From what I can tell, based upon the standards often used to measure one’s ‘calling’, I am not, and never have been, called by God to journey alongside of poor people.

• Based upon my family background — growing up in a quiet suburb with debt-free parents who were wealthy enough to send all four of their kids to a private Christian primary school; living an extremely sheltered childhood, basically cut-off from peers and non-Christian influences (like TV, or movies, or video games, or participation in things like Halloween), etc. — you would think I was being prepared to be called into some sort of sheltered, comfortable Christian life.
• Based upon my personal disposition — being an extraordinarily frightened child (something as simple as being left in a Sunday School class would cause me to cry uncontrollably); I am still fairly shy and introverted, not to mention socially awkward in a good many situations — you would think I was being prepared to be called into a profession that didn’t require much engagement with others, and certainly not any engagement in high stress or violent situations.
• Based upon my personal interests and talents — I’ve always loved reading and learning, nature and animals (I wanted to be a vet for years) — you would think God was going to call me into professional Academic work or perhaps work away from the city and out in the wild, where I love to be.
• Based upon the lack of any ‘call experience’ — the closest I’ve ever come to feeling like I was having a call experience was a dream I had when I was thirteen that led me to believe God was calling me to be a missionary to ‘Africa’ — you would think that moving into something so terrifying (to me) and so different than all that had come before would be out of the question.

So, based upon my family background, my personal disposition, my interests and talents, and the lack of any sort of ‘call experience’ I can only conclude that I am not, and never have been, called to journey alongside of poor people… but I want to challenge the way in which we approach this topic.
It seems to me that the notion of ‘calling’ is generally used to justify the pursuit of that which is advantageous to ourselves.
Thus, we see our background in places of privilege as rooted in God’s choice to put us in those places, which means (of course!) that we are called to remain in such places.  Or, we take our personal disposition as a sign of the way God wants us to go, and therefore remain within our comfort zones.  Or we take our personal passions and talents as ‘gifts’ God has given us to develop and so we pursue what we want to pursue.  In this way, all of these things are interpreted as the ways in which God ‘calls’ us — although markedly absent is any sort of call experience similar to that experienced by Paul or Isaiah or Abraham or whomever else.  Indeed, the absence of such an experience is taken as further proof that we are living ‘withing God’s will’!  Unless God appears to me in a dream or vision and says, ‘Go live and work amongst the poor!’, I’ll rest assured that I can take my place amongst the wealthy and privileged.
I trust I am not alone in noting that this ideology is conveniently and profoundly self-serving.
So, here I am, coming up on ten years of moving out of my background, challenging my disposition, and relinquishing my prior interests and talents, in order to attempt to journey alongside of the poor.  Why?  Because, to me, this is what it means to be a Christian.  Even more, I think that this is what it means to be truly human.  Our identity, as disciples of Jesus and as bearers of the divine image, is caught up in, and defined by, mutually liberating solidarity with the marginalised.  This journey has nothing to do with a sense of personal vocation, and everything to do with a sense of our communal identity as children, heirs, and ikons of God.
This is why ‘call narratives’ don’t take place all that often in the Bible.  A few individuals — notably those within the prophetic tradition — experience radical theophanic call events, but most people do not.  This is because the biblical narrative is already pretty clear on who we are to be and what we are called to do.  As Christians we don’t need to be ‘called’ to journey alongside of poor people, our Scriptures already make it plain that this type of life is essential to our identity.
If we miss this ‘call’ then the chances are that a theophanic dream or vision wouldn’t do much to change our minds.  Hence, I am reminded of Jesus’ parable regarding the rich man and Lazarus.  After the rich man dies and heads to torment, while Lazarus is welcomed into Abraham’s bosom, the rich man pleads that Lazarus be sent back to warn his brothers.  This is Abraham’s response: ‘If they do not listen to Moses and the Prophets, they will not be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.’  The same, I think, applies to us and whether or not we believe we are called to journey alongside of poor people.  If we do not listen to Moses and the Prophets (including Jesus), then I suspect that we would find ways to get around any other ‘call’ experience.

I confess: I frequently wonder if I understand or retain anything that I read, and worry that I’ve got a lot of people fooled because, in actuality, I’m a total blithering idiot.
I confess: Moltmann has been a huge influence on me and I’ve read more of his writings than any other theologian… but I stopped talking about him for about a year because I thought it was more scholarly or impressive to talk about Barth and von Balthasar.
I confess: I am often totally baffled as to how many of the scholars who inspire me can remain rooted in the Academy, while simultaneously writing what they write, and affirming what they affirm.
I confess: I believe that the single greatest and most transforming theological book I have ever encountered is not some massive tome full of five dollar words — it is Life of the Beloved by Henri Nouwen.
I confess: I distrust theological aesthetics and am suspicious about the popularity of Christian interactions with ‘the Arts’.
I confess: These days I prefer post-Marxist and anarchist philosophy and social theory over pretty much any theology.
I confess: I spend way more time reading biblical scholars than I do reading the bible (and I am quite happy with this state of affairs).
I confess: I often wonder if I should just spend my time rereading the (excellent) books that I’ve already read, instead of constantly trying to read new things.
I confess: I often think about walking away from theology (and all other theory) and never looking back.

I have been thinking about issues I struggle with, have struggled with for years, and expect to struggle with for the rest of my life. I thought I would write a few down here. I’d be interested in hearing the tensions others struggle with (either in the comments or on their own blogs) or how they resolve these ones. Here are a few of the definitive tensions in my own life and thought:

1. The tension between (a) life as a form of cruciform dying and (b) life as the overcoming of death in the power of the resurrection Spirit (of course, one can resolve this propositionally by saying that one is empowered by the resurrection Spirit to live a cruciform life… but how this plays out in one’s day to day existence, that’s the catch!).
2. The tension between (a) experiencing one’s own finitude, insignificance, and inability to do anything lasting or meaningful, and (b) recognising the sacredness, breath-taking value, and ‘weight of glory’ contained in every single person.
3. The tension between (a) ‘rejoicing with those who rejoice’ and experiencing the peace of Christ, and (b) ‘mourning with those who mourn’ and experiencing the groanings of creation and the Spirit.
4. The tension between (a) relying on God to create change within the world and (b) recognising that God has a habit of working through people to create these changes (this tension is especially manifested in the ways in which I go back and forth in my own practices of resting/receiving and working/sharing).
5. The tension between (a) affirming a God who hears the cry of those who suffer and who acts on their behalf and (b) knowing so many who suffered and died abandoned by everybody and forsaken by God.

[This Thursday, November 13th, at 11am I will be engaging in a public forum with Dr. John Stackhouse, Professor of Theology and Culture, at Regent College, UBC, Vancouver.  We will be discussing the question: “Is Christian Scholarship Accountable to the Poor?” and our discussion will take place in Room 100 at Regent.  Anybody is welcome to attend.  As a way of anticipating this event, I thought I would write the following post as both a teaser regarding what is to come, and as a tribute to Dr. Stackhouse who has been a very good friend and professor to me.  I look forward to many more years of challenge!]

I have spent quite a lot of time thinking about why the form of cultural and political theology espoused by Dr. Stackhouse (particularly in his latest work, Making the Best of It: Following Christ in the Real World) is so compelling to some, and so unsettling to others (like myself).

I have come to the conclusion that one of the key strengths of Stackhouse’s approach is that he is almost a Marxist. Now, as I’m sure Stackhouse knows, I am paying him a very high compliment by saying this, but let me explain what I mean.

First, I do not mean that Stackhouse reflects the same priorities or content as our Marxist or post-Marxist friends. To some extent this is true, in that Stackhouse stresses the centrality of things like shalom and the new creation of all things, but in this regard the differences outweigh the similarities. Stackhouse and our Marxist friends seek peace and justice in two very different – often contraditory – ways.

So, when I suggest that Stackhouse’s arguments are compelling because he is “almost a Marxist”, I am referring not to priorities or content; rather, I am referring to method. That is to say, I believe that one of Stackhouse’s greatest strengths is the way in which his evaluation of our current situation is infused by historical materialism. Now, by saying this, I’m not suggesting that Stackhouse is particularly interested in exploring ‘class struggles’ and the way in which economics and modes of production impact society. Rather, what I am saying is that Stackhouse tries to honestly confront reality and – no matter how uncomfortable it makes him or us – he tries to come to grips with things as they are. Thus, although many people – and Christians and theologians are no exception here – try to flee from an honest confrontation with history and reality as they truly are, Stackhouse tries to be realistic and free of spiritual or ideological blinders when he assesses our world.

This, then, gives Stackhouse’s argument a great deal of existential force. When Stackhouse observes that the Bible is a horribly messy compilation of documents which seem to point to many, contradictory ways of existing as the people of God, I find myself nodding along; when Stackhouse points out how hard it is to create significant change, and notes how our best efforts tend to only produce mixed results, I find that my own experiences confirm this; and so on.

The honesty with which Stackhouse confronts our historical situation then adds weight to his conclusions. Unfortunately, it is these conclusions which I find so unsettingly – probably because I find myself agreeing so frequently with Stackhouse’s descriptive assessment of our situation.

Now, drawing from our Marxist and post-Marxist friends, it would be easy to argue that Stackhouse betrays his own method (his “realism” or what we could refer to as “Christian historical materialism”) and is unable to follow it through to its necessary conclusions. To use the language of Deleuze, these hypothetical critics might argue that Stackhouse reinstates a form of ideological overcoding in order to affirm an ontologically meaningful (and Christian) existence within this situation.

However, we need not go this route. After all, Stackhouse is writing a Christian realism. Therefore, although a fully committed Marxist historical materialism may naturally lead to Sartre’s existentialism, or Camus’ adsurdism, we need not go this route as Christians – although, if we are genuinely committed to confronting reality as it is (and not as we want it to be, or as we have been told that it is) we should be open to and profoundly unsettled by those like Sartre and Camus. Thus, in this regard, I find that I, too, am “almost a Marxist”.

Consequently, it is not Stackhouse’s ‘overcoding’ that bothers me – any effort to attain to some sort of meaning that runs deeper than simple human efforts to create meaning, any effort to affirm some sort of universal or ontological meaning, could be described as ideological ‘overcodings’. In my own efforts to find meaning in life, and to live Christianly in today’s world, I know that I am also engaging in acts of overcoding.

Therefore, Stackhouse’s conclusions are unsettling to me, not because they have an ideological element, but because of the particular ideology that they serve. That is to say, after engaging in a strenuous and honest effort to describe our historical situation (our ‘real world’), Stackhouse concludes that, well, such is life; we just have to accept that and make the best of it. Given the overwhelming presence of sin and compromise in our fallen world, and given the conclusion that God can call us to all sorts of different and even contradictory ways of being Christians in today’s world, we must simply try to do the little bit of good that we can in the places where we are at. Thus, if I am a rich oil man, called to Christ, then I try to live as a rich Christian oil man; if I am a poor slave woman in Sudan, called to Christ, then I try to live as a poor Christian slave woman in Sudan; and so on. This is not to say that Christ might call us away from these situations – Stackhouse affirms that any one of us, as individuals, could experience that call – but there is nothing about Christianity that would require us to move away from those situations.

What this ends up becoming, perhaps despite Stackhouse’s intentions, is a powerful affirmation of the status quo. Yes, Stackhouse recognises that our status quo situation is one that is terribly messy and compromised, but all of life is terribly messy and compromised. So, we might as well get on with it, make the best of it, and try to enjoy it as well.

This, then, is where Stackhouse and I part ways. While we both recognise how terrible our current situation is, Stackhouse has found a way to be at peace with it, while I have not (no doubt, the different environments in which we live and move have some impact on this). I’m not saying that this makes be more right (or more righteous) than Stackhouse. I am observing this, without making any value judgments. After all, I frequently think that I should feel more of the “peace of Christ” in my own self… but I also think that many others, who seem fairly comfortable, should feel more of the groanings of creation and the Spirit.

However, while Stackhouse can accept my way of thinking, without being too deeply challenged by it (after all, he can argue that God has simply called he and I to very different ways of both thinking and living… although, to be clear, I have also never felt simply, and a priori, brushed aside or disregarded by Stackhouse, but have always felt that he has responded to me graciously and thoughfully), I am left deeply unsettled by his conclusions. Precisely because I have so little peace related to the world as it is, I read Stackhouse and think:

“My God, isn’t there something more (to life and to living as Christians)? Is this all there is? We all do what we can, where we can… but mostly evil and suffering continue unabated, and – despite our violent or peaceful efforts (both of which are permitted to different people) – we mostly don’t make much of a difference? There’s got to be something more. Please, God, let there be something more.”(And, yes, I realise how much this reveals my own rootedness within a particular ideological position.)

In conclusion, I cannot help but think of The Myth of Sisyphus, and I cannot help but find myself thinking that Stackhouse, like Camus, fails to provide me with a satisfactory answer to what Camus refers to as the one really serious problem of philosophy. That is to say, Stackhouse does not provide me with any convincing reason as to why I should not kill myself (which, Stackhouse might be quick to add, is precisely why God has called me to a different way of thinking!).

One thing that has surprised me is the way in which people will pigeonhole me based upon my appearance. The fact that I wear a beard and have dreadlocks (and often wear old ratty clothes) will cause some people to automatically stereotype me.
Now, granted, I expect to experience some of this stereotyping in society, and for many years I have chosen to embrace that. Knowing how superficial our society is, I have chosen to dress myself in ways that identify me with street-involved people. I think there is some benefit in doing this, although I must constantly ensure that my efforts to achieve solidarity with the street-involved extended will beyond such superficial or symbolic acts.
However, it does sadden me when I experience this stereotyping in Christian circles and, in particular, in Christian academic circles where things like one’s outward appearance are said to be adiaphora. So, for example, one of my profs (who is also a friend of mine) reminded me, after my recent chapel talk, that my image, and form of delivery, would make some people think that I was trying to be “Dan the Dreadlocked Prophet” out to stick it to the man… when in actuality, I’m just Dan the privileged Regent student trying to figure out how the hell we can live as Christians in today’s world. Thus, when I objected to my professor-friend and told him I would be sorely disappointed if those who were dedicated to Christian discipleship, not to mention academic ‘objectivity’, would be so superficial in their judgment of me, he simply responded that people do, in fact, judge and respond to people based on these things and that I needed to keep that in mind.
This then got me thinking about how we all say that outward appearances don’t matter — say the colour of one’s skin, the type of clothes one wears, one’s degree of cleanliness, one’s physical abilities or the lack thereof, and so on — and the chances are that we believe ourselves when we say this. However, the only way of knowing if we are faithful to our own beliefs is by being confronted by those who do look quite different than us, and reflecting upon how we respond.
For example, I would have never imagined that I was rascist — I grew up in a family that was ‘colour blind’ and had friends from various ethnic backgrounds. However, the dominant culture in which I lived and moved — both in my family, in my church, and with my street-involved friends — was white. Therefore, when I first began working with street-involved youth in Toronto, I came to the realisation that I naturally gravitated towards the white, gutter-punk kids, and was much more intimidated by, and distant from, the black gang-bangers or the hard-edged First Nations youth. I was afraid of them and, as I came to this realisation, I noticed that I was afraid of them for largely superficial reasons — like the colour of their skin or their different ways of presenting themselves. Thus, while I would verbally affirm that one’s appearance doesn’t matter, and while I genuinely believed that we are all equal, my fear betrayed the fact that I was actually unfaithful to my own beliefs. So, what did I do? I deliberately started spending more time with the kids who had intimidated me. In this way, I learned to get over my (irrational and racist) fears, and now I think I can say that I actually live in accordance with what I believe (at least in this regard).
Now, this takes me back to what I said in my chapel address about the importance of having some people like Ross (a homeless man) at a place like Regent (a graduate school). The presence of a Ross confronts us with somebody who is genuinely different than us… at least in his appearance. Therefore, a person like Ross forces us to see if we are, in fact, faithful to our own convictions. Unfortunately, a place like Regent — as it is currently structured — makes it altogether too easy for us to think we are faithful to a good many beliefs, without ever having to put those beliefs on the line and see if we can act them out.
Thus, we may say that we are concerned about the poor, but how do we actually react to the poor people whom we meet? Or, we may say that we do not judge by outward appearances but when we are walking down the street at night would our reaction to running into a group of preppie white kids differ from our reaction to a group of thugged out black kids? Or, we say that we have faith that God will take care of us, but have we ever deliberately put ourselves in a situation when we had nothing and nobody to fall back on except God? I’ve done that — put myself in a situation where I was forced to rely concretely and financially on God — and I quickly learned that my faith was almost non-existent! Like Peter seeing Jesus on the water, I had enough faith to get out of the boat, take a few steps… and then I began to drown. Would I have known that my faith was so small if I had never gotten out of the boat? No.
We only truly come to know ourselves, and we only truly discover what we in fact believe (and not just what we tell ourselves we believe) as we enter into relationships with others, and especially with others who are different than ourselves.  Just as we are not who we appear to be, we are also not who we think we are.  Who we are is contained in what we do.

[What follows is the transcript of the talk I gave today at the weekly chapel service held by my school.]

In the summer of 2004, when I first came to Regent, there was a homeless man named Ross who used to visit the college. Sometimes he would be sleeping on one of the couches. Other times he could be found asking people for change as they emerged from chapel services like this one.

The administration at Regent didn’t appear to be too fond of Ross. Several times I watched as he was kicked out and told not to come back again.

However, there were others of us at Regent who developed relationships with Ross – we got to know him and we were befriended by him. Ross was a gentle giant without a violent bone in his body. A fellow with a wonderful sense of mischief.

Thus, although the administration of Regent may have been relieved, a small group of us were thrown into mourning when, in July of 2005, Ross was struck and killed by a drunk driver.

After Ross died, Regent began implementing its recently completed building program. I watched as workers took the big old comfy couches out of the Atrium and replaced them with smaller, less inviting couches. Couches that wouldn’t tempt homeless fellows to sneak in for a nap. I don’t know if they did this deliberately, but deliberate or not, Regent has become a place that is less and less inviting for those on the margins who often frequent the grounds of UBC.

Thus, I would argue that the loss of Ross has left Regent with an open wound. The poor are no longer with us, and I can’t help but wonder if the absence of the poor signals an absence of the Spirit of the God who is found in and amongst the poor. Watching the homeless vanish from Regent, I am reminded of Ezekiel watching the Shekinah depart from the Temple. An equally symbolic event, signalling what happens when the people of God pursue trajectories that are counter to God’s desires. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that this is, in fact, the case. I’m just wondering if it is.

Because, you see, Regent likes to brand itself as a sort of radical Christian institution. It has the reputation for being on the cutting-edge of living ‘missionally’ or ‘incarnationally’ (or whatever) in the world. Regent brands itself as an institution concerned with helping Christians to be agents of God’s new creation and, inevitably, this means that it has a reputation for being more concerned with issues related to love and justice than other academic institutions.

However, when I look at how Regent actually embodies its own rhetoric, I am fairly disappointed. What I seem to observe at Regent is a focus on justice that is about guilt-free consumption, and not any sort of justice that is driven by God’s call to solidarity with the abandoned and the marginalised.

Thus, for example, Regent spends millions of dollars building a wind tower so that we don’t feel guilty about the energy we consume. Or, to provide another example, Regent students hold miniature farmers’ markets in the Atrium so that we don’t feel guilty about the food we consume. Or, to provide a third example, we have an artist construct a tree out of paper cups and place it in the Atrium, so that we are reminded to recycle and don’t feel guilty about the ‘fairtrade’ coffee we consume. And so on and so forth. The point being that all of these things are things that brand Regent as a ‘radical’ institution with an emphasis upon justice issues.

However, to me this focus upon just-consumption seems like it is still a long way away from the sort of justice that Scripture tells us should define the people of God. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good start, but it is far from being ‘radical’ (if we even care to use that language) and it is a far cry from what the Lord requires.

Of course, that Regent should go this road isn’t too surprising as the Eco-justice and so-called ‘counter-cultural’ movements are increasingly trendy these days, and are especially popular in a city like Vancouver. Furthermore, for Evangelicals, who were often raised with an other-worldly and fragmented spirituality, a restoration of a focus upon creation, and the just care thereof, is important. I get that.

However, it is worth asking ourselves why Regent, and others in our culture, are so eager to jump onto the Eco-Justice bandwagon, while simultaneously neglecting other fundamental elements of justice which are focused upon the broken bodies, hearts, and minds of our abandoned neighbours – say the poor in the two-thirds world, or the HIV+ folk in the downtown eastside, or the binners just around the corner from us.

Personally, I suspect that Eco-Justice is so much more hip than other forms of justice because it requires little of us but offers us a lot in return. Thus, it costs me nothing to to throw my paper cup in a recycling bin instead of a garbage can, but the pay-off is that I can then feel righteous (i.e. just) about what I did. In fact, I can even feel superior to others by acting in this way – and what is true of individuals at Regent, is true of Regent as an institution. Pursuing Eco-Justice is a relatively easy thing to do, but it pays off big in the boost that it gives to Regent’s brand status.

Speaking of Regent’s brand status, it is worth exploring another strategic marketing claim that Regent makes. Regent advertises itself as an ‘international’ school – hence, it’s obessession with flying flags at various events throughout the year. However, when you actually examine the demographics of Regent’s students, staff, and faculty, you quickly learn that Regent is, in fact, a ‘Western’ school. Therefore, given that the vast majority (70%) of Christians today live in the two-thirds world, and given that the vast majority of Christians at Regent are from the West, we must ask ourselves: is this just? Further, is it just for Regent to make the claim that is is serving the international body of Christ?

Unfortunately, a wholistic approach to justice isn’t nearly so easy as all of the acts of self-branding described above. Now, let me be clear, of what we are speaking about here. Fundamentally, the Christian approach to justice is about restoring right relationships – between people and God, between people and people, and between people and things – within the reign of God. However, lest we lose perspective, the Scriptures are adament that our approach to these things must be one that prioritises the disempowered, the marginalised, the abandoned and the oppressed. Hence, the Deuteronomic focus upon widows, orphans, and resident aliens; hence, the protest of the prophets against those who grind the faces of the poor; hence, Jesus’ liberating practice of exorcism and healing which restored people into right relationships within their communities; hence, Paul’s own movement into marginality based upon the vision of Christ in Phil 2, and the centrality he gives to an international collection on behalf of the poor in Jerusalem; hence James’ definition of true religion; hence, John’s condemnation of an empire that feeds off of the blood of weaker nations (much like Canada, the United States, and the other Western nations so well represented at Regent). Do you get my point? What I am speaking about today is not simply my personal soapbox; rather, it is a call that runs through the entire biblical narrative – a call to all members of the people of God.

And this is hard work. Trying to move into solidarity with the marginalised and the abandoned, as agents of God’s new creation, is a very difficult and costly thing to do. So, for the most part, we don’t do it. Instead, we at Regent employ the rhetoric of justice and radicality, even as we continue to live the lives of privileged students and tenured professors. In this way, our ideology blinds us to the fact that, for the most part, we as individuals and as an institution, are just as apathetic, and just as complicit in the structures of sin and oppression, as everybody else. In this way, the rhetoric of justice is perverted and placed in the service of the unjust status quo – which, by the way, is ruled over by the joint Powers of Sin and Death.

Of course, as those who proclaim the Lordship of Jesus, this should trouble us a great deal. We are, after all, those who are called out from the service of Sin and Death, and called into the kingdom of God with its concomitant practices of love justice, hospitality, generosity, and the downward mobility which defines the Way of Jesus Christ.

What, then, are we at Regent to do?

I reckon we could begin by repenting – both in word and in deed – because the kingdom of God is at hand, and has been at hand for quite some time.

I reckon, as a part of our repentance we could begin to focus less on our brand status, and more on what it means to actually live as members of the global body of Christ.

I reckon, as a part of our repentance, we also could re-evaluate our values, and re-examine the deployment of our resources. Does it make sense to spend millions on building expansions while charging students $1200 per course? Doesn’t this limit the student body to a wealthy minority of Christians or, alternatively, drive a good many students into debt? Is encouraging our student body to participate in societal cycles of debt and bondage consistent with the notion of equipping Christians to live as members of God’s new creation?

I reckon, as a part of our repentence, we could also begin a series of conversations at Regent – conversations between students, staff, faculty, board members, and donors – that explore these things and ask the questions: “How do we live Christianly as an academic institution in today’s world?” and “What does genuine Christian education look like?”

Or we could walk away from this chapel – as individuals and as an institution – and not do anything. It’s up to us. This service is simply issuing an invitation to conversion. It is up to all of us to choose what we will do with that invitation. Will we continue to take our place amongst the wealthy and privileged members of wealthy and privileged societies, or will we choose to root ourselves in the communion of the Saints – that great cloud of witnesses who have abandoned all things in order to faithfully follow Jesus into the groaning places of the world?

The fact of the matter is this: if we walk away from this chapel feeling as though we, or Regent, are committed to justice, simply because we attended a chapel Regent hosted on the theme of justice, then today will have done more harm than good. Such a response would reduce this chapel to a pornographic event wherein stimulation takes the place of genuine participation in real, and loving, action. Let us not confuse talking about justice with the actions and type of being that the God of justice requires.

Furthermore, this chapel could be interpreted as a presentation composed by special interest groups at Regent, suggesting that ‘social justice’ is something that the rest of us are free to walk away from. This is not the case, and such a response would reduce this chapel to a voyeuristic event, wherein observation takes the place of genuine participation in real, and loving, action.

The truth is that we are all called to partake in the work of God’s restorative justice within the world. That each new generation of Christians needs to (re)learn this lesson, simply shows how deeply immersed we are in structures of sin and selfishness. Thankfully, it also shows that God’s gracious and liberating invitation to us is new every morning. Therefore, it is better to think of today as a time when seed has been scattered. Some has probably fallen on stony soil; some has probably fallen on amongst thorns; but I hope that some has fallen into the soil that produces fruit.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, have mercy on us, sinners. Amen.

Well, I have three or four speaking engagements scheduled in the near future, and so the organisers of these events have been getting in touch with me and asking for information they can use when they introduce me.  I’ve always struggled with this, and so, after careful consideration, this was the last self-description I emailed to an organiser:
Dan O. is smarter than you, better in bed than you, more socially active than you, and he is not afraid to kiss your woman and kick your ass.
Of course, I’m just having a laugh (although I’m not sure if the person I emailed this to will find it funny…), but is this really all that different than what is said when we are introduced at these kinds of events?  Don’t we just find more socially acceptable ways to talk about how awesome we are?  In particular, aren’t we expected to describe ourselves as ‘experts’ or as somehow superior to the people who will be attending the event?  (The assumption being that people wouldn’t bother listening to somebody who is a non-expert, or to somebody whom they perceive of as inferior.)
Of course, the point of an introduction is twofold.  An introduction is intended to (1) give the audience some insight into who the speaker actually is; and (2) explain how the speaker is connected to the topic at hand.
However, the problem with this is that the more connected the speaker is to the topic, the less connected the speaker becomes with the audience.  I am not saying that this makes the speaker less exciting, but I am saying that it makes it less likely that what the speaker says will have a significant impact beyond the event itself.
Thus, for example, when I am asked to speak at an event, it is usually somehow related to some combination of biblical theology and community activism or social justice concerns, or whatever you want to call it.  However, should I be introduced with a list of things I’ve done related to these things (thereby establishing my connection with the topic), then a divide will have been created between me and those in attendance.  Consequently, the foundation is laid for people to respond to my talk by saying, “Wow, that’s really interesting!” while simultaneously failing to connect the talk to their own daily practices — because, you know, the introduction makes me look like I’m some sort of ‘radical’, while the rest of them are just average Christians trying to make the best of it… or something like that.
So, my increasing concern with introductions is not how to establish my connection with the topic, nor is it with defending my expertise.  Increasingly, I want to be introduced in ways that connect me, personally, with the people with whom I am speaking.  Then maybe people will be enabled to start making the connections between the topic at hand and their own daily lives.
Any thoughts on this?

So, I think I’ve finally settled on a working title for my thesis:
“Apocalyptic Eschatology and the Subversion of Empires: Reading Paul in New Creation Communities”.
Damn, that sounds good to me!  Who wouldn’t want to read something with that title?

In response to my last post, the urbanmonk asked me how I reconcile the problem of suffering (with my faith in the Christian God).  The fact of the matter is that I don’t.  I can’t.  The presence of suffering and evil in the world is utterly baffling to me.  I cannot make any sense of it, nor can I find any satisfactory explanation of it.  All I can do is resist it.  Perhaps being unable to explain it away is part of that resistance.
Naturally, the subsequent question is why, then, I persist in believing in the Christian God.  The simply, albeit unsatisfying (at least for others), answer to this question is that I believe in God because God has come out to meet me.  I believe that I have been met by God in Jesus Christ, so it is impossible for me not to have faith in this God.  Apologists and intellectuals may be uncomfortable with such and experiential response but, as far as I am concerned, such an experience is the sole foundation for persistent faith in God.  Apart from being met by God, it makes no sense to believe in God.  Indeed, even after one has been met by God it may still make no sense to believe in God… but it is impossible not to believe in God after such an event.