the best elements from socialism, liberalism and anarchism. The Christian Gospel is about far more than politics, and it must never be reduced to politics, though it does have many important political implications. When we combine the Bible, classical Christianity, political theory and postmodern thought, we can create a visionary and powerful Christian political philosophical theology. Christian-humanistic values and ideals must be implemented in postmodern society in the age of globalisation. I am convinced that we can combine a strong emphasis on religious liberty with a strong emphasis on social justice for the poor and the weak. What I present here is a vision and an outline of a Christian political philosophical theology. You might also say that I here present an approach to a postmodern political philosophical theology. My political thought is to a great extent inspired by thinkers such as Zygmunt Bauman, Noam Chomsky and Cornel West, but it also contains many original and dynamic dimensions that transcend these thinkers.

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The One-Way Drop: Why a Drop of White Blood Never Made Anyone White

American race law rests on a piece of arithmetic no mathematician would sign: one drop of Black blood makes a person Black, and a flood of white blood makes nobody white. The formula runs in a single direction, and it has run that way for more than three centuries. Ask why the obverse rule never existed, why no statute, no census, no courtroom ever held that a drop of white blood confers whiteness, and you have asked the question that unlocks the whole machinery, because a rule that only works one way was never measuring what it claimed to measure.

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The Last Day of the Guarantee

A box of prescription drugs sat forgotten in the back closet of a retail pharmacy long enough that some of the pills predated the 1969 moon landing. Sealed bottles, original containers, never opened. Diet pills under brand names nobody has spoken aloud in forty years. Barbiturates. A four-ingredient headache compound. Every one of them was at least twenty-eight years past the date stamped on the label, which meant that under every rule governing American pharmacy, they were garbage. Lee Cantrell, who helps run the California Poison Control System, looked at the box and saw an experiment nobody could afford to run on purpose. He called Roy Gerona at the University of California, San Francisco, a chemist who had grown up in the Philippines watching people take outdated medicine and get better anyway. Gerona ran the contents through liquid chromatography and mass spectrometry. The results were published in the Archives of Internal Medicine on October 8, 2012, under a title that gives away nothing: “Stability of Active Ingredients in Long-Expired Prescription Medications.”

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No One Dies Lying

On the twenty-second of May, 1929, at Fort Riley, Kansas, a woman named Zenana Shepard sent her nurse to a closet for a bottle of bootleg whiskey. She said the liquor had a strange smell and a strange taste, and she asked whether enough remained in the bottle to test it for poison. Then she said the sentence that would outlive her by four years and travel all the way to the Supreme Court of the United States: “Dr. Shepard has poisoned me.” The doctor was her husband, Charles A. Shepard, a major in the Army medical corps, and the government would later argue he had salted that whiskey with bichloride of mercury because he loved a woman named Grace Brandon and his wife declined to divorce him. Zenana Shepard died on the fifteenth of June. Her husband was convicted of her murder, and her sentence, the spoken one, did much of the convicting.

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There, But Not There: The Phantom DNA Effect and the Physics of Absence

A viral video promises a ghost in the machine. The real ghosts of science are stranger, and they had to earn the name. A reader sent me a short video this week with the kind of claim that arrives already glowing. A Russian scientist, the narrator says, shone laser light through a sealed vacuum chamber. Empty, the light scattered at random. Drop in a sample of DNA, and the photons arranged themselves into the shape of a double helix, as if the molecule had taught the light how to hold a form. Then comes the part that makes people forward the video to friends. The scientist removed the DNA, disturbed nothing else, and shone the light again. The helix pattern was still there. The molecule had left a ghost in the empty chamber, an imprint pressed into the quantum field. The narrator calls it the DNA phantom effect and lets the word “amazing” do the rest.

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Getting the Flock Out of Ord, Nebraska

The county seat of my boyhood summers just voted, five to nothing, to pull its surveillance cameras off the poles, the first town in Nebraska to do it. The reasons cut deeper than the invoice. Ord, Nebraska sits eleven miles up the North Loup River valley from the village of North Loup, where I spent the summers of my boyhood on my grandfather’s place, and in the mental geography of a ten-year-old those eleven miles separated the known world from its capital. North Loup had a few hundred souls, a grain elevator, and Popcorn Days. Ord had the Valley County courthouse with a square built around it, implement lots, storefront commerce enough to dazzle a village kid, and a radio station whose call letters spell the valley itself: K-N-L-V, North Loup Valley, on the air at 1060 since 1965 with farm markets in the morning and high school ball at night. When my grandfather’s rooftop antenna strained for television it caught one signal, 10/11 out of Lincoln, and that was the extent of the visible world. Ord was “town.” You washed up a little before going.

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The Moon Takes the Bow: The Longest Fight in the Sky, Scored on Love, Fear, Respect, and Attention

Two fighters have been circling each other since before anyone kept records, and the purse has never changed hands: the human gaze. In one corner burns a furnace so vast that something like a million Earths could rattle around inside it, the engine behind every green leaf and every heartbeat on this planet. In the other corner floats a charcoal-colored rock, airless and dead, throwing back about twelve percent of the light that hits it. On paper the match is a slaughter. In practice the rock has been taking rounds for ten thousand years, and the strangest fact on the whole card is a matter of scheduling, since only one of these two shows up for both shifts.

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