Having completed the review of Mobsby, I will now review and reflect upon The emerging Church by Bruce Sanguin.  I will then conclude with some comments upon the ’emerging church’ movement more broadly.
Review of Sanguin
Sanguin’s book has a different objective than Mobsby’s.  While Mobsby was primarily interested in applying a form of social trinitarianism to Christian living, Sanguin is interested in helping pastors to engage in a culture-shift in order to find the abundant life promised by Jesus.  Thus, Sanguin wishes to see traditional mainline churches evolve  in centres of Spirit-animated creativity within the culture of postmodernity.
The language of ‘evolving’ is important to Sanguin, because he bases his understanding of ‘creative emergence’ upon the evolutionary model of nature.  So, he writes, ‘We are meant to evolve.  If the Spirit is involved in the evolutionary process — as I believe is the case — then we need to start thinking about our lives in Christ through an evolutionary lens’.  Thus Sanguin wishes to find churches meeting the challenges of postmodernity by shifting from a ‘redemption-centred theological model’ to a ‘creation-centred, evolutionary Christian theology’.  This is accomplished  by embracing the evolutionary principles of novelty, self-organisation, and a combination of transcendence and inclusion (by which Sanguin means that the new transcends the old, but includes everything that was good in the old — ‘everything that has worked in the past is brought forward’).  Hence, embracing an evolution and engaging in culture-shift is the way in which be become more truly our own selves.
Key to this shift is a movement from a ‘redemption-centred theological model’, which leaves people as passive recipients of otherworldly salvation, to a ‘creation-centred, evolutionary Christian theology’, which emphasises the grace found in nature, and emphasises our role as creative actors within the world.  From within this model, redemption is understood as that which liberates us to becomes ‘centres of creative emergence’, for ‘our problem is not innate sinfulness.  It’s foolishness.  We’ve lost our way… What we need is spiritual wisdom, not the removal of original sin.’
Okay, that takes us to the end of Chapter One.  I will spend less time on the other chapters because the key principles are laid out at the beginning, and the following chapters go on to function as a road map for those engaging in a culture shift.  Thus, Chapter Two speaks of the importance of hand-picking a ‘think tank’ to initiate this process, Chapter Three speaks of establishing non-negotiables , Chapter Four he speaks of engaging in self-definition by establishing a vision and a mission, Chapter Five speaks of establishing a value statement to guide the ethos of the congregation, and Chapter Six speaks of understanding the various ways in which people in your congregation understand Christ.
Chapter Seven is definitely the oddest chapter, and it speaks of ‘morphic fields’ which cause space to function as a ‘generative matrix’ for our own becoming.  Our own congregational morphic field is understood as the corporate personality of the congregation, or, as Sanguin also calls it, ‘the angle’ of the congregation.
Chapter Eight then lays out the psychological foundation for leadership stressing the importance of counseling psychology, and personal therapy, in order to develop four key interior conditions: self-definition, connections across differences, emotional intelligence, and an awareness of our (Jungian) ‘shadow’ side.  From the psychological, Sanguin moves to spiritual foundations for leadership in Chapter Nine, stressing the importance of stillness, theological reflection, compassion, and creativity.
From foundations for leaders, Sanguin moves to pitfalls for leaders in Chapter 10, and especially criticises models that require the pastor to be the care-giver for the entire congregation.  Noting that most people can only effectively care for ten to twelve people, Sanguin argues that the pastor should be more of a spiritual leader than a personal caregiver, and that other networks of care should be affirmed and developed within the congregation  Chapter Eleven then goes on to speak of how to care for those external to the congregation, like new comers.  He speaks of the importance of having good music, exciting and encouraging sermons, employing various forms of media and so on.
Finally, in Chapter Twelve Sanguin speaks of how to establish a board.  He then concludes by stressing the importance of approaching congregations as centres of creative emergence, and includes a postscript mapping out some of the mistakes he has made along the way.
This, then, is how Sanguin summarises what he is trying to do:

culture-shifting — moving from a membership paradigm to a discipleship paradigm; from a redemption focus to a creation-centred focus; from a pastoral care model that demands that clergy function as personal chaplains to a model based on small group ministry; from seeing the role of the laity as helping out the minister to implementing the spiritual principle of ministry anywhere, anytime, by anybody; from asking people to serve on committees, to inviting them to participate in spiritual-gifts-based ministry; from a bureaucracy of mistrust to a bureaucracy of trust.

Reflection
Again, as with Mobsby, I am glad to see Sanguin seeking a living, vibrant expression of faith that engages with the world in which we live.  However, I do have a number of concerns.
First of all, Sanguin’s evolutionary model strikes me as naively optimistic.  Stated simply, it appears to assert that ‘every day in every way we are getting better and better’ (to quote Coué ).  Yet this fails to account for how evolution actually plays out in nature.  Evolution has been a violent process — survival of the fittest — wherein the strong prey on the weak, the healthy devour the sick, and where the strengths of the defeated are not necessarily taken over and further developed by the victors.  Thus, to use a social development example (since Sanguin’s evolutionary model applies to these situations), perhaps the Romans in the late Empire thought that they were the most evolved of all Romans… yet they were overwhelmed by the Goths and Europe was plunged into the ‘dark ages’ as many of the insights of Antiquity were lost for hundreds of years.  Consequently, I don’t think we can be as certain as Sanguin that all development is good development.  Instead, we need some sort of criteria to guide our development, but these criteria seem to be most absent in Sanguin’s book, since he simply asserts that our process of development is guided by Spirit, whom we can trust to take us where we need to go.
Furthermore, I found this evolutionary model to be an odd starting place for what Sanguin wants to do.  However, I think (but am not sure) that Sanguin starts here because he is operating from a paradigm that prioritises nature, and wishes to see us as all connected, and as all part of one big process.
This leads me to my second point.  I have some questions about the Christ affirmed by Sanguin.  Sanguin posits that people at various stages of their own evolutionary development understand Christ in different ways.  Thus, those on the lower levels understand Christ as a warrior.  Move a little higher and we have the traditional Christ as a divine scapegoat, a little higher still and we get the demythologised Christ as a CEO.  Then, in the upper stages of evolutionary development, we have people who affirm an egalitarian postmodern Christ, an ecological cosmic Christ and, ultimately, ‘the Mystical Christ.’  This is how Sanguin describes those at this most recent stage:

At this level, the world is experienced — not merely conceptualized — as one.  A follower of Christ does not merely perceive this universe as an integrated whole.  She knows herself to be a form of the integrated whole, the part in whom the whole is manifest.  The great diversity of life is also an expression of the Holy One.

This perspective is then supported by appeals to the Christ of John’s Gospel (who prays that we may be one, etc.) and to Paul’s understanding of our being ‘in Christ’.
Now, apart from the fact that Sanguin is doing violence to the texts at hand (more on that in a minute), what this actually looks like is a Christian gloss over an amalgamation of New Age spirituality, pantheism, and Westernised Buddhism.  What we have here is actually an affirmation of unity-within-diversity that puts an end to any real (or metaphysical) difference.  Now, this may work in some religious traditions, but to some how connect this thinking to Christianity (even in an ‘evolved’ form) suggests to me that this evolved form of Christianity is so different than that which came before, that perhaps it is best not to call this Christianity at all.  Maybe that just confuses the issue.  (But, then again, this raises the question of who has the right to define what is truly ‘Christian’ so maybe I’d rather not open up that can of worms.)
However, it is worth pointing out that this abolition of any real difference then leads to a negation of difference between religious systems.  Thus, for example, Sanguin speaks of how his church is populated by progressive Muslims as Muslims, Sikhs as Sikhs, Christians as Christians, Buddhists as Buddhists, and so on.  Sanguin sees this as a practice of ‘radical hospitality’ (which is why he also continually stresses that pastors should only speak ‘good news’ from the pulpit) and which, I suspect, is why Sanguin’s favourite name for God is Spirit.  The term is sufficiently vague and broad for Sanguin’s purposes.  Unfortunately, I do have questions about this type of hospitality.  To begin with, I think that it is self-defeating.  As Vinoth Ramachandra has noted recently, communities that downplay difference are often more traumatised, and react more violently, when something truly different appears; whereas communities that recognise the genuine depth of differences are more likely to respond peaceably to traumatic situations.  Furthermore, I question the liberating potential of this approach as it seems to be one that staunchly affirms the status quo.  While it may welcome slaves as slaves (without requiring them to change), it also appears to welcome Pharaoh as Pharaoh (without requiring him to change).  Thus, I think we need to listen to those like Miroslav Volf who remind us that sometimes exclusion must precede embrace.
Third, as I mentioned above, I have some concerns about how Sanguin reads Scripture.  Although Sanguin affirms ‘the whole of Scripture’ as a part of his non-negotiables, he continually stresses a metaphorical reading of the texts… which basically allows him to do what he wants with whatever he reads.  Thus, we have the ‘Mystical Christ’ of John and Paul, we have Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness understood as an internal psychological struggle (‘Satan’ being Jesus’ own internal ‘shadow’ side), and we have a reading of Lk 9.62 which suggests Jesus’ homelessness isn’t so much real as a metaphor for how he is ‘caught up in an evolutionary momentum’.  All of these readings simply slot Scripture into a previously established paradigm, which it then affirms.  What is lost is the truly transformative potential of Scripture, for Scripture is denied the ability to challenge our paradigms or, for that matter, to confront us with things that we do not wish to hear.
Conclusion
Bruce Sanguin and the place where he serves (Canadian Memorial Church & Centre for Peace), are located in a fairly wealthy and especially trendy neighbourhood in Vancouver (the city in which I live).  So, if Mobsby’s target audience appeared to be the hipsters, Sanguin neighbourhood is mostly composed of young business professionals — ‘yuppies’ who wear yoga pants, and spend a lot of time doing their hair before they go to the beach, the gym, or the spa.  So, if Mobsby is writing on behalf of the bohemian bourgeoisie, Sanguin is writing on behalf of the bohemian bourgeoisie.
However, let me add two provisos to this last comment.  First of all, I don’t think that this is anything wrong with ministering to, and with, hipsters or yuppies — far from it, all people should be invited to embody the good news of the lordship of Jesus Christ.  So my reason for raising this point is not to invalidate ministries to these populations.  Instead, I mention this because I believe that there is nothing particularly ‘radical’ about what Mobsby and Sanguin are doing.  It seems to me that they are both seeking ways of living as Christians and as members of the dominant culture in which they find themselves.  Ironically, this means that both Mobsby and Sanguin are participating in the same process that their predecessors did in the early to mid twentieth century.  That ‘traditional church’, against which both Mobsby and Sanguin are reacting, was simply the type of church that fit well with ‘modern’ culture.  Now, the ’emerging church’ is simply the type of church that fits well with ‘postmodern’ culture.  So, for all their talk about being ‘radical’ or ‘subversive’ the main thing that Mobsby and Sanguin are subverting is the culturally conditioned church of modernity.  This strikes me as a rather superficial form of subversion which fails to account for the power structures that have emerged or evolved in postmodernity itself.  So, given another forty or so years, I wouldn’t be surprised if these models of ’emergence’ pass away, along with this stage of postmodernity.
Secondly, by comparing Mobsby and Sanguin in this way, it is not my intention to say that they are approaching God, the church, and society in the same way.  As I noted in my introduction, there are major differences between their approaches.  Indeed, given Mobsby’s emphasis upon the Trinity, and Sanguin’s emphasis upon Spirit, I wouldn’t be too surprised if they had fairly negative reactions to each other.  (But, then again, hipsters and yuppies have always had fairly negative reactions to each other — even though they both perpetuate the system as it is.)
Now, by raising these criticisms, I am not saying that there is nothing good or admirable in the approaches taken by these authors.  Far from it, both should be commended for their focus upon valuing all of creation, engaging in acts of social justice, and welcoming those who are on the margins.  Sometimes I take these things so much for granted that I forget that a good many Christians need to hear about how important these things are, and how integral they are for Christian living.  But, yet again, I do get concerned that the forms of charity they represent are simply part of the means of ensuring that things continue to run as they are.  However, this need not be the case.  I reckon all of us began our charitable endeavours in fairly superficial ways — giving money at church, handing out bag lunches, buy a Christmas turkey for a poor family, etc. — so it’s just a question of following this trajectory and not just setting up camp at the place where we already are.  So, in this regard, let’s hope that the emergent folk continue to emerge and evolve!

In ‘Unbehagen in der Natur’, the final chapter of In Defense of Lost Causes, Slavoj Žižek begins by pointing to the contemporary crisis related to classical Marxism.  He then highlights some of the antagonisms inherent to contemporary global capitalism, and suggests that our way forward is found within these antagonisms, especially if all of those antagonisms remain rooted within the central struggle between the Excluded and the Included.
In this post I wish to explain, and expound upon, this argument in a little more detail as I find it intriguing and would be very interested in hearing what others think of it.
Žižek opens ‘Unbehagen in der Natur’ (‘Uneasiness in Nature’) with Gerald A. Cohen’s cogent presentation of the classical Marxist understanding of the ‘working class’.  Cohen argues that this working class is defined by four features which, when combined together, produce an additional two features.  These features are as follows.  The working class:

1. constitutes the majority of society;
2. produces the wealth of society;
3. consists of the exploited members of society;
4. and its members are the needy people in society.
5. Therefore, the working class has nothing to lose from revolution;
6. and it can and will engage in a revolutionary transformation of society.

The problem, Žižek notes, is that none of the first four features apply to the contemporary working class, and so features five and six cannot be generated.  Further, even when these elements are present, they are no longer united in a single agent — the needy are no longer the workers and so on.
Therefore, Žižek goes on to ask one of the pivotal questions undergirding much post-Marxist research today:

The underlying problem is: how are we to think the singular universality of the emancipatory subject as not purely formal, that is, as objectively-materially determined, but without the working class as its substantial base?

That is to say, given that the working class was the basis of salvation within classical Marxism, where can salvation be found now that the working class is gone?  Žižek answers this question in the following way:

The solution is a negative one: it is capitalism itself which offers a negative substantial determination, for the global capitalist system is the substantial “base” which mediates and generates excesses (slums, ecological threats, and so on) that open up sites of resistance.

Thus, Žižek reworks the classical Marxist thesis that the negation of capitalism is inherent to capitalism itself.  However, this negation does not occur by means of the (now absent) working class; rather, it occurs be means of four antagonisms that Žižek sees within contemporary global capitalism.  These antagonisms are related to:

1. Ecology: Although capitalism treats ecology as a field of investment and competition, a looming ecological catastrophe threatens to bring radical change.
2. The inadequacy of private property: Although the concept of private property may have functioned well at earlier stages of capitalism, this notion is no longer sufficient to address the increasing importance of ‘intellectual property’–knowledge.  This new form of property increasingly challenges the old boundaries of capitalism.
3. The socio-ethical implications of new techno-scientific developments: New developments, especially in the realm of biogenetics, hold the potential to create significant changes within human nature itself, which could result in a genuine Novum, the results of which are difficult to anticipate, but which likely would not fit within the world-as-it-is.
4. New forms of apartheid: Even though some old boundaries are collapsing, some new boundaries are being created.  This is most evident in the rise of new and massive slums within the megalopolises of the world.  Hence, ‘the new proletarian position is that of the inhabitants of slums’; but note that the primary form of exploitation experienced by these slum dwellers is no longer economic, but socio-political (i.e. it is not that they generate a surplus that is appropriated by the powerful, rather they themselves are a surplus that is accorded no place within the world).

Now, in a particular interesting move, Žižek maps the four features of the classical Marxist understanding of the working class, onto these four antagonisms:

the “majority” principle appears as ecology, a topic which concerns us all; “poverty” characterizes those who are excluded and live in slums; “wealth production” is more and more something which depends on scientific and technological developments like biogenetics; and, finally, “exploitation” reappears in the impasses of intellectual property, where the owner exploits the result of collective labor.

However, and this is where we get to the core of the matter, Žižek argues that, within these antagonisms, we must privilege the proletarian position — ‘the position of the “part of no-part”‘.  Hence, he asserts:

it is the antagonism between the Excluded and the Included which is the zero-level antagonism, coloring the entire terrain of struggle… [It is] the point of reference for the others; without it, all others lose their subversive edge: ecology turns into a “problem of sustainable development,” intellectual property into a “complex legal challenge,” biogenetics into an “ethical” issue.  One can sincerely fight for ecology, defend a broader notion of intellectual property, oppose the copyrighting of genes, while not questioning the antagonism between the Included and the Excluded — what is more, one can even formulate some of these struggles in terms of the Included threatened by the polluting Excluded… Corporations such as Whole Foods and Starbucks continue to enjoy favor among liberals even though they both engage in anti-union activities; the trick is that they sell products that claim to be politically progressive acts in and of themselves… Political action and consumption become fully merged.  In short, without the antagonism between the Included and the Excluded, we may well find ourselves in a world in which Bill Gates is the greatest humanitarian fighting against poverty and diseases, and Rupert Murdoch the greatest environmentalist mobilizing hundreds of millions through his media empire.

And, might be quick to add the likes of Oprah, Bono, and the ‘Red’ campaign, to this list.  Or, for that matter, the pursuits of most of the so-called ‘counter-cultural,’ ‘eco-friendly,’ ‘radicals’ found within the Church and the world today.  Žižek reminds us that these pursuits — from ‘going Green’ to buying fair trade coffee, to paying attention to where and how one’s clothes are manufactured — are largely impotent pseudo-acts, which simply ease the conscience of consumers, rather than bringing about any significant social change.  These actions only gain force and meaning, when they are related to the central antagonism between the Excluded and the Included.  Thus, for example, I as a member of the Included, can afford to pay $5 for a fair trade coffee, and I can afford to shop at local food markets… but these actions, in and of themselves, do nothing for members of the Excluded who can only afford cheap coffee and fast food.  I as a member of the Included, can afford to buy clothes that are made without violence, and I can afford to pay what those articles of clothing are worth… but this does nothing for families of the Excluded who rely on places like Wal-Mart for affordable clothing.  Finally, I as a member of the Included, can contribute to the multi-million dollar building campaign that recently occurred at my school.  Yet the result of this was an environmentally friendly wind-tower that helps our school ‘go Green’… but also new, smaller, and less comfortable couches intended to discourage homeless people from coming in and sleeping in our Atrium.
Consequently, if we are genuinely pursuing social change, and not simply embracing ‘virtue’ or ‘righteousness’ as an aspect of our privilege, we must bring these divided elements into relationship with one another.  We may be wealthy enough to live morally (or at least to gain the moral approval of our society) but this does nothing for those who are not wealthy enough to live this way and it does nothing to change society itself.
Therefore, in agreement with Žižek, I think that most of our ‘counter-cultural,’ ‘eco-friendly,’ and ‘radical’ acts, are self-serving and impotent unless they are related to the central antagonism between the Excluded and the Included.  When we not only buy fair trade coffee, but also feed the hungry, when we not only buy local-made clothes, but also clothe the naked; when we not only ‘Green’ our homes, but also invite the homeless into our homes, then we will be getting somewhere.

Theodor Adorno once argued that ‘writing poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric’ and this line of thought has profoundly marked many — how can we sing, how can we compose, how can we engage in art, or the performance of beauty, after something so terrible, so dark, so full of death?  This type of thought has not only challenged the humanities and the more ‘artistic’ expressions of human creativity, it has also challenged our core beliefs: belief in God after Auschwitz is barbaric.  Or so the saying goes.
Now, personally, I have always found it a little odd that Auschwitz should challenge us to this degree.  After all, death-dealing tragedies, even massive genocides that claim millions of lives, are nothing new.  Therefore, to assert that Auschwitz overthrows all of our faith in beauty or goodness or a god who is both beautiful and God, suggests to me that we never truly confronted the issue of suffering and death.  This is further verified by the observation that those who have encountered terrible sufferings are often some of the most artistic and faith-filled people in the world.
Be that as it may, I want to go somewhere else with this post.  Keeping in mind the words from Adorno, read the following quotation from Vinoth Ramachandra’s book, Subverting Global Myths.  While discussing the flight to science — chemistry and physics — practiced by Primo Levi and others who were seeking an escape from the ideology of fascism (circa WWII), Ramachandra writes the following:

what Levi and his friends underestimated was the power of fascism and other political ideologies to co-opt the “clear, distinct and verifiable” methods of chemistry and physics.  Scientists played a leading part in the initiation, administration and execution of Nazi racial policy.  The Wannsee Conference, which decided the final solution of the Jewish problem, was attended by many scientists, and the extermination of Jews in the death camps was largely carried out by medically trained personnel.
Consequently, perceptive writers such as George Orwell sharply criticized the fashionable postwar denigration of the arts and humanities in favor of a “scientific education”.

Therefore, it seems to me that, after Auschwitz, WWII, and the rest of the 20th-century, the question we must ask ourselves is strictly related to the value of science.  On the German side, WWII gave us the scientific and medical technology necessary to wipe out an entire category of people.  On the American side, WWII gave us the scientific and military technology necessary to wipe out life as we know it.
If anything, Auschwitz teaches us the importance of faith, poetry, and art, because it reveals to us the result of an unchecked scientific mentality.  Odd, then, that references to Auschwitz should be used to challenge our faith in God, when Auschwitz itself was the result of a techno-scientific paradigm.
Consequently, we should be a little more than cautious around those who wish to argue that scientific advance holds the way out of our current sufferings.  We have seen the end result of this struggle (Kampf), and should have no desire to replicate it.

What frightens a people serves as a reliable guide to their idolatries.

~ Vinoth Ramachandra, Subverting Global Myths
About half a dozen years ago, I spent a few weeks holding cardboard signs outside of the commuter-hub of downtown Toronto–Union Station.  All of the suburban business people would take the bus or, more usually, the train into the core of downtown and head from there to work in office buildings, banks, skyscrapers, and the Toronto Stock Exchange.  It’s an interesting contrast — by day the streets are filled with suits, and the buildings full of some of the most over-paid people in Canada; by night the streets are littered with homeless people sleeping on grates, and the buildings are full of some of the most under-paid people in Canada (the overnight cleaning staff).  The very rich and the very poor occupy the same space… yet rarely do they genuinely encounter one another.  Odd, perhaps, but not accidental.
Anyway, for about two weeks, I would stand outside of Union Station during the commuter rush, and hold up a cardboard sign containing a single question.  ‘What do you hope for?’ or ‘Are you free?’ or ‘What are you sure of?’ that sort of thing.  I also held up a few statements.  Specifically: ‘Stop trying so hard!’ and ‘Don’t be so afraid!’
It was a wonderful experience — some people poured out their lives to me, others brought me gifts (coffee, food, poetry), others heckled me, and still others tried to give me money (and were usually offended when I refused it; so I started writing ‘No money, please’ on my signs).  I would hear strangers talking to one another in the crowd about the signs; others told me that they went home and discussed the questions at dinner with their families.  In fact, of the various things I have done in my life, this ranks amongst my favourites (and, it should be noted, it is fairly easy to replicate in any major city around the world, should anybody else want to give this a shot!).  
It was also interesting to note the different reactions I got to different questions.  Some questions were certainly more popular than others (‘Are you free?’ being the one that actually got the most vocal positive and negative reactions), some statement were universally well received (‘Stop trying so hard!’ was much appreciated… after all, I did hold it up on a Friday) but ‘Don’t be so afraid!’ appeared to be the sign that people liked (or perhaps understood?) the least.
The topic of fear is one of the themes that has always been dominant in my life.  This is so for at least three reasons.  First of all, my own life was totally dominated by fear, up until about the age of 17.  I reckon that this was due to a combination of the environment in the home in which I was raised and my own personality.  Regardless, I was terrified of pretty much everything.  I could barely speak in the presence of strangers, and I frequently cried because I was scared (hell, I remember bawling my eyes out when I got dropped off for Sunday school, which is basically the most harmless environment out there!).
As I went through my teenage years, I became increasingly aware of the hold that fear had on my life, and I began to take deliberate action to overcome it.  I would go for walks in the woods at night, I would spend time in sketchy neighbourhoods downtown and I would spend time with people, and in social circles, that I found intimidating.  Needless to say, I was scared out of my mind while doing these things… but I chose to keep doing them.  Gradually, as I have noted elsewhere, my experiences of these people and places began to change.  Gradually, I began to learn that the Spririt that haunts these people and places is the Spirit of God.  Gradually my time with these people and places became a time of worship and, to my surprise, renewal. 
So, yes, sometimes I still do get afraid by events I encounter (although this has grown less and less over the years), but fear no longer determines how I act or respond to that which I encounter (for example, I was initially afraid to hold up signs outside of Union Station, but that fear rapidly faded).  This, by the way, is why I always find it somewhat amusing when people say that it ‘takes a special kind of person’ to do what I do — because I never was that person.  If I have become something of that ‘special kind of person’ it is only because I have been converted and transformed in the process of this journey.  The same goes for any of us.  It is only after we commit to these things that we become that which is required (of course, that people persist to think and talk about ‘special kinds of people’, simply reveals how we use this line as an out for ourselves).
Which leads me to the second reason why fear is a frequent theme in my thinking.  Gradually, as I encounter popular and Christian resistance to journeying in relationships of mutual love with the marginalised, I am increasingly aware that it is fear which motivates this resistance.  Cut through all the arguments and the rationalisations (‘I’m not that special kind of person’ or ‘I’d just be enabling an addict if I give her money’ or whatever) and what you will find is a fear of engaging that which is Other than one’s self — and that which is, therefore, perceived as threatening. 
The irony is that the threat perceived is often greatly over-inflated or illusory.  ‘Dangerous’ neighbourhoods and people are never as dangerous as we imagine, and ‘safe’ neighbourhoods and people, are never as safe as we imagine.  I learned this lesson well while working at a camp for rich Christian kids.  I have known many young men and women who have suffered terrible physical and sexual abuses in the ghetto… but I have known nearly as many young men and women who have suffered the same terrible physical and sexual abuses in suburban Christian families.  That this is usually forgotten in discourse related to ‘what should be done’ with pockets of urban poverty, simply demonstrates the ways in which fears are created and manipulated for the financial gain of the powers that be.
By the way, as we will see, financial gain is an important factor in all of this.  I say that fear is a major obstacle to our journey with the marginalised, but the second great obstacle is greed.  Should we overcome these two things, then we will be well on our way as disciples of Jesus.
Therefore, try as I might to encourage Christians to journey into deeper intimacy with the poor and the abandoned, I find that generally well-intentioned people are too dominated by fear to be able to respond with much more than a donation to a local charity (which, in itself, isn’t a bad thing, but is a far cry from both what is needed and what Christ calls us to do).
Thirdly, a couple years back, I read a passage in one of N. T. Wright’s sermons, which mentioned that the command ‘Do not be afraid!’ or ‘Fear not!’ is thesingle most repeated command in the bible.  This suggests to me that I’m not alone in thinking that fear is one of the great obstacles to discipleship (i.e. God and God’s messengers might think the same).
Now, it is in light of these things that I read the quote from Vinoth Ramachandra, which I used at the opening of this (rambling) post.  This provides another interesting angle on things.  In my own thoughts I had considered fear to be evidence of a lack of faith in God (i.e. we say that we have faith in God but, when push comes to shove, we do everything we can to avoid situations that require us to actually, and tangibly, rely on God) but Ramachandra carries this thought through to its conclusion: if our faith is not in God, it is in somebody or something else, and when somebody or something else replaces God, this is called idolatry.
Who then, I asked myself, are we worshipping when we are too afraid to love and help our neighbours in need?  Perhaps it is the money we work so hard to gain.  Perhaps it is the families for whom we work so hard.  Perhaps it is simply the final out-working of the individualism that our society forces upon us; that is to say, perhaps our fear of Others is simply a manifestation of self-worship, and the ultimate expression of our primordial desire to ‘become like gods’.  Perhaps.
However, there is more to this.  As I mentioned above, our fear is often something created, manipulated, or exacerbated by other forces.  In particular, our fears are driven by the ethos that is maintained by the power brokers of late capitalism.  Perhaps, therefore, the influence of fear over our lives is simply a sign that we have allowed these power brokers to become as gods before us (which really shouldn’t be too surprising as many of the world’s cultures — from Egypt, to Babylon, to Rome — have treated the rulers as deities).  In this regard, we must recall that who or what we worship isn’t so much determined by what we say, as by what we do.  After all, who was it that said, ‘These people come near me with their mouth and honour me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me’?
Still, I would be curious to hear what others might think.  If fear is a guide to idolatry, what do our contemporary fears betray about who or what we worship?

In Jn 12.1-8, we read a short story regarding Jesus’ stay at Bethany.  This occurs in-between the time when he raised Lazarus from the dead, and his parody of a ‘triumphal’ entry into Jerusalem.  From a literary perspective, this pericope heightens the sense of doom that is now beginning to engulf Jesus.  Thus, in Jn 11, after raising Lazarus, the politico-religious leaders begin to plan how to kill Jesus — and Jesus is driven into hiding.  Then, in Jn 12.1-8, Mary (likely the sister of Martha and Lazarus) anoints Jesus with a costly perfume — which Jesus tells us was reserved for the day of his burial (cue ominous theme music).  Things only get worse in 12.9-10 where we read of the plot to kill Lazarus, in 12.19 where the plot to kill Jesus is confirmed, and again in 12.27-36 wherein Jesus speaks of his imminent death.
However, literary approaches aside, the focus of most popular readings of Jn 12.1-8 is upon Jesus’ rebuke of Judas.  When Judas accosts Mary for wasting an expensive perfume on Jesus (‘Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?’),  Jesus responds by saying:

Leave her alone… You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.

Now, it seems to me that contemporary Western readers of this text almost universally interpret it in the following way: Jesus is telling us that we will never ‘solve’ the ‘problem of poverty’, so we shouldn’t get too caught up in trying to give everything away for the sake of the poor (thank God we have this passage to balance out what Jesus says to the ‘rich young ruler’!).  Instead we should realise that we are entitled to live comfortably ourselves.  Thus, if anyone tries to tell us to sell our nice things (like the expensive perfume Mary bought for Jesus) we should rebuke that person just as Jesus rebuked Judas.
It is my contention that this is exactly the opposite of what this text actually says.  Let me explain why.
First of all, when Jesus says, ‘you always have the poor with you’, he is actually quoting from Deut 15.11 — from a chapter explaining the outworkings of the Sabbatical year, marked by its concern for the poor.  Thus, Deut 15 begins by talking about the remission of debts, and based upon this principle it asserts: that ‘there will be no poor among you.’  However, it then goes on to say the following:
If there is among you anyone in need, a member of your community in any of your towns within the land that the LORD your God is giving you, do not be hard-hearted or tight-fisted toward your needy neighbour.  You should rather open your hand, willingly lending enough to meet the need, whatever it may be… Give liberally and be ungrudging when you do so… For the poor will never cease to be in the land; therefore, I command you saying, ‘Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbour in your land (I’m combining readings from the NRSV and the NASB).
Now this puts an entirely different spin on Jesus words that ‘you will always have the poor with you’.  Our popular reading of these words is used to justify hard-hearted and tight-fisted behaviour towards the poor, but Deut 15 would suggest that Jesus means precisely the opposite.  So, what then does it mean to say that the poor will always be with us?  Well, according to Deut 15, that the poor will always be with us, means that we should be sure to give openly and generously to the poor.  Assuming that the people of God are actually taking seriously their talk of God’s ‘provision’ and ‘abundance’ (instead of just affirming this in some superficial way), this shouldn’t be a problem.
Second, how does this understanding of these words fit with the passage in Jn?  Easy.  It fits because Jesus himself was poor.  Jesus was a vagrant (cf. Mt 8.20), dependent upon the charity of others (in the passage at hand, Jesus is living off of the charity of Lazarus and staying at his home) or the abundance of God (cf. Mt 17.24-27).  Thus, anointing Jesus for burial with an expensive perfume, is a perfect illustration of what Deut 15 requires because Jesus is a poor man on the way to his death (not surprisingly, at the hands of the wealthy and powerful).
In this way, Jesus continues to demonstrate his mastery of rhetorical battles.  We are all aware of the various ways that Jesus overcomes the scribes and teachers of the law, by speaking subvesive truths while also not explicitly implicating himself (Mt 22.21 is a fine example of this).  However, it is far less frequently noted that Jesus has achieved the same thing here (actually I don’t know if this is noted anywhere because it has been a long time since I’ve read any commentaries on Jn).  Here is what has happened: Judas, out of his greed to steal from the money made by selling the perfume, masks his greed by pretending to be concerned for the poor (or so the author of Jn tells us).  In response, Jesus affirms a genuine commitment to the poor, while challenging Judas’ greed (he really was that good!).
Third, and finally, the specificity of this event needs to be noted.  Part of the reason for Jesus’ rebuttal of Judas is that he, the eternal Word (according to the author in Jn 1.1-18) and the great ‘I Am’ (Jn 8.58), is on his way to his death, and will soon no longer be with the disciples.  Hence, the second half of his sentence: ‘You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.’
Consequently, from this perspective, Mary’s act can be perceived as an act of worship — of giving generously to God.  However, this perspective does not contradict the thoughts I have developed above.  Rather, it confirms those thoughts because giving to God, and giving to the poor are not mutually exclusive acts.  This is evident all throughout Scripture, but one of the most cited passages on the interconnection of worship and generosity to the poor is Is 58.6-12.  Through the prophet the LORD proclaims:

Is this not the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?  Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?  … Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer; you shall cry for help, and he will say, Here I am.
If you remove the yoke from among you, the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil, if you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your ight shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday…

Thus, although the person of Jesus is no longer physically with us, we can continue to engage in the form of worship demonstrated in this passage by giving generously to the poor amongst us.
In conclusion, I hope that I have adequately demonstrated the false nature of popular understandings of Jn 12.8.  Jesus is most certainly not telling us to relax because the problem of poverty will be resolved.  Rather, he is telling us to give generously to the poor in our midst.  So, the next time you’re talking about solidarity with the marginalised, and somebody throws this passage at you (as they inevitably will), you will at least have a response prepared!

I know that I frequently speak of ‘the Poor’ on this blog, and that I sometimes don’t define what I mean by that title (and sometimes do) and so, in response to a comment made by Dave (http://www.indiefaith.blogspot.com/) on my latest thoughts regarding ‘the Poor’ as members of the body of Christ, I thought I would spend some time explaining what I mean by this title, and why I choose to use it.
To begin with, when I speak of ‘the Poor’ I am referring to more people than simply those who are economically disadvantaged.  In this regard, it is helpful to understand how the term ‘the Poor’ is used in the New Testament in general, and by Jesus in particular.
The Greek word ptochoi (‘the poor’) is used by Jesus to refer to people who underwent the following experiences (NB: in what follows, I will be developing James Dunn’s reflections on this term found in Jesus Remembered):
(1) Material poverty based upon the lack of a secure economic base.  There are many ways in which a person could lose his or her economic base.  One could lose one’s kinship group — like widows, orphans, and aliens — and thereby be without the most foundational means of economic support and protection.  One could also lose one’s land, and thereby lack the primary material means of earning a (subsistence level) income.  Similarly, one could suffer some sort of physical injury and become incapable of working — think of the sick, the lame, and the blind, and how the Gospels frequently number them amongst the poor.  Finally, one could undergo some sort of experience that left one outside of the religious purity boundaries established by society which could lead to poverty due to marginalisation or ostracism — in this regard, think of the lepers, the woman with the issue of blood, and the demon-possessed who are also included amongst the poor.
(2) Experiencing material poverty then leaves the poor vulnerable to economic exploitation.  Hence, the poor are not only the economically disadvantaged, they are simultaneously the marginalised and oppressed.  This exploitation can occur on a number of levels — materially, the little that the poor have can be taken away from them; socially, the poor are accorded a low level of status are are cut-off from the general public and, just as significantly, from people and places of power; spiritually, or religiously, the poor are also classified as ‘sinners’ or as ‘unclean’ (note how frequently the titles ‘the poor’ and ‘the sinners’ are paired with each other in the Gospels).  Of course, socio-religious methods of exploitation are often simply the means of paving the way for the economic and material exploitation of the poor.  Not many people pay attention to the plundering of those who are insignificant and damned — especially when those who are doing the stealing are the powerful and the righteous, who can claim abundance as the result of their godly living!
(3) Finally, given that the poor are “helpless and hopless in the face of human oppression” (Dunn’s words) they are also defined as those who recognise their vulnerability and look to God for help, especially since they have nobody else to whom they can turn (I believe these are those whom Jesus calls ‘the poor in Spirit’).
Thus, Dunn notes that the word ptochoi, as it is used in the LXX, replaces a number of Hebrew terms such as `ani’(poor, afflicted, humble), dal (crushed, oppressed), ‘ebyon (in want, needy, poor), `anaw (poor, afflicted, humble, meek), and rosh (in want, poor). So Dunn concludes:

The traditional Jewish understanding of poverty, therefore, was neither simplified nor idealized.  Starting from the harsh, often brutal reality of poverty, it recognized different dimensions of poverty — material, social, and spiritual.

To Dunn’s helpful source critical analysis, we should add one insight from Bruce Malina’s helpful sociological reading of the New Testament world (cf. The New Testament World: Insights from Cultural Anthropology. Third Edition, Revised and Expanded).  Malina, while recognising the multiple forms poverty takes, stresses the priority of the social element of poverty during the first century, in the Graeco-Roman world.  He argues the the terms “rich” and “poor” are not primarily about how much capital one owns; rather, they refer to the greedy and the socially ill-fated.  Hence:

The terms do not characterize two poles of society as much as two minority groups, the one based upon the shameless drive to expand one’s wealth, the other based on the inability to maintain one’s inherited status of any rank.

According to Malina, wealth and poverty are more about social trajectories: those labeled “rich” are those who have exploited others to try and climb the social ladder, while those labeled “poor” are those who are falling down the social ladder.
Now, this combination of elements would suggest that David is right to question my monolithic use of the term ‘the Poor’.  After all, when I use this term, I have all of these elements in mind.  When I speak of ‘the Poor’ today, I am thinking not only of the economically disadvantaged, but also of the oppressed, those suffering social marginalisation, those considered ‘damned’ by the Church, those considered ‘criminals’ by the Justice System, those who are rejected due to illnesses or biological differences, and so on and so forth.  Why, then, do I not use a more general term — why not simply speak of ‘those in exile’ or something like that?  Well, I have at least four reasons for persisting in using language that highlights wealth and poverty.
First of all, I believe that the language of ‘exile’ is too vague for much of what I am seeking to express.  Indeed, as my own reflections on exile have developed, I have come to believe that all of us, in North America, are undergoing an exilic experience.  Consequently, the language of ‘exile’ too easily blurs the experiences and responsibilities of those who are comfortably situated in places of privilege and power and those who are abandoned to places of pain and lack.  To posit another analogy, we all may be in Egypt, but how we experience Egypt, and what we are called to do there, is very different depending on if we are in Pharaoh’s household, or in the household of a Hebrew slave.  (This, by the way, is why we need to be skeptical of comfortable middle and upper-class Christians who rush to emphasise ‘poverty of spirit’.  What they usually mean by this — token dependence upon God — generally has nothing to do with the genuine, and desperate, poverty of Spirit of which Jesus speaks.)
Secondly, and most importantly, I believe that we must continually speak of wealth and poverty today, because it is economics that now functions as the cornerstone of our existence in the world of late capitalism.  Thus, while Malina may be correct in arguing that status was the cornerstone of the Greco-Roman world, we must recognise that our world is not theirs (and vice versa).  Consequently, we must privilege the economic aspect of poverty today, precisely because it is this aspect that undergirds all our other experiences of poverty (I think that Jesus was already onto this point when he spoke about the love of money as the root of all evil).
Thirdly, and closely related to the second point, I hold onto the language of ‘the Poor’ because it is concrete — in fact, it is uncomfortably concrete for most of us.  Again, more general language makes it easier for us to rationalise our life-as-it-is.  The more vague the terms, the easier it is for me to include myself within the group God privileges even when, in reality, I am a part of the group that is persecuting God’s people.  Hence, I like this language because it rattles me and, I hope, it rattles others.  We need to be rattled.  That, I believe, is how we are led to conversion.
Finally, I retain the language of ‘the Poor’ because this is the language, and the term, prioritised by the Christian Scriptures.  While I recognise that there is a wealth of implicit meaning found in this term, I also recognise the value of learning to speak biblically.
This, then, is my explanation, and defense, of my use of the term ‘the Poor’.

I have decided to switch to a wordpress blog from my old livejournal account.  I’m still in the midst of importing all my old posts (alas, I lose all 3000+ comments!), and I’m also figuring out how to negotiate this server… so bear with me.  I may have a few book-smarts, but I certainly do not have the computer-smarts!

Jonas (http://blog.bahnhof.se/wb938188) recently asked me this question, based upon my review of Jon Sobrino’s latest book:
Would you like to explain the view of the poor as Christ´s body? Does that mean that the poor [are] incorporated into Jesus, the Messiah, even if they verbally deny him and don´t want to follow him? What would be the biblical base for this teaching?
Here is my response:
Fair question!
I wouldn’t necessarily say that “the poor [are] incorporated into Jesus, the Messiah” but rather that Jesus, the Messiah, incorporated himself into the poor. Therefore, there is now an indissoluble and sacramental link between the poor and Christ. By choosing to identify with the poor, the marginalised, and the damned, Christ revealed to us that these people are priests, administering God’s presence to the world. Not only that, but Christ reveals to us that God has chosen to locate himself in and amongst the poor. Hence, the poor are the people of God — because they are the people with whom God has chosen to identify. Therefore, as Porfirio Miranda reminds us, if we are seeking God, we should go where God has told us he can be found — in and amongst the poor. We are foolish to look elsewhere, when God has already revealed his location!
But let us explore this sacramental connection a little further so that too much is not left in the realm of mystery (which is far too often a refuge for any ideological position).
First of all, the poor reveal to us, in history, the bleeding and suffering of God due to the brokenness of the world. Hence, the poor are the sacramental presence of the body and blood of Christ just as much as (if not more than) the sacramental presence of the body and blood of Christ found in the Eucharist.
Secondly, by bearing our sins — by taking nothing from us while we take everything from them, by taking our hunger while we take their food, by bearing death as we flee from it — that poor also hold the potential to be ministers of salvation to us. They reveal the falsehoods structuring our societies, they make manifest the perverse results of our ideologies, and they expose the hypocrisy that runs through our expressions of piety. Hence, in this regard, the poor are the sacramental presence of the Christ who proclaims, “I am the truth”.
Thirdly, the poor and those amongst them who choose to act non-violently towards the rich and privileged — that is, the majority — are also agents of God’s grace. By choosing to work with us in pursuit of new life together, by refusing to respond to us by taking away our lives, our loved ones, and our daily bread, the poor treat us with a value which we have never ascribed to them. This truly is ‘amazing grace’. However, to be clear, this does not mean that we can simply go on living lives built upon the blood of others. Such an approach would be the worst example of the ‘cheap grace’ that Bonhoeffer despised. The grace shown to us, by the poor, is not an opportunity to go on sinning, it is a call to conversion.
This means that the poor are counted as members of the Church, even if they verbally deny Jesus and assert that they do not want to follow him. For, just as with the confessing members of Christ’s body, they are simul justus et peccator — righteous and, at the same time, sinners. If the sin of a good many of the confessing members of Christ’s body is their refusal to journey into solidarity with the oppressed, then the sin of a good many of the crucified members of Christ’s body is their inability to confess Jesus as Lord (for now anyway). Note, however, even here the sin of the confessing members is greater than the sin of the crucified. Often the crucified have never been truly presented with the gospel, or with individuals or communities who genuinely reflect the liberating news of Jesus’ lordship to them — thus, the Jesus they have rejected is not the historical Jesus and risen Lord. The confessing members, alas, have far less excuses for missing that which is so obvious within Scripture.
As for the biblical basis for this teaching, I would simply point to manifestations of God’s preferential option for the poor contained within Scripture. Think, for example, of the fact that the very poor are left in the land when all of Israel is carried away into exile. In this event, the poor are spared the judgment that is poured out on all, not because they have lived righteously, but because God identifies with the poor and show them preferential treatment because of the ways in which they have been dehumanised by the social powers who act in the service of Sin and Death. Similarly, think of the unconditional proclamation of forgiveness that Jesus offered to the poor, the sick, and the marginalised. To the poor, Jesus said, “You already are forgiven; come, journey with me” — it was only to the comfortable and powerful that Jesus brought harsh warnings of judgment. For a multiplication of examples, I’ll simply refer you to the writings of Gutierrez, Boff, Sobrino, et al. I think I have adequately made my point.
However, let me reaffirm my prior assertion, while switching the emphasis. Yes, the poor are members of the body of Christ, but they are not the only members thereof. This is why I continually speak of both the ‘crucified’ and the ‘confessing’ members of Christ’s body. The key thing is to bring those two halves together so that the body can be whole, and so that the Church can truly manifest the presence of Christ in our world. The goal is for the crucified members to become confessers of Christ, and for the confessing members to become crucified with Christ. The new creation of all things is (proleptically) contained therein.

Michael of “Pisteoumen” recently posed a question regarding the possible relationship between eschatology and ethics (cf. http://michaelhalcomb.blogspot.com/2008/08/eschatology-ethics.html).
Not surprisingly, given that so much of my thesis revolves around this relationship, I believe that, from a Christian perspective, eschatology and ethics are intimately, and inextricably, connected. Eschatology is that which provides us with a narrative framework for understanding history, and our own historicity, in a meaningful way. Ethics is then our effort to embody that meaning in our day-to-day actions. The key here is realising that, from a biblical perspective, eschatology is far closer to a praxis-oriented philosophy of history, than it is to a collection of 'end times' doctrines.
Stated another way, we could say that a properly eschatological (and therefore properly Christian) ethics is a way of remembering the past and anticipating the future in order to live meaningfully in the present.