I watched the film version of West Side Story for the first time on television in my early teens. I loved everything about it and I also encountered something new that puzzled me.
In a scene roughly half way through, members of the Jets street gang sing a parody of their experience in the juvenile justice system. Action sings about being arrested, going to court, being sent to a psychiatrist, and then to a social worker.
“Hey,” he declares, in response to the social worker’s diagnosis, “I got a social disease!”
I had no idea what that meant and it scared me. Was it contagious? What are the symptoms? Would I be arrested by officer Krupke? I thought the police were my friends!
I now know more: All of us in the U.S. live, and move, and have our being in a society of hostility and violence. From militarized police to “total destruction” presidential rhetoric, from hate-speech rallies to brutalized transgender people just trying to pee and a circulated memo at a major technology company about the inferiority of women, we – all of us – have a debilitating social disease.
As I noted in a recent sermon on white supremacy (published here), most of us want to isolate troublesome individuals, the “radicalized” foreigner, the disgruntled teenager, the psychotic co-worker. Few of us want to examine or even acknowledge our shared psychosis. The problem is not a few bad apples in the barrel; the problem is the barrel.
Or perhaps the television commercial for Palmolive dish washing liquid from my youth says it best: “You’re soaking in it.”
I’ve been struck recently by a number of studies and articles on chemical addiction, especially the low success rate of twelve-step programs. I have some good friends for whom Alcoholics Anonymous has been life-saving and life-changing; they are the exception. Twelve-step programs have a “success” rate of between 5 and 10 percent.
Meanwhile, I know more and more family members, friends, and colleagues who are “self-medicating,” whether by over-drinking or with anonymous sex hook-ups or binge eating or just increased isolation. I, too, drink too much and struggle with nicotine addiction.
I am convinced: treating addiction as an individual’s problem to overcome misses entirely the root of the problem. We, all of us, have a social disease. And only a social response will offer and lasting hope and healing.
Here in the San Francisco Bay Area, the exploding homeless population – and our many failed attempts to address this problem – renders our social distress in visible bodies. Armando Sandoval coordinates “homeless outreach” programs for BART, the Bay Area Rapid Transit district. He named our social disease rather pointedly:
“The issue is societal. It’s not BART, it’s not SFPD [the police], it’s not the justice system, it’s not the public health or mental health departments. It’s everything.”
Deeply embedded in all this – “infected” – most of us have trouble seeing the precise character of our plight. The following is my attempt, in outline, to “see” it, not for my own healing, but our healing. As ancient Christians insisted about salvation, my healing is inextricably bound up with yours. We have to work this out together, the diagnosis and the treatment.
My brief outline is in three parts: a personal encounter with our shared dis-ease; some theological theory; a bit of spiritual practice from Jesus.
Like many others, I was shocked recently by the revelations of violent “hazing” at Wheaton College in Illinois, my alma mater. Five Wheaton football players stand accused of doing felony-worthy things to a fellow student. The details are contested and fuzzy and still being adjudicated. Still, I responded with fury and outrage on social media; I ranted; I remain dismayed by the school’s response (a slap on the wrist or just a “pat on the head” for the accused).
Why did I have such visceral responses and why did I rant so much? At least two reasons.
The first feels like “Matthew Shepard PTSD.” The original reporting of what happened last year at Wheaton included a description of the student being stripped, tied to a fence with duct tape, and left there overnight. Nausea washed over me as I read this, ripples of dread and deep sorrow. The image evoked with uncanny resonance what had happened to Matthew back in 1998, even under very different circumstances.
The second reason reaches back to my childhood, echoes of being bullied by the jocks in grade school and Jr. High for being a sissy and acting girly. I read the story about Wheaton, plastered with a photo of hyper-masculine football players in their uniforms. It shuttled me back to those agonizing moments when I was pinned to the ground by a group of jocks, hardly able to breathe. I can hear their taunts: “Did you bring your dolls to school, faggot?”
No one is born dreaming of torturing a young man like Matthew Shepard. No one just “naturally” throws sissy boys to the ground as they walk home from school. These things are learned – not just from “bad” parents, or “failed” schools, but in the crucible of a violent society laced with toxic forms of masculinity and seasoned with white privilege.
My African American colleagues have taught me this over the years: in a society drenched in white supremacy, everyone is racist, no exceptions. We all live with a social disease expressed with multiple symptoms.
My visceral response to the (latest) Wheaton scandal qualifies as apocalyptic for that very reason, as the word “apocalypse” suggests: it reveals what has always been there.
Theological Theorizing: The Domination System
None of this is new. It’s actually quite old. The texts of the Christian Testament in the Bible are shaped by living under the imperial thumb of the Roman Empire. This isn’t just dusty history, but a frame for noticing that thumbprint on our lives right now.
The late biblical theologian Walter Wink offered a compelling way to read first century gospel accounts through the lens of what he called the “Domination System,” a system employed by every imperial power, whether ancient or modern.
[The system] is characterized by unjust economic relations, oppressive political relations, biased race relations, patriarchal gender relations, hierarchical power relations, and the use of violence to maintain them all … from the ancient Near Eastern states to the Pax Romana, to feudal Europe, to communist state capitalism, to modern market capitalism.
Diarmuid O’Murchu brilliantly (in my view) applied Wink’s diagnosis to the stories of demon possession in the gospels. The loneliness and isolation of the “possessed,” O’Murchu notes, mimics precisely the effects of living under the Domination System.
The gospel accounts hint at this, O’Murchu writes, as “evil spirits represent unmet needs. The spirits inhabit the inner empty shell caused by feelings of inferiority, unworthiness, disempowerment, torture, pain, and alienation.” Don’t most of us feel one or more of these things just looking in a mirror first thing in the morning?
But we can’t treat these symptoms as if only individuals suffer from them; the symptoms point instead to a social disease shared by all.
O’Murchu proposes a path toward healing marked by the “companionship of empowerment.” Exorcism is only the first step; healing means, finally, restoring relationship. Think of the Gerasene demoniac (Luke 8), restored to his community, or the young child foaming at the mouth and lifted up by Jesus to be given back to his parents (Luke 9). Or think Lazarus, raised from a tomb of death but still bound. Jesus turns to his beloved community: “Unbind him,” he says to them (John 11).
Most of all, this: Jesus lived the healing he preached and practiced around tables of shared food.
Jesus at Table
I begin every one of my theology classes with this: “Christian faith did not begin with a text, or a doctrine, or an institution, but with radical social practice: table fellowship.”
The gospel accounts portray how often Jesus got in trouble for eating with the wrong people. In that first century context, those with whom you shared food mattered as much as those with whom you had sex. Both food and sex were the primary ways to mark social dominance in a system of hierarchical value.
Jesus cast those systems aside and ate with the wrong people.
He did this because his people, and the wider society, the whole human race suffered from a debilitating social disease: oppression, fragmentation, isolation. And only a social response would suffice: all are welcome at the Table.
This is ridiculously pedestrian and wildly profound: We must eat with the wrong people. It’s our only hope.
Ditch your self-improvement book. Stop berating yourself for that second, or third, or fourth glass of wine. Reject all those messages about your flaws and shortcomings. Do this: Set a table with food and invite everyone you know – all of them, including officer Krupke.
Accompany others. Be accompanied.
Love someone. Be loved.
This is totally ridiculous. It’s also the peculiar faith of Christians, who hope because of love.
We, all of us, suffer from a debilitating social disease. Only a social treatment can heal us.
It’s called Love.
5 thoughts on “Officer Krupke and Our Social Disease”
I love reading this all the way through the end. And then all of a sudden I am confronted with this question: who are the “wrong” people today. Just yesterday I was listening on the radio to a story about a Trump supporter having dinner with a transman. And they had respect for each other at the end. Miracles do happen, I thought. But are Trump supporters the “wrong” people, I think.
What I remember in my own meeting with Trump supporters is how angry they are. They’re not rich, not wealthy, yes they’re white. And they are furious. They’re not furious because “liberals” and “progressives” heap such scorn on them. That merely reinforces that they’re right to be angry in the first place. They’re angry, angry, angry. They’ve been ground down to a pulp by I don’t know what. And they’re furious. If I could hear more about their lives, I would likely fully understand their anger. Trauma lives everywhere.
I wonder if these Trump supporters are inadvertently turning out to be like the Roman soldiers who flogged Jesus and threw dice for his clothes—apparently they had some value. I wonder if the parallel is apt. I also wonder, given your statements about racism, if I can justly cast “them” as soldiers. Am I one of these soldiers?
In our maddeningly postmodern world, our place in the empire is hard to pin down. We’re all taken up by institutions and have to make our way through them. I once left a university when I felt I couldn’t really do anti-racist work. But I don’t know that I have contributed much to the end of racism since then. In some ways I may have had more effect then, when I was a “professor,” an institutional man.
And now, when I work in a hospital, I see the outcome of oppression each and every day, resulting in daily suffering, up until the death bed. I sit with them, offering companionship and “presence.” I pray it has a humanizing effect that ripples out beyond this room into the rest of the hospital and from there out into the world. And it doesn’t matter if they’re Trump supporters or not, if they’re gay or straight, rich or poor. There they are, and all of a sudden we’re all alike.
Thank you Jay. You’ve clearly stirred me up.
Beautiful. Thank you.
Thanks for taking the time to read and respond!
My pleasure. You and I share a very similar theology and lens on recovery. By the way, can you tell me the artist of the five-sided painting of Jesus dining with friends? Thank you.
Found it. En la Cena ecológica del Reino (The Ecological Supper of the Kin-dom) by Maximino Cerezo Barredo, 1980, Spain