4

Consuming Desire vs. Resisting Desire

That to Which Your Heart Clings

The notion of hope is not sufficient to grasp what it is that keeps us going when things do not go as anticipated. The notion of desire introduces another layer of reflection.¹ It takes up the question of hope and deepens it by investigating more closely the unconscious layers of reality that include repressions and hidden motivations. What is it that truly sustains us and keeps us going when everything else fails and when even our images of hope are challenged? Desire, in this context, refers to more than individual motivation. There is a collective quality of desire in free-market economies that needs to be examined as well. Both economic theory and theological reflection presuppose this collective quality of desire. Furthermore, the formation of desire in the free-market economy is tied closely to material objects, as the ultimate value of such objects is no longer based on their inherent nature or on their use value. This desire for material objects, however, goes deeper than the attachment of people to material things—a problem that is often overlooked in the common critiques of desire for material things found especially in religious circles. The desire for material objects ultimately points to the curious phenomenon that under the conditions of capitalism the relations between material things unconsciously shape the relations between human beings and, thus, human subjectivity at its deepest levels, including religion. The classic notion of commodity fetishism developed by Karl Marx—when related to Sigmund Freud’s notion of the fetish as surrogate object of desire—might help to investigate this aspect of desire further.² This observation about the central role of material objects in the formation of desire is affirmed, from the other end of the spectrum, by economist Friedrich von Hayek, who noted that a progressive society “increases the desire of all in proportion as it increases its gifts to some.”³

Lamentably, there is a lack of sustained reflection on desire both in theology and economics that is particularly problematic at a time when the economy has acquired the tools and the power to shape and reshape even our deepest desires. Desire is assumed to be a given in the textbook definition of economics—the allocation of scarce resources to infinite human desire—and neoclassical economics is typically not interested in examining its roots. Likewise, theologians often assume that desire is a general human category.⁴ In this context, we need to take a closer look at how desires are at work and at possible alternatives.

The religious component of the notion of desire goes deep. Consider Martin Luther’s response to the question, “What does it mean to have ‘a god,’ or what is ‘god’?” God is, according to Luther, “that to which your heart clings and entrusts itself.”⁵ Luther realized that God is captured not merely by explicit images of the divine but also—and perhaps more importantly—by largely unconscious desires. In the realm of economics, it is the advertising industry in particular that is acutely aware of the importance of desire. The main concern for advertisers (in contradistinction to the self-understanding of most contemporary theologians and pastors) is not so much to communicate information—most people have a sense of the biased nature of advertising anyway—but to shape desire at a deeper, unconscious level that is more difficult to control. Unfortunately, the production of desire is mostly overlooked by many well-meaning critics of economics, especially by the ones who see consumerism as one of the key problems. What is overlooked here is the fact that while the desire to consume can seem to be almost universal, this desire is not natural but is produced to a large extent by economic mechanisms and reinforced by the advertising industry. It is those mechanisms that we will have to examine further. In this context, we also need to find out whether there are parallels between economic and religious desire, and what the alternatives are. Does the production of economic desire somehow shape our desire for the divine as well? And might our desire for the divine help transform economic desire? Unlike mainline theologians and economists, the Jesus of the Gospels appears to be aware that desire can be shaped by the production of wealth at the deepest levels and that this can interfere with our deepest convictions and ultimate values: “where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matt 6:21). The problem of economics is, therefore, a genuinely theological problem.

If it is correct that who God is for us is not decided merely at the level of explicit confessions and statements but at the deeper level of desire, we need to add another layer of reflection. Some of the insights of psychoanalysis might help us here, insofar as they direct our attention to the unconscious, the level of reality which is often neglected both in mainline theology and mainline economics. While psychoanalysis reminds us that unconscious desires constitute a large part of who we are, this issue is often not only overlooked but methodologically excluded in both theology and economics. Economist Friedrich von Hayek for instance, one of the original architects of the current free-market logic, claimed that the task of explaining the source of people’s actions was a matter for psychology but not for economics. Von Hayek’s Austrian school of economics and the bulk of neoclassical economists agree that de gustibus non est diputandum, that is, that taste cannot and does not need to be discussed and disputed in economics.⁶ Nevertheless, even von Hayek cannot disregard the matter completely. In a free-market society, he argues as we saw earlier, the desire of all grows in proportion to the growing wealth of some.⁷ While he might consider desire to be natural and not to be disputed, he admits that the desire that is produced at the top levels of the free-market society takes on a special role in the formation of the desire of others.

Psychoanalysis has taught us that we are ultimately driven by our desires and that these desires cannot easily be controlled. Desires cannot be controlled, for instance, simply through mental processes or by thinking different thoughts. This is why the sort of ethical instruction and admonition that is so often found in religious communities is not very effective for the most part—it appeals to the mind and contributes little to the reshaping of desire at a deeper level. Of course, religious people and their spiritual advisors would be quick to admit that it is important that we direct our desires to God. But how can we do this is when we are bombarded by so many other influences, which seek to shape us unconsciously? In a situation where the success of the economy depends on the production of the desire to consume more and more, we have less and less control over our desires, and it would be illusory to think that we can intentionally direct them. Note that no one is exempt here: all of us are subject to the formation of desire by forces that are becoming more and more aggressive, due to an economic phenomenon called the “falling rate of profit.” As profits keep falling in long downwards spirals,⁸ the struggle for influence over people’s desire must necessarily become more and more pervasive.

The question of desire goes very deep. It can no longer be addressed by assuming the sort of fairly straightforward choice of the object of desire, as Luther might have had in mind at a time when desire had not yet become such a battleground. Neither can desire be addressed by assuming spaces that are free from the struggle for desire; not even the church can provide such a safe space. This is not to deny that the church has an important role to play in the struggle for the influence over desire and that the Christian tradition may provide some viable alternatives, but we need to take a deeper look at how these alternatives emerge in the midst of churches and religious traditions that are themselves co-opted by the status quo.⁹ In this context, the logic of downturn will both help us identify the places where desire has been co-opted and aid in the search for alternatives.

This common lack of awareness of how deep desire goes can also be seen in economics. Not only is desire taken for granted in neoclassical economics—“want” seems to be a natural human trait—the assumption is that markets work best when left to individual desires and, by extension, that when people follow their individual desires democracy is achieved. The tremendous naïveté behind these assumptions is perhaps best expressed in this statement from a team of Christian economists: “When business ventures succeed, consumers are signaling that they really like the ways in which entrepreneurs are using society’s resources.”¹⁰ Desire is presupposed here not only as natural and unproblematic, but as that which deserves (without question) to shape the course of economics and, by extension, of life as a whole. The classic handbook on economics by Paul Samuelson and William Nordhaus points in the same direction when it addresses the question of power in a market economy: “The economy is ultimately ruled by two monarchs: consumers and technology. Consumers direct by their innate or learned tastes, as expressed in their dollar votes, the ultimate uses to which society’s resources are channeled.” While Samuelson and Nordhaus leave some room for “learned tastes,” that is, desire that is not natural, this issue does not factor much into the equation, in which markets simply “reconcile the consumer’s tastes with technology’s limitations.”¹¹ It is not hard to see what is missing here: a consideration of the power that is lodged in the production of consumer desires through advertising and other means, and the power that drives the production of desires in the first place, namely the production of products, including ideas and services. Only when this latter issue is discussed do we get closer to the bottom of this matter, and in this context we need to take another look at the role of workers broadly conceived—including both blue and white collar—which is not taken into account in any of these mainline formulas, the theological ones included.

If desire and the production of desire are thus taken seriously, we begin to realize that even the field of economics may have a god to which it clings and on which it depends (Luther). Here, the logic of downturn might help us to see more clearly: What is it that keeps us going when all else fails? It is curious that in situations of downturn CEOs and other executives get relatively little blame—any blame they might receive pales in comparison to the praise they receive in times of boom. While the decisions of CEOs may be scrutinized somewhat more than usual, it is rare that anyone calls for collective resignations: the leadership cannot be blamed for downturn, it seems. This means that the logic of the market is rooted at a deeper level than that of the leadership of CEOs. This deeper level has to do with desires—there is an assumption that the desire of consumers does not abruptly come to an end even in times of downturn and that it will eventually propel things forward again so that no dramatic restructuring or reorientation of economic principles is necessary. Reliance on desire thus creates some stability even in times of turmoil.

The free-market economy is, thus, safely rooted in the unconscious of our desires. This insight parallels an insight by Walter Benjamin, who reads psychoanalysis in terms of religion and capitalism rather than in terms of individual psychology, which is the challenge that is before us: “That which has been repressed … is in deepest analogy capital (still to be examined), which pays interest to the hell of the unconscious.”¹² This can be demonstrated in terms of the logic of downturn. If the free market is rooted, consciously or unconsciously, in some deeper or ultimate reality, then the effects of actions and decisions taken by the leaders of the economy are relativized; they are not the ones who are ultimately responsible for what is going on in times of downturn (although, for some odd reason, they are the ones who reap the benefits when things are going well). Accordingly, we cannot hold them accountable for disappointing results, any more than we can hold priests responsible for acts of God such as earthquakes or tsunamis. This might help us understand the otherwise very strange fact that in cases of economic failure no one is really blamed—a fact that turned out to be true for the most part even in the disastrous downturn of 2008 and 2009. Not only are the leaders of the economy not held accountable for failure, they are rewarded for not giving up hope and for reassuring us of the deeper foundations of the market. Their usual message, repeated over and over again in slightly different words, is that the market has never been in a slump for very long periods of time and that progress is inevitable. The market becomes, thus, part of ultimate reality.

Is Consumerism Really the Problem?

When religious people discuss economic matters, one of the problems that is identified immediately is consumerism. People are too consumeristic, the charge goes. They identify their value by what they buy and how much they can buy, or so it is assumed. The related charge is materialism. People supposedly care about material things more than about spiritual things.

These charges overlook at least two basic problems and share one major blind spot. Even in a so-called consumer society, the will to consume more and more cannot necessarily be taken for granted. This may come as a surprise to many because it is commonly assumed that people always want more. Yet we shall see that the will to consume more needs to be produced, nurtured, and constantly revitalized if the economy is to grow. Those who run the advertising agencies know this best; the will to consume and the desire that drives it cannot be taken for granted, and this is what keeps them in business. Second, this so-called materialism is really a misnomer because it is not ultimately about material things. The things that we buy promise us much more: advertising thus directs us not towards materialism but towards ultimate things. We are promised that buying things results in happiness and fulfillment. The major blind spot that will need to be addressed in this connection—a blind spot perpetuated both by mainline economists and theologians—has to do with the role of production. There is no consumption without production. In order to deal with this issue, the logic of downturn will be once again helpful.

Economist John Kenneth Galbraith was one of the pioneers who contributed some initial clarification. In many ways, Galbraith’s arguments are at least as relevant today as when they were first put forth over forty years ago. Unfortunately, they are still too often neglected. One of his most important insights was that consumers are not free agents. This leads to a crucial insight at the heart of this chapter: if consumers are not free agents, it may not make much sense to blame them for consumerism. Likewise, if consumers do not have exclusive control over their desires, it may not make much sense to blame them exclusively for distorted desires either. Both consumerism and desires are related to production. In his book, The Affluent Society, Galbraith notes the importance of production in mainline economics: “The interest of the economist is unique. The importance of production is central to his scheme of economic calculation. All existing pedagogy and nearly all research depend on it. Any action which increases production from given resources is good and implicitly important; anything which inhibits or reduces output is, pro tanto, wrong.”¹³ The weakness of this theory, as Galbraith notes, is the question of consumer demand, which is simply presupposed here as given and natural. In Galbraith’s words: “The theory of consumer demand, as is now widely accepted, is based on two broad propositions, neither of them quite explicit but both extremely important for the present value system of economists. The first is that the urgency of wants does not diminish appreciably as more of them are satisfied.” In other words, there is no concept of satiation in mainline economics, and so it appears as if production can continue without limits. “The second proposition,” Galbraith continues, “is that wants originate in the personality of the consumer or, in any case, that they are given data for the economist. The latter’s task is merely to seek their satisfaction. He has no need to inquire how these wants are formed.”¹⁴ This mistaken account of desire, we are beginning to realize, is at the core of all other problems.

The problem with these assumptions of mainline economics is that they misrepresent what is really going on. We are beginning to suspect that wants are not natural and that they are not sustained naturally. Galbraith, making the odd assumption that this should be common sense, notes a “diminishing urgency of … wants,” and a “diminishing urgency of consumption.”¹⁵ This fact is covered up in economic theory, he argues, because there is no distinction between important and unimportant goods. “This position ignores the obvious fact that some things are acquired before others and that, presumably, the more important things come first.” Galbraith takes this observation to mean that there is not only a diminishing urgency of wants but also a “declining urgency of need.”¹⁶ It is, therefore, not universally true that people always want or even need more.

In all this, the role of production is central: “One cannot defend production as satisfying wants if that production creates the wants,” Galbraith continues. And further: “Production only fills a void that it has itself created.”¹⁷ What drives consumption, therefore, is not primarily consumerism but the economic imperative of the production of goods, ideas, and services. Yet this engine is usually hidden from view, especially when consumerism is lamented as the problem. Galbraith points out the connection between production and consumption in no uncertain terms: “The even more direct link between production and wants is provided by the institutions of modern advertising and salesmanship. These cannot be reconciled with the notion of independently determined desires, for their central function is to create desires—to bring into being wants that previously did not exist.” Galbraith concludes that “a broad empirical relationship exists between what is spent on production of consumer goods and what is spent in synthesizing the desires for that production.” And, giving us a useful rule of thumb, Galbraith states: “Wants are dependent on production.”¹⁸

As we begin to understand the link between production and consumption, consumerism and the problem of wants is no longer seen as a problem of individual ethics and cannot be solved, therefore, by moral appeals to individuals. To put it bluntly, too many critics of consumerism, theologians included, appear to be barking up the wrong tree. Economists William Dugger and Howard Sherman draw an interesting conclusion: “Galbraith made the simple point that consumers are not born with preferences for television sets. One must explain the emergence of these preferences from the rest of social relations. So ideas are not a final prime mover.”¹⁹ This is the key insight that we will need to develop further: the heart of the struggle is not located in the realm of independent ideas; neither is it located in the realm of individual desires that are freely movable in space. The heart of the struggle is located in ideas and desires that are produced socially and economically.

In Galbraith’s assessment, it is economists who are not clear about the issues involved here, but we might add theologians to this list. Businesspeople and nonspecialist readers, on the other hand, will not be surprised by these arguments, he notes.²⁰ This is correct, of course, insofar as businesspeople in particular are aware of the importance of advertising, but it is not clear that they understand the link to production. While businesspeople are concerned about creating sufficient wants for their goods, it does not follow that they have any greater awareness of the created nature of desire and how it relates to production than economists.

In the production of wants and desire, the advertising industry has an important role to play. Advertisers know intuitively that their work is not primarily about putting out factual information about the nature of products, their cost, and where to buy them. Their role has to do with the shaping of desire and is, therefore, much more fundamental. For good reasons advertisers have been considered to be members of a “new high priesthood,” the influence of which is crucial for setting the agenda in business and media—an influence that ultimately also extends to politics and religion. Paul Glasser, author of The New High Priesthood, expresses what mainline economists and theologians tend to miss. Glasser prefers to talk about desires rather than demands because “demand is not a settled economic fact of life, like a river, but is the resultant of latent desires, dreams, and aspirations that may be fostered or not. Marketing does not sell a product—it sells a dream, a dream of beauty, of health, of success, of power.”²¹ The role of advertising is to produce the desires that produce economic demand, and the high priests of advertising “use their key positions and means of persuasion to mould the natures and aspirations of their peoples.”²²

The desire promoted by advertising is not the simple desire for the product; desire is for something more transcendent, like a dream or the hope for happiness and a better life. Desire is, therefore, not aimed at a pearl necklace in and of itself, for instance, but at the related hope for greater self-confidence and even love. John Hood, building on Glasser’s work, affirms this noble claim, pointing out that advertisement is what makes life meaningful: “The more advertising seeks to connect the brand names of tangible products to the intangible, the aesthetic, the social, and the individual, the more it accomplishes its underappreciated role of helping us infuse meaning and aspiration into what would otherwise be little more than the rote acquisition of basic necessities and the pointless accumulation of objects.”²³ The task of advertising is, thus, to produce desire and to connect it with the transcendent—a truly religious task that points us to the deeper roots of consumerism.

At the same time, advertisers realize that their work has come under widespread criticism. While the advertising business is huge and advertisers need to advertise advertising, there are also sustained efforts to even play things down a bit in order to avoid challenges. Hood seeks to clear up what he calls “longstanding myths and misunderstandings.” Seeking to defend the advertising industry, he claims that “ads are tools for enhancing competition and innovation, not propping up stodgy monopolies.”²⁴ But what drives the industry? Is it really just the search for innovation and competition? Advertisers may have a hard time answering this question, since even the world of advertising does not yet reach to the bottom of the mechanisms that shape desire. Advertising itself is a symptom of broader shifts, piggybacking not only on cultural and religious dynamics but, more importantly, on the world of production. Hood also wants to deflect another critique, answering in the negative the question of whether advertising makes us “materialistic and take[s] away our freedom and choice.”²⁵ Such an assessment would be way too simplistic, he claims, because the formation of personal values and preferences is complex and takes a long time. Advertising can, thus, at best only be one factor among many. With this argument he seeks to refute “the likes of John Kenneth Galbraith” and Galbraith’s notion of “artificially created wants.”²⁶ What this argument fails to take into account, however, is that a lot more is at stake here than the formation of personal values and preferences, since a whole economy rests on the back of the creation of new desire in large groups of people in order to keep demand for products flowing. Surely, Hood is too humble about the role of advertising.

The connection of advertising, consumption, and production has been identified by others who study advertising. In his book, Consumerism in World History, Peter Stearns points out that from the 1850s onward “the apparatus of consumerism changed, as shops and wordy advertisements were increasingly replaced by new retail outlets and a still-more manipulative advertising style.”²⁷ Wondering why consumerism escalated so dramatically in this period, Stearns notes that “a key factor involved changes in methods of production and distribution. European and American manufacturers were now capable of expanding their output to the point that selling it became an increasing problem.” Furthermore, he points out that “the range of goods themselves expanded … which could help explain new levels of desire.”²⁸ The changes at the material levels of production and distribution brought about the production of new desires. A somewhat exotic example was the emergence of kleptomania as department stores began displaying goods and, in this way, facilitating desire. This relation of consumerism, desire, and production is absolutely crucial, and we need to return to this topic later; too often, the role of production is overlooked in these discussions and, with it, the role of labor.

Desire was also produced, the historian of advertisement tells us, by efforts of workers and middle-class people to make their lives more bearable. If the work could not be changed, the money made as a result could be used to make life a little more pleasant. In this context, consumerism provides both satisfaction and meaning.²⁹ This is another example for why consumerism is not primarily about acquiring material things. In addition, “Consumerism gives many people a sense of global belonging,” Stearns states; “it also often stands for freedom and individual choice.”³⁰ The religious undertones are hard to miss here: if a sense of belonging, of freedom, of satisfaction, of meaning, and of the fulfillment of dreams and hopes is supplied both by religious and by consumerist desires, we have to pay close attention to how these desires are related and distinct. Keep in mind that the engine that generates desire is not to be found in the ideal realm: the engine is tied to production, and so we will have to take a closer look at production as well.

It is hard to see how religion would be able to maintain pristine independence in this climate. While a rudimentary awareness of the relation of money and desire goes back as far as Aristotle,³¹ we are dealing with a new intensity of this relation which is increasingly geared toward reshaping our innermost desires and reaching the deepest levels of our humanity that we cannot control at will. We are bombarded with thousands of images each day, all designed to shape our desires and to make us more perfect participants in the economic marketplace. With every breath we take, we are integrated into the market—be it through the workplace, the way we relax, the way we shop, the way we save money, the way we plan for our retirement, or the way we address social need; this list does not even mention the influence of media and entertainment. During most of our waking hours we are, therefore, more or less directly hooked up with the market economy.

Theologian and ardent supporter of mainline economics, Michael Novak has taken on earlier comments that I made to this effect: “It must be said that Rieger’s description of Americans cringing under a deluge of seductive images (presumably from television) seems preposterous. Neither advertising gurus nor retailers feel anything like the omnipotence with which Rieger endows them: they sometimes experience abject failure and most of the time barely enough success to keep going on. A great many highly touted products, like the Edsel, just died. True, some products are so good that they are smashing successes, but rarely is it the advertising alone that brought them their good fortune.”³² After reading Novak’s rebuttal, one might feel sorry for the advertising industry. He is right, of course, that advertisers are not omnipotent, but that is hardly the point. The problem lies deeper, with the fact that advertisers have access to a substantial array of tools designed to shape desire. Images on television are only the very tip of a growing iceberg since, in order to remain effective, advertising is constantly reinventing itself. As the media keep evolving, methods of communication become more refined, and are integrated more and more intimately into the shape of culture. A very cautious estimate says that each U.S. citizen is exposed to 245 ads daily: 108 from television, 34 from radio, and 112 from print media.³³ This number does not count cereal boxes on the breakfast table, billboards on the roads or on the side of buses, t-shirts, various kinds of computer use (computer games, web browsing, e-mails), or marketing calls. Nor does it include other methods of advertising that are less formal, like the use of certain products in movies, brand names that have been integrated into everyday language (like “Xeroxing” instead of “copying,” or “Googling” instead of “searching the web”), and so on. Other estimates of daily exposure to advertisements go as high as three thousand ads per person per day. Even if the truth lies somewhere in the middle, advertising has an enormous presence in our lives, especially when compared with other forms of communication. But not even this information is sufficient to understand the reality to which we are exposed. The messages of advertisement go deeper than the slogans and statements that we perceive at the level of consciousness, where, for the most part, we can still be expected to put up some resistance: Who would really believe at the level of consciousness, for instance, that a soft drink is the “real thing”? Advertisement is aiming at associations produced in the unconscious: shaping desire, feeling good, and producing identity (what is called “branding” in advertising lingo—religionists might call it “initiation”) are key.

This has implications for all other aspects of life. As we are being bombarded with messages that touch on the religious, how can theology and the church—even where they are trying to resist—escape being shaped by the capitalist market economy? Here is another parallel between mainline theology and economics, since both fail to investigate systematically what shapes our reality at the deeper levels. Just as theology needs to realize that it is dealing with more than religious ideas, so economics needs to understand that it is dealing with more than formal matters of finance and commerce. It is due to this lack of awareness of these deeper levels of reality that anything and everything can be blamed for what people perceive as leading to the much-discussed problem of a “loss of values”—except economics and religion. Theologians Paul King and David Woodyard, for instance, assume that capitalism becomes exclusive, dominating, and materialistic because it lacks religion and a god concept.³⁴ But what if capitalism promotes its own god concept—something that Martin Luther would have understood, because a god is “that to which your heart clings and entrusts itself”? And what if this capitalist god concept has an unacknowledged impact on how our visions of the Christian God shape up? Theologian D. Stephen Long operates under the assumption that only those theologians who intentionally make common cause with the economic status quo are endangered by it. Those who seek to be countercultural and cling to what he calls the “ancient traditions” appear to be safe.³⁵ Christian ethicist Max Stackhouse maintains that “Christian theology and theological ethics have the spiritual power and moral insight to comprehend, modulate, and guide” the powers that be.³⁶ But to assume that the church can work for the common good through transnational corporations without asking questions about its complicity, as both Long and Stackhouse claim in different ways, implies a strong belief in the independence of the church. If the production of desire aims at all of life, the church does not remain unaffected, and we need to take a much closer look at how it might develop the ability to resist.

As we have seen above, religion is frequently the ally of free-market capitalism. The Gospel of Prosperity is only the most blatant example. In this case, theology is assimilated to economic goals, endorsing the desires produced by the free-market economy and thus protecting them from being questioned. But the Gospel of Prosperity is not the only problem. Even those who resist such triumphalistic connections between theology and economics may still be influenced by the desires unleashed and produced by the free market. Long is right: even the language of “pluralism, inclusivity, individual freedom, growth and heterogeneity” is not unrelated to the “language of the market,” at least in certain contexts. But what about Long’s endorsement of theological virtues, including the Apostle Paul’s ancient list of charity, faith, and hope?³⁷ Are those virtues today not also in danger of being shaped by the free market, if only unconsciously?

Even traditional faith language is not automatically safe. The idea of charity, for instance, is now at the basis of efforts to ensure the stability of the free-market economy because it involves taking care of the needs of those who otherwise might potentially destabilize it, if only through their suffering. Charity, the way it is mostly practiced today by the churches and others, helps reintegrate people back into the system—the so-called faith-based initiatives of the Bush years were designed to make this happen—but it rarely leads to a critique of the system. If the desires that got people into economic trouble are noticed at all, they are blamed on the victims themselves, who are “too consumeristic” and unable to limit themselves. To be sure, there is a theological surplus in the ancient notion of charity that pushes beyond the current embodiment of charity, but, for the most part, even theologians tend to think about charity in ways that conform to the system. Is this not also true for worship? The common expectation is that worship is uplifting, thereby contributing to the revitalization of tired minds and bodies on Sunday morning so that they will be able to be more productive and content in the marketplace on Monday. The theological surplus that exists even in this situation, cannot be measured in terms of whether people are enjoying the worship experience—the usual measure of ecclesial success—but in terms of whether it provides challenges and alternative inspirations. In this context, even traditional faith language, like the notion of “Christ’s benefits” or talk about the “power of the Holy Spirit,” needs to be examined for the difference that it really makes. Only when we begin to investigate what it is that shapes our deepest desires as Christians, can we start searching for alternatives.

Lamenting consumerism is the wrong approach in this situation, as it covers up the deeper reasons for the production of desire. It also covers up the fact that the problem is not primarily at the level of acquiring material things but at the level of our identity as a whole, which includes what people think, believe, and feel. People are lured into consuming to such a degree that their whole identity is reshaped—and this happens in order to guarantee growing production and increased profits even under the conditions of falling rates of profit. In this context, we can put to rest the old reproach that we have become too materialistic, since the consumption of goods is not primarily about material things but about achieving our dreams and our desires. Even the seemingly nonmaterialistic worlds of our beliefs and ideas are shaped by these processes and, thus, ultimately by the economic powers that be. Consequently, the appropriate response is not to become less materialistic and more spiritual, as if the spiritual world were safer and less impacted by capitalism than the material world. What we need is a different materialism coupled with a different spirituality, and here the Christian traditions might be helpful, as Christianity at its core has never been about playing material and spiritual things against each other. Neither is the appropriate response to be found in efforts to replace individualism with communitarianism. At a time when the logic of the free market shapes even our deepest desires, communities are not necessarily less influenced by status-quo thinking than individuals—the gated communities that have popped up in many of our major cities are perhaps the most vivid example, but the same thing might also be said of most mainline church communities. What is left? Is resistance still possible?

The Produced Nature of Desire

Confronted with the challenges of the economy—which shape not only the economic aspects of our lives but everything else, including our deepest desires—the most dangerous assumption is that the mechanisms of the free market and the desires connected with it are “natural.” Indeed, most people who benefit from the economy tend to believe that the proverbial urge of “keeping up with the Joneses” is part of the natural human condition. This position claims that we are all alike: people always want more stuff; everybody wants a bigger car, a bigger house, and more money at the expense of everything else. Even economic globalization has been justified in this way.³⁸ If the mechanisms of the free market are natural, resistance is, indeed, futile.

Theologian Jung Mo Sung has noted a confusion between the concepts of desire and need in capitalist societies.³⁹ The difference, according to Sung is that needs—the sorts of things that we require in order to live, like food, shelter, and clothing—have limits, while desires are unlimited. For our purposes, we might say that needs are more closely connected to natural functions of human life, while desires are not. And while desires are potentially unlimited, they are not natural, in the sense that they need to be produced and reproduced indefinitely. Furthermore, this production of desire is a component of the current free-market economy, necessary in order to keep things going. The mercantilist economists of previous centuries, for instance, did not seek to encourage desire and consumption. Just the opposite: for them, consumption was the problem that would force them to raise their payments to their servants and laborers. In free-market capitalism, on the other hand, desire and consumption are necessary in order to increase production and to make up for falling rates of profit. This is what ultimately drives the production of desire through the various methods that will be discussed here. Dugger and Sherman summarize what is going on from the perspective of the economic school of institutionalism: “In our current age, corporate researchers think up new things and new ways to produce them, then set about selling them to individual consumers and justifying the extravagance of some consumers in the face of real want for many others.”⁴⁰

The current free-market economy rests on the freedom to produce, sell, and consume, and it seeks to enhance production, sales, and consumption through the active promotion of desire. The role of the advertising industry has already been mentioned. Yet there are also other ways in which desire is promoted: at the most extreme end are the “economic hit men,” whom John Perkins has described and outed in his book, Confessions of an Economic Hit Man. One of the functions of these active promoters of the benefits of capitalism is to spread the desires of the elite of the wealthy countries to the elite of other countries around the globe. Their mission is to make sure that “those leaders become ensnared in a web of debt that ensures their loyalty.”⁴¹ Desire is, thus, promoted at the highest levels of society in order to create a global elite. This sort of desire can be described as “mimetic desire,” since it is aimed at the imitation of the desire of those who are better off.⁴²

Another example of how this sort of mimetic desire is produced in less extreme ways has been explored by economist Robert Frank. Frank is concerned about the sinking living standards of the middle class. One of the problems that he discusses is how the lifestyles of the rich and famous affect the lifestyles and desires of everyone. While it is irrelevant for middle-class families that Bill Gates, the founder of Microsoft, has a 40,000-square-foot house, the existence of such houses still has an effect on society as a whole, as it shapes basic perceptions about how large of a house can be built, how many guests can be entertained at once, and so on. The concomitant increase in the size of everything can now even be seen in the growing value of gifts that middle-class people feel they have to give when invited to a party. Even the choice of a suitable spouse, an area of life that is rarely discussed in terms of economic logic, appears to be influenced by growing expectations of wealth and financial success.⁴³ In short, Frank’s research demonstrates that increased spending at the top has changed the frame of reference for everyone.⁴⁴

A traditional analysis of what is going on here might focus on people envying the rich or on their vain desire to keep up with the rich. But this is not the case, Frank argues.⁴⁵ The problem exists not just in the ideal realm, where it would just be a matter of people’s self-image and of people being able to live out their dreams and fantasies. Rather, the problem is that not keeping up hurts people’s real positions in life. Real disadvantages in life result from not keeping up with the developments at the higher levels of society. Children are not able to go to the better schools, for instance, if parents do not buy houses in more expensive neighborhoods. Frank even references consequences for people’s health: in a British study, the rates of illness and death were many times higher among lower-ranking civil servants than among higher-ranking ones, indicating that making it to the top becomes quite literally a matter of life and death.⁴⁶

Frank shows the problems that arise from this sort of produced desire. In a world where the rich keep getting richer, everybody is under pressure to work more and more in order to maintain their living standards. In the year 2009, American women were working about two hundred hours more at their jobs each year than they did in the mid-1970s; for men the number was one hundred hours more. There is a general rule which shows how this sort of mimetic desire impacts everyone: in countries where income inequality is high, people generally work longer hours than elsewhere in order to keep up.⁴⁷ Other social problems include the fact that countries with the largest increases in income inequality also have the highest divorce rates.⁴⁸ This is another indication that what is often lamented in the United States as the loss of moral values is perhaps more closely related to economic developments than to moral ones. The world of ideas and ideals, which comprises part of the world of religion, is much more closely tied to the economic world than most people realize.

None of these problems is taken into account in contemporary economics, Frank states, but he admits that he does not have an answer as to why this is the case.⁴⁹ This is where his project falters, since all that he can do is try to convince people at the top not to be so “greedy,” and to spend their money more wisely so as to produce similarly wise desires in others. People at the top do have a choice, he notes, of whether they want to spend their money on more expensive wristwatches, or on better teachers and other things that would be beneficial for the community.⁵⁰ Frank also feels that the world of politics might help us in this regard,⁵¹ but this a strange proposal from an economist, since it leaves economics completely off the hook. The problem with Frank’s analysis is that, like other mainline economists, he does not go to the bottom of what it is that produces desires. While he provides an outstanding critique of the problems that emerge as desire is produced in the relation between those who are extremely well off and the rest—this is the relation that was praised by von Hayek as being the engine of all progress—he fails to ask what ultimately drives this desire for ever-more expensive products; here he joins von Hayek and neoliberal economics again. Frank shows how status objects matter more in the production of desire than objects that are less visible: thus, the possession of a larger house appears to be more desirable, for instance, than decent health care. But even in this case we might wonder whether the deeper reason for the production of desire for status objects has something to do with the unacknowledged need to ratchet up production.

While the production of desire does not necessarily make people happier or freer, it is essential in maintaining the status quo. The production of goods, ideas, and services can continue and grow only if the production of desire stays on track. And since desire is produced by such powerful means, it cannot be limited to the consumption of goods. The desire to consume goods itself is linked by the “new high priesthood” of advertising with loftier goals and dreams, as we have seen. This produced desire produces our gods, as Luther realized: the god of prosperity, whose existence is proved by economic gain; the god of the market, who claims to lift all boats; and the god of charity, who seeks to shape economically disadvantaged people in the image of their benefactors—as fellow consumers.

This produced desire also produces our images of humanity. In a strange reversal of cause and effect, economists tend to portray people not as the servants of the market (which they are), but as being in charge of the market. Assuming that the role of the market is to give people what they want, advertising scholar James Twitchell can claim that “consumers are ‘the ones with the power, continually negotiating new sites for meaning.’ ”⁵² In this context, consumerism is seen as an expression of the popular will; as a direct manifestation of democracy. Covering up the produced nature of desire, desire is now equated with what people really want and, ultimately, who they are. Human freedom is achieved in this model when people can live out every possible desire. Thomas Frank, reflecting back on the 1990s when this approach began to gain dominance, describes it in the following terms: “The market and the people—both of them understood as grand principles of social life rather than particulars—were essentially one and the same. By its very nature the market was democratic, perfectly expressing popular will through the machinery of supply and demand, poll and focus group, superstore and Internet. In fact, the market was more democratic than any of the formal institutions of democracy—elections, legislatures, government. The market was a community. The market was infinitely diverse, permitting without prejudice the articulation of any and all tastes and preferences.” This market, it appeared, “had no place for snobs, for hierarchies, for elitism, for pretense, and it would fight these things by its very nature.”⁵³ This market, in sum, is seen as the exact opposite of the entity that seeks to manipulate people for the sake of increased production.

By masking the fact that desire is produced for the sake of the market, the market takes on the role of the servant of desire. In an odd reversal, the market is seen as the source of democracy, while politics is denounced as elitist.⁵⁴ As a result, any critique of the market can now be seen as a critique of common people. The list of the supposed critics of common people is now long: not only is politics elitist, organizations of common people like labor unions are even worse, since they supposedly interfere with people’s freedom to follow their individual desires into the market. In this context, collective bargaining is no longer seen as the process by which workers who have no voice in the market gain some influence; collective bargaining is portrayed as an unfair interference in the market and as undemocratic. As the market takes center stage, the focus is directed away from the tensions under which desire is produced, and toward a harmonious image where the main concern is to make those who hold investments (where interest equals desire) happy. Frank quotes from a 1996 New York Times article, referencing a CEO who claims that “unionism is going down because corporations have changed their views.… We empower our people now. They work in teams with shared responsibilities. It’s not management versus the workers in the plants now. We’re all one for our shareholders.”⁵⁵

The image of humanity that develops here is one of human beings pursuing their natural and inborn individual desires in isolation from each other. Ensuring freedom means not interfering with this process, so that all can do as they please. What is overlooked, of course, is that if these desires are not natural but produced in the interest of growing production and profit, human beings are not free to begin with. What is commonly called “consumerism” describes, thus, not a situation of freedom where people can do as they please, but a lack of freedom that is twofold: not only is desire produced in us and for us, but when we are in a position to pursue our desires without impediment, we are even less free because we are really following someone else’s script. Now we are at the heart of the issue.

The economy has become hegemonic to such an extent that the majority of humanity matters less and less, and consumerism has become a mode of existence that can no longer be contained by the individual will of the consumer. In this context, we need to rethink what it means to propose religion as an antidote—as the place from which resistance can be formed and alternative lifestyles can be developed. What if religion itself can no longer be considered to be free from the pull of the global market economy? What if even our most sacred notions of God have become tied into the ethos of the free market without anybody noticing? For many mainline Christians, Christianity and capitalism appear to be referring to the same reality. This problem has taken on such epidemic proportions that even alternative images of God are co-opted at an alarming rate. Even the God who lifts up the poor, for instance, now appears to be following capitalist principles. The God who empowers people appears to empower them to become capitalists: in a survey several years ago, most people thought that the phrase, “God helps those who help themselves,” could be found in the Bible.⁵⁶ Even the recently rediscovered earthy and material qualities of God are being commodified in a growing market of nature-related travel, retreats, dietary supplements, exotic artifacts, and the principles of what is now called “free market environmentalism,” which finds an odd sort of comfort in the self-healing powers of the economy.

Religion, Labor, and Resisting Desire

In a situation where desire is ravaging lives—particularly those of people who are unable to satisfy it—is resistance possible, and how? Biblical passages like Ps 23:1, “The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want,” have been referenced in recent theological debates in order to argue that God provides for us and, thus, overcomes scarcity and uncontrolled desires.⁵⁷ M. Douglas Meeks points out, for instance, that in the Christian perspective “the Holy Spirit is providing enough of what it takes for all to live and live abundantly.”⁵⁸ Meeks is aware that this does not do away with insufficiencies, lacks, and shortages of goods, but he claims that this perspective challenges the modern economic definition of scarcity, which is based on the presumed insatiability of human nature and on efforts to block access to what is necessary for basic livelihood.⁵⁹ The Eucharist has been promoted as a resource from the Christian tradition that might inspire a sense that God is taking care of our needs—not only spiritually but also materially, in the elements of bread and wine—which results in Christians being able to share with others.⁶⁰ These insights are helpful to a certain extent, but they tend to assume too quickly that the church, or at least our traditional Christian imagery, is somehow exempt from the all-pervasiveness of the market. However, even images of care—gift-giving, sharing, and abundance—can be co-opted by the status quo to such a degree that they provide false hope. Part of the problem with these perspectives is that they often do not push for the deeper challenges. This problem manifests itself, for instance, in the fact that their focus is mostly on economic distribution without consideration of the realities of economic production.⁶¹ Meeks, for instance, concludes his important book, God the Economist, by arguing that “the household of God is meant to be a peculiar sphere of distribution.… Its household rules of distribution are meant to conform to God’s own distribution of righteousness.”⁶²

Keeping such alternative takes on Christian traditions before us while noting their limitations, we need to investigate the possibility of resisting desires and wants, and of developing alternatives that permit flourishing in the midst of downturn. The key issue in this regard is to forge relations to those whose existence has been severely damaged, if not wiped out, by the downturn; it is here that the whole scope of the problem can be seen, false hope can be filtered out, and the most pressing questions can emerge. On the one hand, this helps us understand the severe damage that has been done by the production of desire—as it has turned people to false gods and ruined their lives in the process. On the other hand, it is here that we can catch the first glimpses of possible alternatives that push beyond easy answers. What does desire look like in situations of severe economic downturn, when it is determined by real need rather than the desires dictated by the market? As desire is reshaped in this context, what alternative images of God and ultimate reality emerge? The study of desire in light of the logic of downturn points us to another kind of divine or ultimate reality, and here theology and economics intersect once again in the question of what it is that ultimately moves and motivates us.

Early critiques of consumerism in the eighteenth century focused on Christian moral themes, including attacks on greed, gluttony, and the pursuit of false gods. It seemed inappropriate in this context that lower social classes were coming to adopt lifestyles that seemed to be reserved for more advanced classes.⁶³ In the United States of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Americans also worried about “unmitigated materialism.” This was shown, for instance, in their discomfort with the commercialization of Christmas—a mood that is still with us, although most churches have given in and many do not even offer services on Christmas morning so as not to interfere with the opening of presents. Environmental concerns were added in the early twentieth century, as well as a host of personal ethical concerns, including temperance, smoking, and sexuality and violence in the media.⁶⁴ Historian of consumerism Stearns notes, however, that such attacks rarely slowed down consumerism, whether in western Europe or in the United States. “From the eighteenth century onward, the forces propelling consumerism were stronger than those opposing it in the Western world.”⁶⁵

The consequences of consumerism cannot be underestimated: while it became increasingly accepted as normal, consumerism altered people’s lives and imposed heavy burdens. Stearns points out that “for many people, particularly in the United States, the commitment to consumerism introduced a new precariousness to material life. By 2001, despite unprecedentedly high incomes, over half of all Americans had almost no savings and a third live[d] paycheck to paycheck, often in considerable consumer debt.”⁶⁶ Yet lamenting consumerism does not help, as we have seen above. In fact, this lament may be one of the reasons why we are unable to put up any resistance to the dominant production of desire, because it points us in the wrong direction and makes us forget that desire has deeper roots. Theologians and others who have focused on consumerism have often reached an impasse exactly at this point.⁶⁷ If it is true, however, that “wants are dependent on production” (Galbraith), we need to take a closer look at economic production in our struggle to transform desires and ultimately consumerism. Resistance to desire needs to be rooted in understanding of production first, and only then can we take another look at consumption.

Stearns identifies three aspects that drive consumerism: “manipulation, fulfillment of social and personal needs, and habituation.” The notion of manipulation is a subtle acknowledgement that other interests—the interests of production, to be exact—drive consumer desire. But how would it be possible to step out of this vicious circle? Stearns unwittingly points in a promising direction: “For the poor, consumerism is not the question; seeking adequate subsistence is.”⁶⁸ This question, he notes, not only haunts large numbers of people around the globe, but also thirteen million children in the United States who live below the poverty line and whose numbers are growing. The distinction between needs and wants that we suggested earlier is helpful here: actual human needs have to do with the basic necessities of life, and many wants can be deconstructed when seen in relation to actual human needs. Galbraith approaches this matter from the other direction, showing that increasing production, on which the increase in wants is built, does not necessarily make a society better. From a certain point onwards, producing more stuff and wants does not increase welfare. He therefore concludes that production must not get stuck in private interests but should be liberated for the bigger challenges of humanity.⁶⁹

The first step in producing the sort of desire that can put up resistance is, therefore, to reconnect with the real needs of people. This connection with real needs is what was lost when the free-market economy began to create the human being in its image. The free-market economy’s fabricated human being is abstract; it knows only wants but has no real physical needs. Hugo Assmann and Franz Hinkelammert draw a parallel to certain spiritualizing theologies, which also function in abstraction from real human needs and from human life in general. In liberation theology, they point out, this spiritualization is overcome and attention is paid to real human need.⁷⁰ This is an important first step; yet more work needs to be done. As we become aware of real human need, we are able to see more clearly the constructed nature of desire. And it is this awareness of the constructed nature of desire that points us toward what is happening in production. Anne Cronin, a scholar of advertising, inadvertently affirms this approach to economics through the back door, as it were: “Whilst contemporary capitalism’s web of institutions … and flows of finance, information and people are far too complex for most people … to grasp, advertising presents itself as a highly visible cipher for these formulations.” No doubt, something of importance can be learned here, although we must not stop at this point. Cronin points out the limits: “In this context, the critique and regulation of advertising may offer a reassuring (if tenuous) sense that we have some control over capitalism’s processes and development.”⁷¹ Attention to advertising, consumerism, and desire is only helpful if it points to the deeper and underlying reality of production.

While production seems to be a noncontroversial aspect of mainline economics that follows simple rules of supply and demand, the perspective of production changes when viewed from the perspective of labor. Here is a parallel to deep-seated Judeo-Christian traditions dealing with labor that have often been neglected in the history of theology and the church. This neglect cannot be seen as innocent, since these traditions are quite prominent in the biblical texts, which reminds us of the extent to which religious concerns are shaped by the economic status quo. While this is hardly discussed in mainline theology or the churches, the evidence shows that some of the key figures of the Judeo-Christian faith were involved in issues of labor and production firsthand. That Moses organized laboring slaves and that Jesus was a construction worker from a family of construction workers might sound cliché and trite, but these observations share deep levels of meaning and have had some impact in the history of the church. Why did God not chose to manifest divine power in favor of ancient empires like Egypt and Babylon? And why did God not become human in an upper-class family—especially since this would have had all sorts of advantages, “all other things being equal,” as the economists say? Apparently, all other things religious are not equal if this social location changes.

In more recent history, the life and work of Claude Williams (1895–1977), a Reformed pastor and founder of the People’s Institute of Applied Religion, who spent much of his life engaged in labor issues, is an impressive example of the power of these traditions to reshape both the life and theology of Christians.⁷² Williams, developing a “people’s interpretation of the Bible” in the 1930s and 1940s in the south of the United States, studied the Judeo-Christian traditions in terms of an emerging group of leaders of the common people, to which he counted—in addition to those of Moses and Jesus—the stories of Abraham; the prophets Amos, Hosea, Jeremiah, Isaiah, Elisha, Elijah, and Jonah; John the Baptist; Jesus’ disciples Peter and James; and later Stephen.⁷³ In recent research, Richard Horsley has offered a reading of Jesus’ work and ministry, in solidarity with the peasants in Galilee and Judea who were under pressure from the Roman Empire.⁷⁴ The theological importance of the background of all these leaders, Jesus included, is that they were looking at things from the perspective of working people—and were, therefore, able to see more clearly what was wrong with the world and where the real problems were. Equally important was that from this perspective they were able to develop fresh visions of God, cutting through the many images of false gods which enslaved the people in their day—from the slaves in Egypt in the case of Moses to the peasants at the margins of the Roman Empire in the case of Jesus. In this process, desire was reshaped and readied for resistance.

The perspective of working people is crucial here. From the firsthand perspective of Jesus as someone who had experienced the life of a worker, it is not surprising to hear the following conclusion: “The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them; and those in authority over them are called benefactors. But not so with you.… For who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one at the table? But I am among you as one who serves” (Luke 22:25–27). According to this passage, Jesus understands himself and his work from the perspective of those who labor and produce. His reference to those who work and serve at the table is more than just a cheap analogy, which would further devalue them if it were simply used to make an abstract metaphysical point. When the mainline church has picked up such passages, by contrast, it has usually defused them by talking about “servanthood” in romanticized terms that are completely removed and abstracted from the everyday life of labor to which Jesus refers. From the secondhand perspective of Moses, who was raised in the upper class as an Egyptian prince, things become clear once he begins to listen to the experience of others: “One day, after Moses had grown up, he went out to his people and saw their forced labor. He saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew, one of his kinsfolk” (Exod 2:11). This is the moment when Moses’ troubles begin, as he sides with the Hebrew, kills the Egyptian, and is forced to go underground. It is precisely in the underground that God appears to him in unexpected and life-changing ways.

In these religious traditions, the view from the perspective of working people is indispensable. The legacy of Moses cannot be conceived without his solidarity with the Hebrew slaves—even though this does not mean that his killing is justified—and the legacy of Jesus cannot be conceived without his solidarity with working people of his own time. Jesus’ parables—at the core of his message—are full of examples from the everyday life of work, including references to shepherds, who usually were not the owners of their flocks (Luke 15:1–7); working women (Matt 13:33, Luke 15:8–10); workers in vineyards (Matt 20:1–16; 21:33–46) and in fields (Mark 4:1–9, 13–20); fishermen (Mark 1:16–20); and service workers (Matt 18:23–34). One powerful example of the solidarity at the core of Jesus’ message can be found in Matt 18:23–34, the so-called Parable of the Unforgiving Servant: a service worker, who experiences the rare forgiveness of his debt, fails to forgive one of his fellow service workers. The community of service workers notes the problem right away, and the worker is taken to task. In this parable, God is pictured as the employer and the one who owns the debt—but God as employer goes against all business logic by forgiving debt, the very thing that makes workers compliant to their bosses and that pits worker against worker. The resulting solidarity among workers that becomes possible on the basis of the forgiveness of debt—when debt is not pressing down on them—is so crucial that its breach has severe consequences.

That a story like this is told in the context of worker relations makes all the difference, and it can only be fully understood when interpreted from this perspective. This story could have conceivably been told from the perspective of the employers who lend money: in this case, the logic of the forgiveness of debt to others—that when one is forgiven one is also expected to forgive—would not necessarily hold up. This is a common story in the history of economics: the bailouts of the banking industry in 2008 and 2009, for instance, were not designed to lead to bailouts of those who owe money to the bank, and it occurred to hardly anyone that this should be the consequence. While it can be expected that desire would be reshaped in the life of the forgiven worker—the community is outraged when he resists this pattern—this expectation does not necessarily apply to the life of a forgiven banker. On this backdrop, the story of Zacchaeus, which only occurs in the Gospel of Luke, is all the more remarkable, but Zacchaeus’s response would surely destroy his status among other wealthy chief tax collectors had he done as he says: “Half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much” (Luke 19:8).

In order to dig deeper into the creation of alternative desire, we need to understand the key role of workers in production—whether this be the production of goods, ideas, or services. This is what is most sorely missing in mainline economics, which emphasizes the creativity of CEOs and other business leaders but fails to consider the role of workers and their creativity. Clearly, there can be no production without labor, but what is the significance of this insight? To begin with, the goals of workers are different from the goals that mainline economics attributes to business leaders. The goal of workers, their deepest desire, is not the infinite maximization of profit for stockholders. Their desire points to processes of production that respect human dignity, that provide fair compensation and benefits, and that provide for the welfare of their families and the community. A process of production that respects human dignity will also give more room to the creativity of workers, who, even under current working conditions, often contribute significantly to improvements in the production of goods, ideas, and services. Including these considerations in mainline economic accounts would surely lead to major shifts. Note also that when seen from the perspective of workers, the idea of risk in mainline economics is reversed: while it is commonly assumed that the employers bear the bigger risk because they might go bankrupt if their business fails, the risk for workers is just as existential. They stand to lose their jobs, their livelihoods, and perhaps even their pensions. And while CEOs tend to have substantial personal resources, receive substantial severance packages, and often move on to other companies, workers tend to be stuck: if jobs disappear due to massive layoffs, this results in plummeting housing values, which then prevent them from selling their homes and seeking employment elsewhere. In the situation of large-scale recessions or depressions, risk is fundamentally different for large- and small-business owners. While the latter may indeed go bankrupt, those who run large businesses can count on bailouts or at least on public efforts to save their businesses through tax cuts and other incentives. In terms of the production of desire, we must also take into account that, in the current system, workers have to deal with a double burden: while production rests on their shoulders—profit is made based on their labor, as mainline economist David Ricardo demonstrated decades before Karl Marx—they are also the ones who are most needed when it comes to consuming the goods, ideas, and even the services that they produce. In other words, they are the targets for much of the production of desire, but for this reason they are also the ones who have the strongest interest in resisting desire.

The insights of psychoanalysis—especially when developed in terms of social analysis rather than in terms of individual analysis—might help us in further analyzing the problem and looking for another set of solutions. Jacques Lacan’s distinction between realism and the real provides a first clue. What counts as reality—and that which realism picks up on—is what is commonly accepted as true by those who are part of the status quo. Statements such as “everyone knows” or “it is a commonly accepted fact” are based on the assumption that there is only one valid view of reality: the dominant one. The master narratives of a given culture and that which is perceived to be “common sense” belong to this realm of reality (which Lacan later would term the “symbolic order”). For our purposes, this may be considered the position of the mainline, based in the ways of production that underlie the current status quo. The real, by contrast, is that which escapes the realist perspective and cannot be captured by it. More specifically, the real is that which has been pushed underground and repressed by the realist perspectives.⁷⁵ As that which has been repressed, the real is not only invisible to realism; it becomes its alter ego, the back on which realism is built. Yet the fact that it is repressed does not mean that the real is gone: out of sight does not mean out of mind. The real is, therefore, something like the collective unconscious of the dominant positions. This collective unconscious is produced in analogy to the individual unconscious in moments of repression.⁷⁶

The relation of employers and employees can be discussed in this framework as well. Mainline economics deals with what Lacan termed realism—that which is visible from the dominant perspective of the employers. No wonder that the situation of workers is hardly considered here in any depth. Although the system as a whole depends on labor, labor itself is not well understood by the dominant perspective. Those who work, on the other hand, see things from the perspective of that which has been repressed: what we have called the real. From this perspective, they are not unfamiliar with the dominant position of realism because it affects them in their repressed positions, especially the laws of supply and demand. Yet workers know better than anyone else what is really going on as production gears up to meet and produce demand, and—to the point of our discussion—they are in a better position than anyone else to understand the netherworlds of production through labor, which is at the core of the production of desire.

And while the worker’s own desire is necessary to keep production going and is, therefore, subject to the control of the dominant powers—since without labor nothing would be produced—the desire of those who are engaged in production can never be completely co-opted and controlled. A first sense that desire cannot be co-opted completely grows out of an observation of the ambivalence of the status quo. Capitalism’s power and influence is never absolute, and even its processes of production are never without ambivalence.⁷⁷ Alternative desire is at work in unexpected places; it emerges from those who are under pressure by the system but can never be completely controlled because they do not ultimately benefit from it. The challenge, therefore, comes from the “last” who “will be first” (Matt 20:1–16), and from the “least of these”; even the divine judgment ultimately depends on people’s relation to the least of these, according to Jesus (Matt 25:31–46). This alternative desire may not seem like much, but free-market capitalism is challenged by any desire that is not in sync with its purposes and that does not play according to the rules and within the limits of its particular freedom. Worse yet, free-market capitalism is especially concerned about alternative desire that might organize itself to push for alternative goals, and this is the ultimate challenge of the labor movements.

In this connection, we can turn our view to alternative forms of production that develop as a result of the repressions of the status quo: factory workers, for instance, by having to collaborate and share time on the factory floor, can produce alternative means of solidarity and resistance. This might be possible for other working people as well, including those who traditionally consider themselves middle class: collaborative projects are also common in the work of those who produce ideas, and office workers who work in communal settings, for instance, can meet around the proverbial water cooler. Resisting desire can be organized and strengthened in these settings, whenever those who have access to some alternative desires meet. Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri may be too optimistic that such organization is now happening everywhere in what they call the “multitude,” but their argument reminds us that we need to look more broadly for places where such organization takes place, with the expectation that transformations in the forms of production can lead to transformed forms of desire.⁷⁸ In the midst of a recession, we also need to add the alternative perspectives developed by the unemployed, especially by those who have never experienced this type of repression before and who would never have expected to end up in such a situation. In this situation, the differences between working class and middle class (as well as between the unemployed who come from these respective classes) matter less and less—and, thus, another space is emerging where solidarity can be practiced.

The most important thing to keep in mind is that desire cannot be changed easily, and that moralizing or sermonizing—the common responses of the system—will not work. In this context, it is important to dig deeper and to realize that desire is shaped in relationships and through repressions. Once this is clear, we will be able to see the tide of alternative desires that is already rising in a system that is becoming more and more repressive of more and more people. This alternative desire is thus truly a collective phenomenon, and it has the potential to create new ways of being human.⁷⁹ Yet this alternative desire also needs to be organized. Without organization, it disappears. This may be the wisdom embodied in alternative religious and other movements, particularly when they form on the underside of history. As Claude Williams noted in his “people’s interpretation of the Bible”: “the ‘multitudes’ who gather to hear the Son of Man do not appear magically but are the product of hard organizational work.”⁸⁰ A middle road hardly exists in this polarized situation. Those in the middle are usually pulled into the defense of the powers and the desire of the dominant status quo, often without being aware of it. But those in the middle might also opt to step back from a system which does not allow them to form and maintain alternative desires, and join in the emerging production of desire from below.

In the present times, progress in creating alternative desires depends, therefore, on a return to situations of great pressure and the logic of downturn—similar to the situations in which many of the key events of the Judeo-Christian tradition took shape. Here, theological reflection and economic thought intersect in such a way that the contribution of theological and religious reflection to the further development of economics is not primarily that of providing another set of ideas or a new state of mind, but of finding glimpses into an alternative reality precisely where the pressures of the economic status quo become unbearable and are, thus, being questioned. This, rather than the closed realities of the status quo, points us to the ultimate and to the divine. Here, Christianity will be able to offer alternatives not where it represents the smug symbols of regulated religiosity (the kinds of symbols that are easily commodified by the commercial spin doctors’ efforts at reenchantment) but where it draws on the irrepressible energies emerging out of the undercurrent of its traditions, as they have developed and continue to take shape in the midst of the pressures of production and of life as a whole.

Resistance depends on the creation of alternative desires in this context, and here lies the biggest challenge. As desires function at an unconscious level, closely connected with that which we have repressed, desires cannot easily be controlled and redirected on the conscious level, neither through the well-meaning adoption of a new set of rules nor through the training processes that go into the formation of habits. Resistance based on moral rules and behavior, if it is possible at all and if the rules somehow manage to escape the almost irresistible pull of the status quo, will always remain a drag. No wonder burn-out is such a serious problem. In this context, theologian Sallie McFague’s notion of “wild spaces” might be a first step in a more promising direction. A wild space is whatever does not fit the stereotypical human being in each of us—what some think is our “nature,” which is really that which we have become as people produced by the demands of the free market. A wild space is created in rifts with the status quo, for instance in traumatic moments such as when a child dies, when having to deal with substance abuse, or when confronting clinical depression.⁸¹ Such a wild space might also be created when the last of our economic safety nets crumble.

Yet this is only a first step at best. In order to truly resist the structures of a virtually all-powerful economy, we need to push beyond its rifts and move even further—all the way into the scary netherworld of its repressions. When we seek out not only the wild spaces but the repressed spaces created by the free-market economy, we will encounter the worlds of labor and, ultimately, even the growing worlds of those who are systematically excluded from the worlds of labor: the long-term unemployed, exploited children, commodified nature, and even parts of our own selves that we never knew existed. What if theology were to deal with the real—that is, the netherworld of our repressions—and, thus, move closer to those areas where desire is shaped and reshaped and power is unmasked?⁸²

What we are dealing with here is not merely a rift with the status quo. We are dealing with a full-blown repression and the powers that cause it. Here is a parallel to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. Like the crucifixion of Christ, the fate of people on the underside is not a mere accident, a rift having to do with bad luck or a combination of unfortunate circumstances. Like the crucifixion of Christ, the fate of people on the underside has to do with repression. As Christ experienced repression by the religious and political leadership of his time, working people often experience repression by the leadership of their own times, whose goal it is to profit as much as possible from the so-called free-market economy. The gap between the haves and the have-nots on the national and the global levels, and the power differentials between them, are exploited for economic growth—creating new desires and the belief that expansion is unlimited among the rich and even the middle class (our 401[k] retirement plans depend on this), while at the same time demanding full compliance from the vast masses of the lower classes, to the point of bodily enslavement.⁸³ Yet the Christian tradition also talks about a resurrection, which happens because God takes the side of the crucified Christ.

At the point where we begin to confront these kinds of repressions, a new thing happens and a different kind of resistance becomes possible. Desire—unconsciously produced on the backs of those who labor and produce, and normalized in the dominant economic values of the free market—is reshaped in unexpected ways. In this context, there is hope even for the middle and upper classes. Middle- and upper-class people, for instance, who have spent time with people in poorer countries, invariably report their conflicted emotions upon reentering our world of malls and supermarkets. Something has indeed changed in what they desire most, even if the shock is only temporary. Such transformation of desire, where we begin to cut through the many layers of the economic status quo, is at the beginning of a transformative process that opens up the way for alternative values and lifestyles that resist the control exercised by capitalist economic values. Here, more productive encounters with the alternative visions of the Christian traditions open up—and many aspects of these traditions are still waiting to be uncovered. Resisting desire no longer has to be self-generated but erupts from the underside where—to our never-ending surprise—Godself labors in solidarity with the people and resisting desire spreads from there.

To Each According to Their Need

How we view desire shapes how we view humanity, the world, and God. In mainline economic theory as well as in much of mainline theology, the view of desire is mostly static and fixed. Whatever desire is considered to be from these points of view, it is mostly seen as focused on the interests of the individual self. The rational self-interest promoted by economics is often interpreted as a close match with theological understandings of sin as self-centeredness.⁸⁴ Yet this interpretation is, at the same time, too strong and not strong enough. It is not strong enough because it does not account for sin in a deeper fashion. If sin were to be taken seriously in classical fashion as separation from God, the self-centered human being would not be guided by the rational self-interest of economic theory but by hunger for domination, lust, greed, anger, and envy.⁸⁵ If sin were to be taken really seriously in mainline economics, how could one maintain confidence that the capitalists who engage in the market were not merely out to kill and destroy one another? Is the mainline position too optimistic about human nature?

At the same time, this assessment of self-interest also seems to be too strong because it is too rigid. It is too quickly assumed that self-interest describes the reality of all human beings in all places and at all times. This assumption does not work on various levels. As economist Jim Stanford has noted, for instance, anthropologists argue that some sort of cooperative behavior—however limited—was an important factor in the emergence of humanity. Furthermore, there are many examples where monetary self-interest is not the only thing that moves people: Stanford names firefighters, scientists who work long hours, or parents caring for children and grandparents.⁸⁶ The commonly accepted assumption that people act selfishly in the marketplace and altruistically in the family has been shown to be false by feminist economists. If altruism were invariably at work in families, it would make little difference, for instance, if family allowance payments were made to fathers rather than to mothers. Furthermore, when males conspire to exploit women, they seem to engage in “selective within-sex altruism.”⁸⁷

What is missing in the mainline positions of economics is an assessment of human nature that is grounded in history, which includes the reality of economic production. This problem parallels a common problem in theology that occurs if sin is defined in abstract form without taking into account historical specificity. While the Augustinian definition of sin as pride does, in fact, fit some people—in our own context we might think of those in positions of great power like prominent CEOs and top investors—for others sin is better understood in the opposite way, for instance, as an unhealthy humility that leads people to underestimate their own capacity and power. In our society, this has been true especially of women who are taught to think of themselves as the “weaker sex,” as submissive and subservient, and to put first not their self-interest but the interest of their husbands and families. Not surprisingly, this insight was first developed by feminist theology, yet it matches our logic of downturn. The problem of people underestimating their own power and, thus, failing to take themselves seriously may well be the bigger problem in our own situation for those for whom the tide is no longer rising. Desire may still be at work here, but it is the self-defeating desire that may, for example, play a role in obesity—a condition that is much more common in the lower classes than in the upper classes as well as in economically depressed areas of the country.

The economic and theological concept of self-interest can be terribly misused. Where people feel they have no choice but to pursue their own narrow self-interests (not realizing that these self-interests are based on produced desires), the free market succeeds at dividing and conquering. This approach has been quite successful, as our society is no longer structured by families, for instance, but divided into families that compete with each other, as feminist theorists Michèle Barrett and Mary McIntosh have pointed out.⁸⁸ Yet self-interest may not be altogether misdirected. Those who are forced to submit themselves to others in various ways—whether women of whom self-sacrifice is often expected as a matter of course or factory workers whose daily lives are determined by the presence of “lean and mean” production—deserve some relief. The last part of the second half of Jesus’ love commandment talks about love of self: “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Mark 12:31). Viewed from the logic of downturn, which exposes the myth of individualism and reminds us of the connectedness of people, this phrase becomes clearer. At stake is not the promotion of individualistic self-love but the insight that the other is part of who we are: love your neighbor as being part of yourself. A kind of self-interest that understands that the other is part of who we are points in a whole new direction. Collective action and organization become possible on this basis.

What have been too quickly dismissed in this connection are the many streams of socialism. Unfortunately, these traditions have been widely misunderstood. Socialism is not about making everyone look alike, nor is it by definition about totalitarian government control, and neither is it naïve about the reality of human sin: its motto, “to each according to their need,” allows for differences and human imperfection. And without the capitalist push to produce and expand desires infinitely, needs do not have to be infinite and impossible to meet. The biblical traditions point in the same direction. The following passage from the book of Acts does not sound so utopian anymore, if desire is not constantly produced and reproduced at ever-increasing speeds: “There was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold. They laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need” (Acts 4:34–35; see also Acts 2:44–45). Even the day laborers who were hired late in the day in Jesus’ parable in Matt 20:1–16 are treated according to their need. The gracious gesture of the owner of the vineyard who pays them the regular wage for a day’s labor will not make them rich; the wage they receive simply helps them to take care of their need and the needs of their families. It is interesting that there is no concern in this story that having their needs met will make them lazy. They have proven their willingness to work, and there seems to be a connection in this story between having their needs met and demonstrating a willingness to contribute. Human sinfulness is not neglected here, but it is expressed differently: sin is identified not with the infinity of human want but with situations of great inequality, where some have no access to the opportunity to live productive lives. Sin needs to be addressed by resisting this inequality and by supporting those who suffer from it so that their needs are met; otherwise this sinful situation of inequality can easily become a matter of life and death.

Nevertheless, the core concern of many of the socialist traditions lies even deeper, as it is not merely about sharing but about production. This is news to most people in the West. The first stance is not “to each according to their need,” but “from each according to their ability.” Distribution, like the production of desire through advertisement, follows production. The first question is not how things are to be distributed but how production can be organized so that all can participate according to the best of their abilities and make a living. In the current context, production is seen as a zero-sum game, where those who control large shares of the means of production make more profit if those who labor in production get paid less. As the call of Warren Buffet for “the small number of very large institutional investors [to] start acting like true owners and pressure managers and boards to do the same”⁸⁹ (see chapter 2) indicates, many more will be affected by the belt-tightening that is to come. That we are playing a zero-sum game is, of course, precisely what is denied by the statement that a rising tide lifts all boats. Yet this statement never amounts to much because it denies the radical nature of sin, which manifests itself not only in increased pressure on workers but also in the total exclusion of some from earning their livelihood. The game is indeed a zero-sum game if the basic economic assumptions are that wages need to be held in check, that self-representation of workers in unions is invariably harmful for business interests, that benefits need to be cut wherever possible, and that health care for everyone is out of the question. In this scenario, there may well be a rising tide, but there will be no lifting of the majority of boats.

Attention to what happens in production is key—not last of all in the kingdom of God where all are invited to participate in constructive work. The focus on distribution has too often covered up this insight. In the words of economist Jim Stanford: “The idea of socialism is not that rich people should share with poor people. Rather, the goal of socialism is to consciously manage economic activity with an eye to maximizing collective economic well-being, rather than individual profit.… That’s a collective vision of self-interest—not a call for charity.”⁹⁰ The underlying concern is for relationships of production which are just, and for the sort of self-interest that knows that the other is part of who I am; everything else follows from this, including the production and reproduction of desire and the fulfillment of human need. A famous saying of Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew makes more sense in this light: “Strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness [justice] and all these things [food, drink, clothes; mentioned in v. 31] will be given to you as well” (Matt 6:33). Relationships of production that are just, where all can contribute according to their abilities—the “kingdom of God and his justice”—create a situation where human needs are met and where human sin is addressed in realistic fashion.

When viewed from the perspective of production in terms of labor, scarcity as an absolute term in the sense of free-market economics turns out to be a pernicious myth. Economist Albert O. Hirschman makes an interesting distinction between goods, which are scarce based on their supply, and abilities, which increase with use. He notes the “confusion between the use of a resource and the practice of an ability.”⁹¹ Based on the doctrine of scarcity, mainline free-market economics assumes that an unemployment rate of at least six percent is necessary to maintain growth and keep wages in check. Milton Friedman considered this the “natural rate of unemployment.”⁹² But this scarcity of employment is an artificial one that results in increased pressure on workers and in the exclusion of others from production. “From each according to their ability” starts from the assumption that people do have abilities, however varied they may be, and that those abilities must not be blocked by an economic theory built on abstract notions of scarcity.

Hardt and Negri address the problem of scarcity in this way, pointing out an important shift which is presently occurring: “Some resources remain scarce today, but many, in fact, particularly the newest elements of the economy, do not operate on a logic of scarcity.”⁹³ As Thomas Jefferson realized long ago, ideas are enhanced when they are communicated—an insight that could become key in the information age. Here a whole new understanding of economics emerges “from the underside,” as it were: from the perspective of those who produce. In Hardt and Negri’s terms, the “hegemony of immaterial labor” contributes to the fact that “the ruled become increasingly autonomous.”⁹⁴ This insight would need to be deepened by a closer look at the subaltern character of “immaterial labor.” What is the position of those who work in the production of ideas and services in the current economy? Nevertheless, traditional top-down models of domination and influence are challenged here, at least implicitly.

Alternatives to the capitalist production of desire are hard to detect on the surface of the current economy, because even the powerful are not really masters in their own house, no matter what they say or think. Their desire is distorted as well. In this situation, however, alternatives emerge from unexpected places—“from the underside,” as classical Latin American liberation theologians would have said. Alternative desires that push beyond the pipe dreams of autonomy, unregulated economic power, and shapeless freedom emerge under pressure, forged as byproduct of the repressive powers of the status quo. While there is no one who is not affected by the production of desire based on the demands of economic production, people are affected in different ways. The logic of downturn helps us to realize that there are large numbers of people who benefit relatively little from the system as it is, and they have, therefore, less of a stake in the system. To be more specific, those on the margins of the global economy who are mostly excluded from it—the vast numbers of the unemployed, or even the casually employed for whom the economy has little use even in their capacity as consumers—have no stake in the system at all, except perhaps when they gather the crumbs that fall from its table. While “dumpster diving” has become a sport for some middle-class people in wealthy countries, millions of people are forced to survive on garbage. Further, neither mainline economists nor mainline theologians appear to be aware of the millions who have no choice but to live on the garbage dumps of this world, often with their families.

There is another vast group, however, of people who are also marginalized but on whose shoulders the weight of the economy rests—the workers who produce—in the broadest sense of the term—not just material goods but also ideas, who provide services, and who are essential for the production of profit and the overall movement of the economy. Their desire is strongly affected by the system, but, since they do not reap the majority of the benefits of the system, there are still limits to how much the system can control them. Once they begin to realize their limited stake in the system, these groups are free to push beyond it, not unlike the fishers, fieldworkers, and service workers of old who chose to follow Jesus.