"When all is said and done," write Wilson and Ramphele, "the Church in South Africa is better placed than any other organization, religious or secular, to work with poor people" (Wilson 1989:303). This would be true in Africa generally. If this is so, then why has the Church had so little success in making a sustained contribution to the reconstruction and development of (South) Africa?

In trying to discern "the fundamental problem" of "Church Theology" The Kairos Document pointed to various elements, including a lack of social analysis, an inadequate understanding of politics and political strategy, and, most importantly, an unworldly, private, and individualistic type of faith and spirituality (ICT 1986:15-16). These elements, among others, made up "Church Theology" which, as the prevailing form of Christian theology during the 1980s, left "many Christians and Church leaders in a state of near paralysis" whenever they were faced with the South African crisis (16). I have used the past tense here, but unfortunately, "Church Theology" is not a paradigm of the past; it remains the dominant theological trajectory of the present.

The Kairos Document correctly called "for a response from Christians that is biblical, spiritual, pastoral and, above all, prophetic" (17), and then proceeded to give an excellent account of "Prophetic Theology" (17-27). However, this move from "Church Theology" to "Prophetic Theology" was made too quickly. As a result, the theological analysis of "Church Theology" was inadequate. It is not enough, as The Kairos Document put it, to say of "Church Theology" that "this kind of faith and this type of spirituality has no biblical foundation" (16). In fact, "Church Theology" does have a biblical foundation. That is the problem with "Church Theology." This is because the Bible is not monosemic, its texts do not have one meaning and one meaning alone. So the struggle for the soul of the Church is more complex than we imagined. Biblical interpretation is one of the sites of that struggle, as I will show. More generally, we may say that the sacred texts of a tradition are implicated in the way in which we see the world around us, and in the way we discursively shape our action.

All workers have a lived faith, a working theology, that enables them to survive each day in often difficult circumstances. This working theology—a theology they live by—is not usually an articulated faith, but it is a lived faith. It is forged by a host of forces and factors in their daily experience, including their culture, their language, their gender, their personal circumstances, their home, their church, their reading of the Bible, etc. It is their theology, a theology that works for them, even though it may never be formally articulated.

When workers go to church, elements of their lived faith and working theology are affirmed, nurtured, articulated, and acted upon by being given public space. In other words, they are able to recognize something of their lived faith and working theology in the liturgy and rituals of their church. However, as the ICT Report mentioned above indicates, there are also many aspects of their lived faith and working theology that are not affirmed, nurtured, articulated, and acted upon by the church; and so workers feel alienated in and by the church. Some workers respond to this alienation, this disjunction, by joining another church. For example, they become those who are Anglicans by day and Zionists by night. Why? Because in the Zionist church they find aspects of their lived faith and working theology affirmed, nurtured, articulated, and acted upon.

Often there still remain areas of alienation, even here. Some workers respond to this by joining a para-church organization, like Young Christian Workers (YCW), or they work with the Institute for the Study of the Bible (ISB) (West 1995; West 1999). There their lived faith and working theology is also affirmed, nurtured, articulated, and acted upon.

From the ICT report it is clear that many workers feel betrayed by the church. Most churches, it would seem, are unable to affirm, nurture, articulate, and act upon the lived faith and working theologies of workers. If this analysis is correct, what can be done about this? Socially engaged theologians and biblical scholars can become the servants of workers, I argue. What could this mean?

One of the recurring threads running through the 1989 ‘Theology, Work and Labor’ Conference was that any theology of work must be done by workers themselves; ministers, theologians, biblical scholars should become the servants of workers in this task (Nolan 1996). One such service, I would argue, comes in the form of the resources of our critical biblical training. We have often failed workers by not providing values and tools which they can take up and use, in addition to those they already use, in their struggle. We have also often failed the Church in not equipping ministers and lay leadership to interpret the Bible in ways that are empowering for the poor and marginalized, of whom workers form an important sector. The Church has become incapacitated by inherited interpretations and received readings of the Bible that are not those of the majority of ordinary (South) African Christians. In short, the Church has become trapped in the paradigm of "Church Theology." Let me illustrate my analysis and argument by reading a particular biblical text.

Most (South) African Christians will be familiar with this passage in Mark’s gospel. It is the story of the widow’s offering, often called the "widow’s mite." We have probably heard sermons and participated in Bible studies on this text. If we were to ask ordinary (South) African Christians—and their pastors, ministers, and priests—what this passage is about, what its basic values are, they would be quick in their response; they would be fairly confident that they know what the text is about. Common responses are that this text is about faithful giving, sacrificial giving, the importance of the right motives in giving, how the poor tend to give more proportionally than the rich, and the like. While such interpretations do capture certain important aspects of the passage, we must be prepared to go deeper if we are to equip the Church in its work with the poor. Let me explain.

Returning to our example, we could begin by reading Mark 12:35-40 and then continue on to re-read verses 41-44 in this broader literary context. Initially, there may not appear to be much of a connection between these passages. However, a careful reading reveals that there are a number of interesting connections between Mark 12:35-40 and Mark 12:41-44. In Mark 12:35-40 Jesus is arguing against the teaching (verses 35-37) and the practices (38-40) of the scribes. One of the practices of the scribes which Jesus warns his disciples and the crowd to beware of is that they "devour widows’ houses" (40; NRSV).

We can turn now to the section that immediately follows that passage. There is a chapter division here; but we should disregard it as the chapter divisions are not a part of Mark’s narrative. They were put into the text much later for reference purposes. If we then carry on with our reading we find that Jesus leaves the temple in 13:1, and then pronounces judgement on the temple in 13:2.

Clearly, Jesus has been in the temple until this point in the story. Another connection now emerges: While in the temple Jesus criticizes the scribes (12:35-40); while in the temple Jesus watches a victim of the scribes, the poor widow, put her money into the temple treasury (12:41-44); when finally Jesus leaves the temple, he predicts its destruction (13:1-2). The temple is common to each passage. Is there something about the temple that Jesus is opposed to? What is the relationship between the temple and the scribes? What is the relationship between the temple, the scribes, and the ordinary people that were "listening to Jesus with delight" as he denounced the scribes?

In order to answer these questions we would need to know something about the socio-religious context of Jesus’s world. Before we go behind the text to the context that produced it, however, it would be worth exploring the literary context more broadly and in more detail. Does the literary context provide us with some answers to these questions? I think it does.

Jesus leaves the temple in 13:2; the scene then shifts to Jesus discussing the future with his disciples on the Mount of Olives (13:3). If the temple is a key issue in the passages we have read, and if Jesus leaves the temple in 13:2, when did he enter it? We will need to go back in Mark to find out. Remember, we are attempting to understand how Mark has structured his gospel, so it is important that we try to determine what the literary units are that make up Mark’s narrative structure. I am suggesting that the section from when Jesus enters the temple until he leaves it might form a literary unit.

Jesus enters the temple for the first time in Mark’s gospel in 11:11; but he does not stay long. Rather strangely, he looks around, and then leaves both the temple and Jerusalem, returning to Bethany. The next day he returns to Jerusalem and enters the temple again (11:15). This time Jesus acts: "He began to drive out those who were selling and those who were buying in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold doves; and he would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple" (11:15-16).

Having acted, Jesus then teaches, saying, "Is it not written, `My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations? But you have made it a den of robbers’" (11:17). Immediately after this we read that "when the chief priests and the scribes heard it [all that had happened in the temple], they kept looking for a way to kill him; for they were afraid of him, because the whole crowd was spellbound by his teaching" (11:18). Once again, Jesus does not stay in Jerusalem, he leaves and returns to Bethany (11:19). The next day Jesus enters Jerusalem and the temple for the third time (11:27), and this time he does not leave the temple until 13:2! The passage we began with, Mark 12:41-44, is a part of this section, so we should read the literary unit 11:27-13:2 carefully in order to establish its main concerns. But before we do this, we should pause briefly to note one or two connections between our passage about the widow making her offering and the first two occasions on which Jesus enters the temple.

Notice that Jesus is reluctant to spend too much time in the temple when he first enters it (11:11); what is more, he is reluctant to spend too much time in Jerusalem! He does not stay overnight in Jerusalem but returns to Bethany. Clearly, Mark is indicating that Jesus is somewhat wary of the temple and the city. In describing the second entry into the temple (11:15), Mark is more overt; Jesus is now openly hostile towards the temple and those who have made it "a den of robbers" (11:17). But who are these people who have made the temple "a den of robbers"? The following verse, 11:18, suggests that it is the chief priests and scribes whom Jesus is addressing, because it is they who react to his words and actions by "looking for a way to kill him." Could there be a connection between the chief priests and scribes who have made the temple "a den of robbers" and the scribes who "devour widows’ houses" (12:40)? There is, as we will see when we read 11:27-13:2 as a literary unit.

The entire literary unit is located within the temple in Jerusalem; the temple is the setting in which all the action of the literary unit takes place. The literary unit 11:27-13:2 contains a number of smaller sections which have a number of common elements. It begins with Jesus being confronted by the chief priests, the scribes, and the elders as he enters the temple (11:27). In the first section of the literary unit (11:27-12:12) Jesus argues with the temple leadership—the chief priests, the scribes, and the elders. Conflict with the temple leadership characterizes each of the sections of the literary unit, as we will see. Moreover, when we read the literary unit as a whole, it is clear that Jesus is supported by the crowd (12:12). This is an important feature of the literary unit: That the crowd is on the side of Jesus and that Jesus is on the side of the crowd (see 11:32, 12:12, 12:37). It is Jesus’s support among the ordinary people that prevents the temple leadership from acting against him.

In the second section of the literary unit (12:13-17), we are introduced to more of the temple leadership, the Pharisees and Herodians. Once again, they attempt to trap Jesus, but he is able to counter their attempts. Similarly, in the third section of the literary unit (12:18-27), Jesus is confronted by some Sadducees. In the fourth section (12:28-34), where one of the scribes engages Jesus in discussion, Jesus responds quite positively to this lone scribe, recognizing, perhaps, that he is genuinely interested in understanding who Jesus is and what he is doing. However, after this discussion, and having been confronted by the full array of temple leadership, Jesus turns to the crowd and begins to offer them his own analysis of the temple and its leadership. This brings us to the sections we have already read.

In the fifth section of the literary unit (12:35-40) Jesus provides a devastating critique of the scribes. As we have seen, he analyses both their teaching (12:35-37) and their practices (12:38-40), much to the delight of the large crowd that is now listening to him (12:37). Without a pause in the narrative, Jesus then sits down opposite the temple treasury and watches the victims of the teaching and practices of the scribes—and of the whole temple system—making their offerings. In this penultimate section of the literary unit, Jesus attempts to demonstrate to his disciples how the temple system exploits and oppresses. He shows them one of its victims, the poor widow. The disciples are slow to understand, as they often are in Mark’s gospel; when they leave the temple in the final scene of the literary unit (13:1-2) they admire the beautiful temple building. But Jesus does not see a beautiful building, he sees an oppressive institution that is administered by corrupt and oppressive officials. This institution, this system, Jesus says, and all those whose teachings and practices sustain it "will be thrown down" (13:2); God will not tolerate such an abomination.

We now have a quite different reading of Mark 12:41-44 than the "standard" reading of it that I mentioned at the outset. A careful reading of this passage in its literary context has generated a reading that can assist us to see the structural and systemic dimensions of poverty. In so doing, we have a biblical and symbolic resource that can undergird a renewal of the Church’s theology and its role in the reconstruction and development of (South) Africa. In other words, such a reading offers us resources for constructing theologies that resonate with our context and that match the experiences of ordinary people. The familiar missionary and neo-colonial readings of this text, which project other values, lie at the base of the bankrupt theologies we have inherited. It is time to move beyond these bankrupt theologies and values, in particular, beyond the specific interpretations of the Bible that sustain them.

Briefly, crucial to a socio-historical understanding of the temple is the recognition that the temple ordered the religious, social, political, and economic life of Israel. The temple was not a religious institution alone.

Second, the temple ordered time through its annual cycle of festivals, including, for example, the Day of Atonement, the Feast of Booths, Passover, Pentecost, and many more.

Third, the temple ordered the political life of Israel. After the Roman procurator, the High Priest was the most powerful individual in Roman-occupied Palestine. The High Priest controlled the governing body of the temple and the high council of the Sanhedrin. The seventy members of the Sanhedrin, a sort of parliament under the Roman procurators, were drawn largely from the chief priests, Sadducees, Pharisees, and scribes—all of whom were closely connected with the temple. Members of the Sanhedrin were also drawn from the Jewish secular aristocracy, namely, the elders and the Herodians.

So the groups mentioned in Mark are not just religious figures; they are clearly political figures too. Furthermore, there are additional political dimensions to the relationships between the temple and its leadership and Roman imperial power. The Roman procurators, when resident in Jerusalem, were quartered, together with their military troops, in the fortress of Antonia, which looked down on the temple court from the northwest corner. Furthermore, the fortress Antonia also housed the high priestly vestments, a sign of Rome’s control and the subjection and collaboration entailed in the appointment of the High Priest.

Early Israelite society in the pre-monarchic period was based on an egalitarian association of tribal/clan groups. The land was distributed equally among the people, with periodic reallocations of land. Extended families worked together for labor intensive tasks and the community owned all of its produce. Warfare was largely defensive, and each tribe provided resources, human and material, in the event of having to form an army. However, under the threat of Philistine domination a centralized monarchy developed (see 1 Samuel 8), following the Canaanite model of kingship. The Canaanite system was based around a central temple, seen as the home of the god. The king was seen as the son of the god, whose duty it was to collect the agricultural produce of the peasants on behalf of the god. The agricultural surplus of the peasants was gathered in as their due to the god. This enabled the king to pay a standing army, administrators, and priests. The king was also entitled to conscript for military service and labor (see Gottwald 1979; Gottwald 1985; Pixley 1991).

Similarly, during the time of the united monarchy under Solomon, one of the functions of the temple was to gather the surplus from the peasant farmers in order to maintain the military, administrative, and religious structures of centralized government (see Chaney 1993). This economic, and political, function of the temple continued into the New Testament period:

For centuries the temple . . . functioned as the control center of the tributary mode of production that appropriated the agricultural surplus of the peasant cultivators and shepherds of the rural countryside and redistributed it among its priests, Levites, and lay officials. In time it became the hub of all commercial enterprise and activity—at least in the province of Judea—although it was always subject to the imperial power that dominated the country and drew off much of its profits in the form of taxes and tribute. Additionally the temple received a vast income from the temple tax which the law required every Jew to pay annually, gifts from the wealthy individuals, revenues from its land-holdings, and profits from the sale of sacrificial animals and money exchange. In effect, it served as the central bank of worldwide Judaism, and all of its assets and disbursements were controlled and administered by the priestly aristocracy (Waetjen 1989:183).

 

Obviously the negation of this central systemic structure of Judaism, which Jesus symbolically enacts, marks the termination of its power and privilege but especially its oppression and dispossession of the Jewish masses. . . . Consequently it is no surprise that the sacred aristocracy, specifically the chief priests and the scribes, whose guardianship of the temple has been self-serving, begin to pursue the same objectives sought earlier by the Pharisees and the Herodians in Galilee (3:6): they were seeking how they might destroy him (Waetjen 1989:183).

 

In South Africa we are familiar with this phenomenon. The Church has produced many politically astute and politically active people who made a significant contribution to the struggle against apartheid, but who yet remained trapped in forms of theology that were inadequate in our context. Returning from the streets and structures in which they had been struggling, Christians would come to their churches for sustenance, only to receive dry, stale bread. They found that they could not live by the readings and theologies they were offered in their churches, even in those churches that had been involved in socio-political struggles. Somehow, active participation in the struggle against apartheid by sectors of the Church only made a minimal impression on the theology of the Church; it did not penetrate into and transform "Church Theology."

The result is that Christian activists, ordinary Christians, and even church leaders, succumbed either to some form of theological ‘schizophrenia,’ in which there was a disjunction between their faith and their political practice, or to theological disillusionment, in which they simply abandoned their faith altogether. The theologies we have inherited from the missionaries are inadequate for our work with the poor specifically, and for our task of transforming and reconstructing (South) Africa more generally.

We need to find ways of doing theology differently. We must offer ordinary Christians, including workers and women, and church leaders if they are willing to hear, additional tools and resources for doing theology. The daily experiences of ordinary (South) African Christians are already the basis for their lived theologies, their working theologies; but these working theologies remain incipient and inchoate, not said, not articulated. And when ordinary (South) African Christians do encounter public (‘said’) theology, the theology of their churches, there is often little resonance with their working theologies (West 1996). In other words, the theologies of the churches do not articulate the theologies they live by, and the theologies they live by are not articulated. One of the main reasons these two theologies hardly intersect is that the socio-historical context that generates each of them is different. They have different socio-historical trajectories.

The Mosaic liberation theological trajectory emerges as the theological response of peasants to the theology of the Canaanite city-states. It is the founding faith of early, premonarchic, ‘Israel’ (1250-1000 BCE). The Mushite priesthood of Shiloh and Nob during the united monarchy (1000-922 BCE), the prophets during the divided monarchy (922-587 BCE), the Deuteronomists during the exile before their theology became hardened and harsh (587-537 BCE), the visionaries from the displaced Levitical priesthood during the post-exilic period, and a variety of other voices that cry out on behalf of the poor and marginalized—all these stand in continuity with this trajectory of theology, giving it new articulations as contexts change.

We can summarize the trajectories or traditions as follows. The Mosaic tradition "tends to be a movement of protest which is situated among the disinherited and which articulates its theological vision in terms of a God who decisively intrudes, even against seemingly impenetrable institutions and orderings." In tension, and contending, with this trajectory, the Davidic tradition "tends to be a movement of consolidation which is situated among the established and secure and which articulates its theological vision in terms of a God who faithfully abides and sustains on behalf of the present ordering" (Brueggemann 1993:202).

Having said this, however, clearly there are aspects of the ‘structure legitimation’ theological trajectory that are important for our human well-being. This theological trajectory "is an assertion of creation theology, the sense that the world is ordered and governed. The world is not chaos; it is not endlessly pliable; it is not yet to be decided. There is an ordered quality to life that will not be mocked. No one is able to fashion a private order according to one’s own selfish yearning. There is a transcendent mystery before which everyone must answer, sooner or later" (Brueggemann 1992:16). Or, put differently, "This theology provides an ordered sense of life that is lodged in the sovereignty of God, beyond the reach of historical circumstance. It is a way of speaking about God’s non-negotiable governance" (Brueggemann 1992:22).

As Brueggemann goes on to argue, it "is precisely this fundamental conviction that lets social life exist, that permits a measure of humanness, that lets us set limits on our common beastliness, that lets us nurture our children in decency, and that lets there be some public planning and continuity of policy" (Brueggemann 1992:16). Furthermore, this theological trajectory "satisfies a religious yearning by an affirmation of providence. Not only does God govern, but there is an order that works through the processes of history, even if that purpose is not always visible" (Brueggemann 1992:22).

The political order may be derived from, reflect and seek to serve the cosmic order, but derivation is so easily, readily, and frequently inverted that the cosmic order becomes a legitimation for the political order, and so there is a convenient match (often regarded as an ontological match) between God’s order and our order. What starts as a statement about transcendence becomes simply self-justification, self-justification made characteristically by those who preside over the current order and who benefit from keeping it so (Brueggemann 1992:16-17).

 

Early egalitarian Israel (see Gottwald 1979; 1985) came into being as an articulation of a theology different from the dominant theologies of its day, namely, the theologies of Egyptian and Canaanite imperialism and totalitarianism. "Israel, in contrast to those political forms, is a social movement of the failures and rejects who delegitimate both the rationality of the empire and the coherence of the gods who legitimate those structures" (Brueggemann 1992:20). This new social movement we call `Israel’ begins with a cry of pain (Exodus 2:23-25) that is heard by a God "upon whom the cry of pain can impinge."

The narrative makes clear that this pain voiced and processed is the stuff of this new relationship and this new social experiment [i.e. Israel]. The new social possibility depends also upon the remarkable response of this God who takes this hurt as the new stuff of faithfulness. In response, this God makes an intervention in the historical process against the legitimated structures of the day and delegitimates them (Brueggemann 1992:20).

 

Consequently, the key question facing any theology that claims to be in continuity with Israel’s founding faith and the ministry of Jesus is the question of pain. A theology of consolidation and control has no place for the pained and the pain-bearers: the poor, the useless, the unemployable, the sick, the disabled, and the other marginal ones. Indeed, the very presence of pain-bearers "is a silent refutation of the legitimated structures. Visible pain-bearers, therefore, must be denied legitimacy as well as visibility because they assert that the legitimated structures are not properly functioning" (Brueggemann 1992:19). Our call is to contend with such theologies and to provide resources for recovering and reconstructing the other trajectory that is a part of our biblical heritage—the theological trajectory that embraces pain, and that works for liberation and life for all.

Furthermore, they have to fashion and forge their own ways of ‘reading’ the Bible—what I have called a ‘re-membering’ the Bible (West 1999)—in order to discover resources for their working theologies, they have had to locate their own lines of connection between their lived theologies and the biblical traditions. Surely it is our task to assist them in this process. We can supplement their own ‘reading’ resources by offering them the rich resources of biblical scholarship, especially literary and socio-historical resources, so that they can make connections between the trajectory of their lived faith and the Mosaic trajectory in its various forms in the Bible.

Making connections with the biblical theological trajectory that embraces pain and its associated values—the theology which articulates the experience of the poor and marginalized within the biblical traditions—will enable them to articulate and own their working theologies. Their working theologies which are now incipient, but not said, may then be spoken and heard. But this is not the whole task. Our task is also to enable the Church in (South) Africa to sustain its ministry among the poor and marginalized. But how can it do this if its theological trajectory remains that of the royal consolidation trajectory, where structure legitimation, and so the legitimation of the status quo, is the order of the day? The task of The Kairos Document remains, "to return to the Bible and to search the Word of God for a message that is relevant to what we are experiencing in South Africa today" (17).

1. Wilson and Ramphele themselves provide some important reflection on this question.

2. I write this ten years after the Pietermaritzburg conference on "Theology, Work and Labor Conference" and for the Pietermaritzburg "Theology of Work Seminar: Three-fold Cord Revisited"; this article is both a tribute to and a continuation of that early impulse to explore these important issues.

3. Not only is this dimension of biblical interpretation neglected in (South) African biblical scholarship (see Holter 1996; Kinoti and Waliggo 1997), but there are good pedagogical and theological reasons for using this mode of reading when working with ordinary (South) African readers of the Bible (see West 1993, and footnote below).

4. My emphasis on the preposition ‘with’ is deliberate, signifying an interpretive process in which ordinary poor and marginalized (South) African ‘readers’ of the Bible interpret the Bible as equal dialogue partners with socially engaged biblical scholars; for a fuller discussion see (West 1996).

5. Mark tends to use the rhetorical technique of juxtaposition to make his point; by placing characters, scenes, or symbols next to each other Mark prompts the reader to make the connection.

6. Again, this is a neglected dimension of (South) African biblical scholarship. Socio-historical resources for reading, as with literary resources, are part of the contribution the socially engaged biblical scholar makes to the interpretive process. Ordinary readers, of course, have their own contributions to make (see West 1999).

7. I think it is no accident that a woman is the focus of Jesus’s attention in the text we have been reading.

8. The Zealots, for example, a loose collection of various groups who were ‘zealous’ for Jewish identity and independence, were not opposed to the temple, only to Roman influence in the temple.

9. The governing class or ruling group made up about 5 percent of the population and yet had a virtual monopoly on political-military power; they and their retainers and servants (another 5 percent) lived from the produce they took from the rural peasant communities who made up 90 percent of the population.

10. Wealth and poverty are systemically related (see my discussion of the story of the rich man and Jesus (Mark 10:17-27) in West 1999).

11. I am not implying that the Bible is the source for doing theology; what I am arguing is that if we are going to use the Bible when we do theology then some attention to literary and socio-historical context may be useful.

12. In Brueggemann’s most recent book, Theology of the Old Testament, he moves away from locating theological trajectories in particular socio-historical contexts and instead stays within the text itself; while there are reasons for this shift, my own view is that he has given up too much in making the shift (Brueggemann 1997). In what follows I will therefore concentrate on his earlier work.

13. The idea that the Bible speaks with more than one voice is not a new one; Claus Westermann, for example, made the point that the Old Testament does not speak about God in a uniform manner (Westermann 1982). Interestingly, Charles Villa-Vicencio uses Brueggemann’s analysis in his argument that right wing religion has its roots in "the reactionary dimensions of the Christian tradition," what I have called "Church Theology" and what Brueggemann refers to as the royal trajectory (Villa-Vicencio 1989:16).

14. It is not necessary to ‘buy into’ every detail of Brueggemann’s socio-historical analysis; indeed, recent socio-historical scholarship raises a number of important questions about generally accepted reconstructions of Israel’s history and even about designating such reconstructions as ‘Israelite’ (Whitelam 1996). Whether one agrees with Brueggemann’s particular locations is less important than the thrust of his argument. Similarly with the important work of Itumeleng Mosala; while many have questioned the details of his socio-historical work, his basic contention that biblical texts are a product of socio-historical struggles cannot be ignored (Mosala 1989).

15. See above note.

16. Brueggemann’s primary concern is with Old Testament theology.

17. Brueggemann uses the phrase ‘structure legitimation’ to characterize the royal theological trajectory and the phrase ‘the embrace of pain’ to characterize the liberation trajectory. Neither my argument nor his depends on this terminology; we may have to construct our own terms in analyzing the two trajectories in our context.

18. Sharon Welch argues that a theology of control is central to patriarchal and capitalist interests (see Welch 1990).

19. For an alternative view of creation theology see (Nürnberger 1997).

20. Another central concern, of course, is the interpretation of current events—signs of the times (see Mark 11:30, 12:15, 12:43).

21. An example, is what African American womanist theologian Dolores Williams calls "theologies of survival" (Williams 1993).