When the crowd saw what Paul had done, they shouted in the Lycaonian language, “The gods have come down to us in human form!”
~ Acts 14.11
There is a young man named Jay who walks up and down the strip on Granville Street. He doesn’t look that great — big beard, long knotted hair, mangled teeth, you know the sort. Jay has some sort of mental condition and he never seems to remember me, but that’s okay. He also has some sort of drug addiction — my guess is heroine but meth and crack are other obvious options — and I guess that’s okay too. Jay’s always cheerful, polite, and friendly when he asks for change. And he always calls everybody “brother” or “sister” — I sorta like that.
“Pardon me, brother, I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if you might have a little change?” He tends to lean away from you when he asks, smiling, and folding his hands behind his back.
If you do have change he’s always grateful, and if you don’t he makes sure you don’t feel bad for giving him nothing.
I was walking to work the other night and I saw Jay. I happened to have an extra smoke in my pocket and an extra five bucks in my wallet so I caught up with him and offered him the smoke. Then, before he could ask, I also gave him the five while we were making small talk. He was a little stunned and it always makes me sad to see how amazed people are (or how amazed people feel they have to act) if you give them something more than a couple of quarters. So Jay turns to me and he says this:
“You’re my god, man. You’re my god.”
I was a little taken aback by that, and so I told Jay that, no, I wasn’t any sort of god, but what he had probably picked up on in my little act of kindness was the love of God flowing through me to him. Jay had a hard time with that idea. He told me that he wasn’t a very lovely person. That sometimes he did pretty horrible things. In fact, he even told me that he might do some bad things with the money I have given him, so he would understand if I asked for it back.
I told him to keep the fiver. I told him that God knew all about what he had done, and what he was going to do, and God loved him anyway. I told him that it was bullshit to think that you’re a bad person just because you’ve done some pretty bad things. I told him God understands how sometimes we don’t have much of a choice when it comes down to surviving each new day. Even though we mess things up, I told him God still wants to give us gifts.
Jay listened to me and said that he wanted to give me something in return, but he didn’t have anything to give. So, I told him he could pray for me — and he did. His prayer for me was a greater gift by far than the five bucks and the smoke that I gave him.
As I think about what happened with Jay, about what he said to me when I first approached him, my thoughts lead me back to Acts 14 where Paul heals a cripple and the people who witness this miracle mistake him (and Barnabas) for gods. Me, all I had to do to get a similar reaction was give away a few dollars.
What does it say about the state of our Church when such a small act of love gets treated like a miracle? Granted, our ability as Christians to love others is a gift from God, but such basic acts of charity (and much more besides) should define us in our day to day encounters with people like Jay. I long for the day when I give my change to Jay and he says to me, “You must be a Christian, man”.
April 2006
Faith seeking Understanding
[This is a devotion I presented for a class today. Our reading was from “A Theology of Liberation” by Gustavo Gutierrez. I am mostly just pulling together a bunch of topics I have already referred to on my blog.]
In the Gospel according to Luke, Jesus inaugurates his public ministry with this quotation from Isaiah:
The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed, to proclaim the favourable year of the Lord.
I can't help but think of these words when I read Gutierrez.
When describing theology as critical reflection upon ecclesial praxis, Gutierrez provides a rather biting quotation from George Bernanos who says:
God does not choose the same men to keep his word as to fulfil it.
This is a damning critique of many of us who pursue theology. We seek to understand right doctrine, we seek to ensure that the gospel of Christ is not corrupted, yet we often fail to realise that faith gains understanding through praxis. We can only begin to understand the crucified Christ of our creeds when we journey in intimate relationships with the crucified people of today and bear on our own bodies the brand-marks of Jesus. We can only understand the gospel when we understand how it is good news to the poor. If we are not proclaiming release to the captives and freedom for the oppressed it just shows how little understanding our faith has.
The Spirit of the Lord was upon Jesus to do and say what he did and said. In the same way the Spirit of the Lord is upon us. As Tom Wright says:
The Spirit is given so that we ordinary mortals can become, in a measure, what Jesus himself was: part of God's future arriving in the present; a place where heaven and earth meet; the means of God's kingdom going ahead. The Spirit is given, in fact, so that the church can share in the life and continuing work of Jesus himself.
Continuing the work of Jesus involves a path of downward mobility. It means being empowered by the Spirit of the new age, in order to carry a cross and travel the road of suffering love. It means, as Paul writes in Colossians, that we, in our bodies, and in the body that is the Church, make up what is lacking in the sufferings of Christ. Such a calling will inevitably lead us into the experience of godforsakenness. This is an experience that von Balthasar knows well. He writes:
There are legitimate experiences of absence within this ever-present world of God's grace, but they are forms and modes of love. Such were the experiences of the prophets of the Old Covenant, of the Son of God on the cross and in the darkness of his descent into hell; such are the experiences of all those who, in their several vocations, follow the Son. These are the redemptive paths of love as it traces the foot-steps of sinners in order to catch up with them and bring them home.
As theologians, as those possessed by a faith seeking understanding, we cannot simply rely on our intellect, on our texts, or on our professors. We will learn the nature of our faith when we begin to embody that faith in the call issued by Christ and the Church to journey with the scattered sheep, to trace the foot-steps of sinners in order to bring them home. Kant has dared us to think for ourselves and, for better or worse, we have accepted his challenge. Gutierrez has dared us to act and I hope to God that we accept his challenge.
Sheep that are scattered are not simply cute little animals fumbling around in the hills. Sheep that are scattered are sheep that get slaughtered. I know this because I journey with scattered sheep — abandoned children — in the inner-city. I watch them as they are slaughtered and I know that the only reason why this happens to the degree that it does, is because the people of God, including many of its leaders and theologians, have abandoned them. And these sheep have been abandoned because these people have a faith that lacks understanding.
And when faith lacks understanding exile looms on the horizon. As Isaiah, himself an advocate for the poor, concludes:
Therefore, my people go into exile for their lack of knowledge.
The Israelites thought they were being faithful to the Lord. They were fasting and tithing. They were observing the appropriate festivals and the Sabbath. They were worshipping YHWH. But they had neglected the poor and so their faith lacked understanding. And this had devastating consequences.
Let's pray.
Lord, you tell us that, if we ask of you, you will grant us wisdom. And so, Lord, we ask that you would provide our faith with understanding. We do not ask for this understanding apart from the call you issue for us to journey with the crucified people of today. And so, because you continually tell us not to be afraid, we pray that you would give us the courage to take up our crosses, to pursue downward mobility, and to follow in the footsteps of Jesus who, because he existed in the form of God did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped; but emptied himself taking the form of a slave, and being made in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Lord, we pray that you would teach us to be obedient to the point of death. Lord, we pray that you would teach us what it means to love as you loved — and what it means to lay down our lives for those we love. Lord, have mercy and make us both keepers and fulfillers of your Word.
Finally Lord, we conclude this devotion by praying the prayer that the Church has prayed for 2000 years. We pray as you taught us to pray:
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name.
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our debts, as we also forgive our debtors;
and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from the evil one.
For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.
Keepers and Fulfillers
God does not choose the same men to keep his word as to fulfill it.
~ George Bernanos [as quoted by Gustavo Gutierrez in Theology of Liberation]
Of course, Bernanos does not see this as a good thing. His comment is a rather acerbic reflection on the fact that so many contemporary theologians (who are safeguarding the doctrines of the Church) are far removed from the day to day realities and responsibilities of faith. He is criticising those who do theology from an “ivory tower”. To Bernanos and Guiterrez, it is exceedingly odd that one could be a doctor of the Word, and not also be in solidarity with the poor.
For if our theology truly is faith seeking understanding, that means that we should also be seeking the lost sheep, journeying alongside of the abandoned, weeping with those who weep, and carrying a very real, very tangible, very painful, and very shameful cross.
Unfortunately it seems that theologians are for more concerned with gaining credibility, respect, and prestige instead of embracing vulnerability, powerlessness, and shame. Thus, as Bernanos suggests, it is often a very different group of people who end up fulfilling God's word.
Of course, this dichotomy need not exist and both sides suffer where it does exist. What we need are theologians on the margins, theologians in the alleyways. I wonder what sort of transformation would occur if the keepers of the Word would unite with the fulfillers of the Word?
Recommended Reading
Well, I rarely plug other blogs. Not because I don't read several other blogs but because I have a few rules that I made for myself when I started to write online.
That said, I want to recommend a post on my little brother's blog. His name is Abe, he's a pretty smart cookie (he's 24 and he is doing a PhD in nursing, presenting at conferences, writing articles, and working at a health centre for homeless people) and I enjoy reading what he writes. His latest post is a bit of web research entitled “Bruce Wilkinson and Colonialism” (yes, that is the Bruce Wilkinson who wrote The Prayer of Jabez). I highly recommend you take a look at it and follow through on the links he provides.
His blog can be found here: http://www.nurseabe.blogspot.com.
Love you, Abe!
A Prayer for my Abandoned Friends in Hamilton
“Gimme hate, Lord,” he whimpered. “I’ll take hate any day. But don’t give me love. I can’t take no more love, Lord. I can’t carry it… It’s too heavy. Jesus, you know. You know all about it. Ain’t it heavy? Jesus? Ain’t love heavy? Don’t you see, Lord? You own son couldn’t carry it. If it killed Him, what You think it’s gonna do to me? Huh? Huh?”
~ From Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison
And what we mean when we pray for hate, Lord, is not that others would hate us. We’re used to that already. Of course, if you want to make others hate us more that’s okay, too. But what we really mean, Lord, is that we want you to teach us to hate others. This love is just too much. It’s fucking heavy, if you’ll pardon our French, Lord. It’s more than we can bear.
Because this love isolates us. And, Lord, isn’t love supposed to be something that brings us all together? But it doesn’t. It just drives us further and further away from our friends and families. And we can’t handle this kind of love on our own. So, give us hate. If we could learn to be a little more hateful than we’ll be a whole lot more comfortable. We’ll have a lot more friends too, Lord, and we’re tired of being alone.
And don’t you promise us new life, Lord? If you do then why is it that this love is killing us? What happened to the easy yoke, Lord? This one is more than we can bear.
The Heart of Darkness
In this month's issue of Harper's there is an heart-rending article about Congo's ongoing genocide (“Congo's Daily Blood: Ruminations from a failed state” by Bryan Mealer). In the last five years, over 4,000,000 people have died there, and approximately 1,200 continue to die there every day.
What is described is far beyond what I can comprehend. I can read the stories, I can follow the words, but I've realised that even my experiences with violence and sorrow at the margins of North America have not put me in a place where I'm even close to imagining what it is to be in the midst of such experiences. The brutality defies comprehension. The stories are too horrible — “all blood, rape, and gore” — and I can't even bring myself to repeat them here. I don't understand how people can do the things they do to each other.
Likewise, I absolutely cannot understand how we stand by and do nothing about such events. Because such horrors do not stop with Congo — Sudan and Somalia come instantly to mind. Our apathy staggers me. And we are not just apathetic. We've have found a way to make money off of genocide. Thus, we live comfortably in Canada (in part) because of what we have done with oil in Sudan, what we have done with telecommunications in Somalia, and what we have done with mining in Congo. Their blood is on our hands. It's in our clothes, it stains our daily bread.
So where, oh where, is the Church in all of this? Where is the mass of Western Christians committed to journeying with those in Congo, Sudan, Somalia? The fact is that it seems like an utter fantasy to suggest that there would be a large number of Christians committed to going to a place like Congo. We can't even get Christians to move into shitty downtown neighbourhoods, what hope is there that they might consider moving into “the horror, the horror” that exists in Congo? Christians think I'm crazy when I tell them they should live in a neighbourhood where *gasp* they might be robbed. How in the world will they be convinced to go and live in a place where they might be tortured and eaten?
Instead, we putter away at our little lives, we try to make a little bit of a difference where we are. Yet most of these puny acts of piety and service are done to ease our own consciences. And all the while the blood, the rape, and the gore, continue unabated.