For the last few months, the topic of violence, and the justification thereof, has been on my mind with increasing frequency. My thoughts have not come together with much clarity — and, by and large, they are stemming from my overwhelming sense of helplessness, anger, and sorrow, related not only to the injustices that I see around me on a day to day basis, but to the massive injustices that are sweeping across the world (on this note, I highly recommend Naomi Klein's latest book, The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism, which may be the best book I have read this year). Here, then, are a few of my scattered thoughts (and I would be very interested to hear what others think about these things).
1. If violence can be justified, or if violence can ever be considered a Christian act (that is to say, if a Christian could ever accept 'just war' theory), then Christians today would be obligated to take up arms against both their governments and many national, and multinational corporations. Never, in the whole course of history, have so few done so much harm to so many. If violence can be justified from a Christian perspective, then it the duty of contemporary Christians to become 'terrorists'.
[Of this point, I am absolutely convinced.]
2. I say that Christians would be obligated to take up arms, because all other (peaceful) methods of enacting social transformation, of countering rapacious corporate and governmental interests, have been overpowered, subverted, or revealed as impotent.
[The objection to this point would be threefold: one could assert that (1) all avenues of peaceful resistance have not yet been exhausted; (2) even if all the avenues that we currently can think of have been exhausted, our 'Christian imagination' requires us to imagine new peaceful options; (3) even if there is nothing we can to to create change peacefully, we must continue to do what does not work because violence is not an option for us — and because we hope for the time when God will, once again, 'come down' and create the change for which we long.]
3. Indeed, not only have all peaceful avenues been exhausted, but, precisely because of this, the Powers that be (powers of government and corporate business) are satisfied when Christians embrace notions of nonviolence — for the language of nonviolence is easily employed to shatter any resistance to the pursuit of their (ironically, violent) agendas. Put another way, the language of nonviolence, although often considered 'counter-cultural', often simply ends up supporting the status quo. Thus, although the Powers are inherently violent, they are more than happy to allow their opposition to embrace nonviolence — for that embrace quite often ensures that the rich will continue to accumulate more wealth, and the poor will continue to lose the little that they have.
[It is this point, that must be engaged in detail by Christians who wish to remain nonviolent — and it is this point that I find increasingly frustrating in my own personal embrace of nonviolence.]
4. Some will say that violence only breeds more violence, and to respond to the Powers violently is to only further enmesh ourselves in the 'cycle of violence', but others will say that the deepening of violence is what is needed in order to spark an awakening, a conversion, and an uprising. That is to say, precisely because most of the violence in our world occurs in places where we do not see, hear, feel, or smell it, we do not care (in any meaningful way) about it. To bring violence home, is to open the eyes of those around us.
[Of course, the objection here is that we have drifted into the realm of 'playing God' when we begin to treat people (and their lives) as pawns in the service of a greater plan — indeed, as a one who is committed to nonviolence, I am inclined to believe that any time that we kill, we are 'playing God' and engaging in an activity that is denied to us, but this relates back to the first point I raised.]
5. Others, following Niebuhr's hypothesis, will argue that our contemporary situation is one that forces us to compromise our Christian beliefs in one way or another, and so we must choose the least of the evils. If this is the case, then surely it is better to be guilty of killing a few (for the sake of the many), rather then sitting quietly by while the many are killed (and thereby being guilty of the deaths of many).
[The objection here is raised by those who altogether reject Niebuhr's hypothesis and argue that we should not choose the least of the evils but can always, somehow, choose good. Of course, it remains for those who raise this objection to show how good can, then, be served in our contemporary situation.]
Such are my thoughts these days. At the end of the day, I am still fairly convinced that an abandonment of nonviolence is, in actuality, an abandonment of faith in God. Therefore, I continue to pursue justice with peace, although I suspect that almost everything that I do will amount to nothing (indeed, to use an analogy, I suspect I will spend most of my life throwing myself against a wall and, at the end of it all, it will be me, and not the wall, that breaks). So it goes when we find ourselves in a time and space of reciprocal abandonment — a time and space where the Church has abandoned God, and God has, consequently, forsaken us.

Well, just over seven months ago, I was married. However, before the marriage, there was the bachelor party. So, what do a bunch of Christian pacifists do at a bachelor party? Simple: beat the living hell out of each other (people were, literally, knocked out, had body bruises, split lips, and I'm pretty sure I fractured a bone in my foot kicking my good buddy Oli).
So, for your entertainment, I offer you this clip of my fight with my younger brother. I am, of course, the one who dominates the fight (I'm wearing the red headgear, dark blue shirt, and black gloves).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjGR2AZpVz8.

As actually lived, a religion may be pictured as a single gigantic proposition. It is a true proposition to the extent that its objectivities are interiorized and exercised by groups and individuals in such a way as to conform them in some measure in the various dimensions of their existence to the ultimate reality and goodness that lies at the heart of things. It is a false proposition to the extent that this does not happen.
~ George Lindbeck, The Nature of Doctrine, 51.
If Lindbeck's assertion is correct (and it very well might be), then the conclusion that we are compelled to draw is that very few of those around us could be accused of genuinely rejecting Christianity. By and large, those around us have encountered a purely propositional form of Christianity, a form that has hardly (if at all) been “interiorized and exercised” in such a way that conformity to “ultimate reality and goodness” has resulted. Therefore, it is more often the case that what those around us reject is Christianity exhibited as a false proposition. Indeed, despite our reputation as the “Christian” or “post-Christian” West, I suspect that most of our neighbours have never even heard the truth of the gospel proclaimed truly. In a sense, we are living in a society that is still waiting for the good news, because it is still waiting for coming of the “Word made flesh” — only this time it is not waiting for the advent of Christ, it is waiting for the embodiment of the gospel by the Church.
Therefore, instead of looking on our society and seeing a mass of people who have rejected Christianity, I look upon our society and see a mass of people who have never encountered Christianity. The fault is not their sinfulness, but ours. It is not that they have failed to accept the good news of Jesus Christ, it is that we have failed to proclaim it.

About a year ago, one of my roommates and I decided to compose a list of “God's lesser known preferential options.” She recently posted some of those ideas on her blog (audreymo.blogspot.com) and I thought I would carry the idea over to here to see what others might come up with. The idea, of course, is premised upon the argument made by the liberation theologians that God, in Scripture, exhibits a “preferential option” for the poor. Therefore, after carefully searching the Scriptures ourselves, we came up with these other, lesser known, preferential options (and hope that you will add to the list).
1. Diet Coke
2. Boxers
3. Gay Marriage
4. The Serial Comma
5. Palestinians
6. Rich People Who Feel Kinda, Sorta Guilty About Being Rich
7. PCs
8. Militant Islam

There is a Bohemianism in the labor movement, and it smacks of sentimentality. The gesture of being dirty because the outcast is dirty, of drinking because he drinks, of staying up all night and talking, because that is what one's guests from the streets want to do, in participating in his sin from a prideful humility, this is self-deception indeed!
~ Dorothy Day, The Long Loneliness, 255 (slightly edited).
I want to relate this quotation from Day to some recent conversations that have occurred on the topic of humour and playfulness. Some time ago, Peter and I had some discussion on the topic of Baudrillard and Christianity, wherein Peter argued that one should not pursue a method of “analyze-resist” in one's approach to political powers (a method that he sees as far too compromising, reductionistic, and, in the end, legitimising); rather, one should embody an “aesthetic Christianity” wherein one is “free not to take things too seriously, free to play and be joyful” (cf. http://coprinus.blogspot.com/2007/08/baudrillard-christianity.html). More recently, David W. Congdon wrote a post entitled “What Would Jesus Drive?” which included a poll, by the same title, that was meant to be humourous (although it appears that many, to David's apparent frustration, took the poll more seriously than intended; cf. http://fireandrose.blogspot.com/2007/09/what-would-jesus-drive-what-would-jesus.html).
Both of these conversations caused me to reflect about the role of humour and play in Christian thinking and living, and that is what caused me to think of the above quotation from Dorothy Day. You see, Day's quotation reminds us that there are things we incorporate from our surroundings, things that we think are noble and liberating, that actually end up having a negative influence upon us. Perhaps those mentioned by Day think that they are exhibiting a radical form of solidarity with the marginalised when they stay up all night drinking, talking, and stinking, but Day suggests that they actually aren't doing anybody any good and have only deceived themselves.
It is my suspicion that much of the same thing is going on in recent Christian reflections on humour and playfulness (certainly I wouldn't want to suggest that Peter or David fall into this camp — they were the springboards for my thinking, not the targets of it). After all, this recent focus on humour and playfulness did not, by and large, originate within the Christian Academy. Rather, it became one of the major emphases within what has come to be known as “postmodern thought.” However, we must make two important, and disconcerting, observations about the role of these themes in postmodern thought. In particular, we must examine the location of those who make this assertion, and we must examine the foundation of this assertion. First, when we look at the location of those who make this assertion, we quickly realise that, despite their reputation as “radical thinkers,” those who make this assertion tend to be comfortably situated in the upper classes and have come to be well-established within academic and cultural centres of power. It is, perhaps, a little too easy to talk about humour and playfulness while sitting in a lounge, nursing a glass of Romanée Conti, and smoking French cigarettes. Secondly, when we look at the the foundation of these themes, we come to see that they are premised upon a form of nihilism that denies, and attacks, all meaning and significance. Essentially, when everything means nothing, we might as well laugh and play.
Consequently, when we explore how these themes of humour and play are utilised by Christians what do we find? A largely acritical appropriation performed mostly by (surprise, surprise) Christians well situated in the middle and upper classes — in places of comfort, privilege and power. Such themes are all too easily embraced (and consumed) by those of us who would rather not deal (in too much detail, anyway) with the sufferings of others. In this way, humour and play become a part of the therapy and sensibilities of the Christian middle-class.
Of course, there is an important place for humour and playfulness, but how we understand and engage in those things, might end up being rather different once we move into the lower classes and places where suffering is most evident. For example, I am journeying alongside of many people who have been raped, and many more who will continue to be raped. I have yet to hear a single good rape joke (although, it should be noted, that while in various Christian social settings, I have actually heard more than one rape joke). Of course, most everybody understands this example, but it seems to me that much of the humour and playfulness that is found within much of the mainstream Christian community (including the Academy) expresses a similar apathy to issues that are, literally, life and death issues to others. Simply put, there are some things that are not funny. Of course, this is not to suggest that humour cannot be a powerful weapon, it simply means that we have not spent nearly enough time thinking about how to use humour, lest we end up accomplishing the reverse of what we had hoped, and end up paralleling those “Bohemians of the labour movement” that Day described.
Perhaps a better place to begin thinking about these things is suggested by Paul's command in Ro 12.15: Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn (Brueggemann, by the way, has done an excellent job of exploring this topic). After all, isn't our focus on humour and playfulness, also another proof of our corporate inability to mourn? Yes, humour and play can be powerful, but just as powerful are tears and “hard words from broken hearts” (Wallis' description of the prophetic, in The Call to Conversion). We need to be able to discern how and when to engage in either. How do we learn this discernment? The best solution I know is found by journeying into places of suffering. Those who have known great suffering are the best equipped to teach us great joy (conversely, I think we should be suspicious of the joy of those who know little of suffering). Never have I encountered such joy, play, and laughter, as the joy, play, and laughter, I have encountered in a group of low-track prostitutes sitting down for dinner together, or in a group of homeless kids sharing a smoke on the sidewalk, or in a group of homeless men playing cards together in a drop-in (I have also known great sorrow and pain in those places, but such is the life abundant). It is here, in these places, in these relationships, that one discover the forms and expressions of humour and play that are capable of shaking the foundations of empire.
If you don't believe me, I invite you to come and see for yourself.

Several OT scholars have highlighted the observation that the vision of neighborliness that is found in the tradition of Deuteronomy is premised upon the experience of the exodus of the Hebrew slaves from Egypt. Hence we see several passages where concern for the vulnerable, the oppressed, and the poor is premised upon this memory (these examples gain added emphasis when read in context):
You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.
~Deut 10.19
Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land… Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the LORD your God redeemed you; for this reason I lay this command upon you today.
~Deut 15.11, 15
You shall not deprive a a resident alien or an orphan of justice; you shall not take a widow's garment in pledge. Remember that you were a slave in Egypt and the LORD your God redeemed you from there; therefore I command you to do this… When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, do not glean what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; therefore I am commanding you to do this.
~Deut 24.17-18, 21-22
Walter Brueggemann, in commenting on these things, concludes by arguing that:
The memory of the exodus that leads to neighborly generosity is the primary mark of the covenantal society. That memory in practice issues in a subordination of the economy to the social fabric with focal attention to the marginated who are without social access, social power, or social advocacy. The covenant is an assertion of interdependence that flies in the face of acquisitiveness that regards everyone else as a competitor for the same commodity or as threat to my self-securing.
~ cf. “A Welcome for Others” in Mandate to Difference.
This observation has a great deal of potential explanatory power within our contemporary situation.
By and large, I believe that the Church in the West has failed to live up to the sort of neighborliness that is commanded in Deuteronomy. By and large, we like to engage in token acts of charity (which are also signs of good citizenship), but which mostly leave our lives untouched, and free us to live like those around us, pursue that which they are pursuing, and enjoy that which they are enjoying. Indeed, when one suggests that our churches should, perhaps, engage in a form of neighborliness that is closer to the model set by Deuteronomy (and further established by the likes of Isaiah and Jesus), one can expect to encounter a great deal of resistance from those same churches.
How can this be?
I believe that one of the central reasons why this is the case is because we have lost our ability to meaningfully remember the Exodus. Sure, we know the story but it does not register with us an any meaningful sort of way because, by and large, we have never experienced anything comparable to that event.
What Brueggemann calls the “counterintuitive economic practice” of the community of faith in Deuteronomy is premised upon a recent encounter with YHWH who has been revealed as the “counterintuitive economist.” This encounter is still fresh in the mind of the Hebrews and this is why (when the Law is given) they embrace the form of neighborliness that it requires. The commands of Deut 23.15-16, commands that essentially make slavery an untenable institution, make a good deal of sense to a community of recently liberated slaves. Unfortunately, they make less and less sense to, and hold less and less persuasive power over, those who have never experienced slavery, and those who have no memory of being slaves in Egypt. Thus, the Israelites become more and more like the nations around them and forget the form of neighborliness that the God of Deuteronomy (the Father of Jesus) requires.
And what of us? We have not experienced slavery in Egypt. What sort of experiences have we had that parallel the Exodus? Few, if any. After all, are we not a people who now live with the memory of the failure of all recent attempts at liberation? Around the world we have seen movements of liberation that have self-destructed (like Marxism in Eastern Europe), and movements of liberation that have been crushed by other forces (like Socialism in Latin America). Even, or perhaps especially, in our own nations we have seen the near total failure of all the major movements of liberation and resistance that arose in the '60s and '70s (and which were briefly resurrected in the late '90s).
What is the lesson that we have learned? That those who cannot be co-opted or bought are tortured and destroyed, and probably aren't even trustworthy anyway. Therefore, we arrive, in the words of Deleuze and Guattari (who made this point before Fukuyama) at “the end of history.”
So what, then, does our memory tell us? That any form of “Exodus” today is impossible. Consequently, we must resign ourselves to making our homes here, and doing the best with what we've been given.
And what of liberation? Liberation is simply the offer of the forgiveness of sins that frees us from the guilt that we feel for living in such a compromised state. “I have invested in oil.” Lord, have mercy. “My clothes were made by children.” Christ, have mercy. “I hoard.” Lord, have mercy. “I consume.” Christ, have mercy. “I am wealthy, and healthy, and satisfied.” Mea Culpa; Lord, have mercy. “I participate in structures of oppression and crucifixion.” Mea Maxima Culpa; Christ, have mercy. Our consciences having been (somewhat uneasily) appeased, we find freedom in our slavery, and in our enslavement of others.
Thus, we are held in bondage by a fatal, and fatalistic, memory. What hope do what have, us cynics and realists of the twenty-first century, of recovering our memory of the Exodus? How can we begin to remember the Exodus in such a way that we are able to begin to recover the neighborliness that is required of us?
I know of one way, and in order to explore that way it is worth looking at the example of Moses. In particular, I am struck by what we find in Ex 2.11:
Now it came about in those days, when Moses had grown up, that he went out to his brethren and looked on their hard labors; and he saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew, one of his brethren.
Here, we have Moses, raised and educated as a child of one of Pharaoh's daughters, engaging in a marvelous activity. First, note the double emphasis within the passage on the Hebrew slaves as Moses' “brethren.” Moses, although close to the royal family and Egyptian power, chooses to identify with the slaves as his own brothers and sisters. But he also does more than this. He goes out to them, and he looks upon their hardship. Leaving the comforts of his upbringing, he goes to where the slaves are, and he sees, and hears, and smells, what they are experiencing. The result? Moses is converted. He will never again be situated in places of Egyptian power, nor will he embrace the “gifts” that he has been given in order to institute whatever sort of reform he can hope for realistically. Instead, Moses will go on to be used by God to bring about the Exodus, and to offer the Hebrews the tradition of neighborliness that one finds in Deuteronomy.
So how does remembering Moses before the Exodus help us to remember the Exodus itself? Because the first step to remembering the Exodus is to remember slavery. Moses remembers slavery, not in some sort of hypothetical manner, but by going to the places where slavery is the worst. Furthermore, he remembers slavery by identifying himself in and with those slaves; he sees their torn skin and wasted bodies, he hears the noise of their cries, and the silence of their hopelessness, and he smells the odour of death rising from their sweat and their sores — and in this seeing, hearing, and smelling, he discovers the same thing in himself. He comes to know himself as a slave among slaves (is this not the same trajectory that was followed by Archbishop Romero? A conservative, comfortably situated in a place of power, it was not until Romero experienced slavery through the assassination of his friend Rutilio Grande that he became capable of remembering the Exodus and pursuing Deuteronomic neighborliness).
So we too, if we are to remember the Exodus, must begin by remembering slavery by going to the places where bondage is the worst. We must “go out,” we must “look upon,” and we must identify as our “brothers and sisters,” those who suffer the most today if we are to become capable of remembering the Exodus and engaging in the form of neighborliness established by Deuteronomy.

“Politicians are 'like' that—all crooked. Nothing ever changes” (read: “I refuse to think the world can change so I myself won't have to”).
~ Brian Massumi, A user's guide to Capitalism and Schizophrenia: Deviations from Deleuze and Guattari, 97.
It is interesting to place this quote in the context of other hopes for social change.
For example, while I am quite certain that politicians will not bring us the change that we desire, I remain adamant that change can, and must, come from the Church. Consequently, following Massumi, my belief that “when the Church is the Church, the World is made new” can be read in the following way: “because the Church changes things, I must change.”
Of course, most everybody (Christian or not) tells me that the Church is just as hopeless — just as “crooked” — as the World. Christians, and the clergy, are said to be “'like' that” just as much as the politicians. Does Massumi's reading also apply here? “I refuse to think the Church can change so I myself won't have to”? I wonder.
The view that I hold to says this: “change is coming, so we will begin changing now.” Thus, those who share this view with me, tend to do things like move into inner-city neighbourhoods, and move into deeper levels of intimacy with those for whom change is most desperately needed.
The other view that I have described says this: “nothing really changes, so I'll just keep doing what I've always done.” Consequently, when those who hold this view encounter those who hold the view that I do, they ultimately only ever respond in one way. Whether they admire us or despise us is irrelevant, in both cases they respond from a distance. And that, as far as I can tell, is a problem (for everybody involved).

Hey Nathan,
Thanks for the email (regarding the conversation that was happening on your blog — http://www.nathancolquhoun.com/blog/index.php/2007/08/19/drawing_someone_else_s_line#comments). I hope you don't mind me taking the time to write all this out here, truth be told, I'm curious to hear what others might have to say about all this.
Like you, I was raised in a family and a church that pushed the notion of “leadership” — and pushed it onto me, specifically. I've been encouraged to situate myself in places of “leadership” since way back, and my situation in those places took my through highschool and my undergrad (with, I will admit, a great deal of pride). I imagine that our stories are fairly similar in this regard (although maybe you weren't as arrogant as I was).
However, a number of factors have caused me to rethink and question all this in the last four or five years, as I have pursued alternate models of Christian living (after all, questioning, and rethinking, don't mean much apart from a new form of embodiment or praxis).
In particular, much of the Christian discourse about leadership seems to be flawed, and fatally so, in two regards: (1) in its focus on the individual; and (2) in its understanding of power. This, I think, is largely due to churches looking to outside models when it comes down to issues of polity and structure. By and large, a business paradigm has come to dominate the church (and, I might add, the social services — think of the pervasiveness of the role of the “manager” as that is described in MacIntyre's After Virtue). Consequently, leaders, Christian or otherwise, are understood as powerful and influential individuals who can “get results.” A successful Christian leader is the sort who has a full church, heck, a growing church, and, perhaps most importantly, a tithing church… blah, blah, blah (in social work, a successful Christian leader is the sort who can produce glowing stats and has the connections and voice necessary to bring in abundant donations).
It is interesting to compare this focus on (1) power, (2) influence, and (3) success with Jesus and the prophets. Jesus and the prophets were mostly powerless, mostly insignificant, and mostly failures when judged by the criteria established by the business paradigm.
However, I'm drifting off topic. I should get back to the issues of individualism and power.
Over against, the radical individualism of our culture — that finds particularly strong expression in the discourse on leadership — Christians are called to prioritise the corporate aspect of their identity as members of the people of God. Example: I am not, first and foremost, Dan, the individual; rather, I am, first and foremost, Dan, a member of the body of Christ.
Some time ago on my blog, I asked people to summarise, in one sentence, how they defined themselves (cf. http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/59156.html) and I then responded by arguing that I (and all of us) should be defined in this way: “I am a Spirit-filled member of the body of Christ and a beloved child of God” (cf. http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/59792.html). Some of my commentators responded that such a way of defining myself was far too vague (it could be applied to anybody!), but that was precisely my point: let's get beyond defining ourselves over and against everybody else, and let's begin by defining ourselves alongside of everybody else.
Consequently, when we bring this corporate understanding of self to the issue of “leadership” the question shifts from “How am I to lead?” to “How are we, as God's people, to live missionally within God's world?” Note that another shift has also taken place: I have moved from the language of leadership to the language of mission. This, I think, is a crucial shift. After all, as Christians, our goal is, ultimately, not to wield power and influence in order to create the results that we desire; rather, as Christians our goal is to live as a part of a community that is an agent of God's new creation within a world that is groaning under the sway of powers that refuse to acknowledge that they have been defeated (that, after all, is the point of Rev 12: the devil, the dragon, has been defeated and thrown down from heaven. Therefore, the especial violence, and the violence against the saints, that we see now is not because the dragon is so powerful but because the dragon is doomed). Therefore, our model for living missionally is not the model that is found within the business paradigm, it is the model that we find in Jesus.
This, then, leads quite naturally to the issue of power. It is the way in which the discourse on “leadership” is intrinsically linked to a form of power that, more than anything else, leads me to pursue alternate models. As far as I can tell, leadership is inextricably linked to notions of influence and power that are defined by the ability to forcefully impact the bodies, minds, and lives of others. Essentially, the leader is at the peak of a particular hierarchy and power flows from the top down Of course, those who have spoken of “servant leadership” have tried to reverse this flow but, IMHO, they have failed to the extent that they have retained the language of “leadership.” Time after time, I have observed the language of “servant leadership” employed as a mask over fiercely hierarchical, top-down, flows of power.
So, rather than attempting to be servant leaders, I would like to suggest that it is better for us to simply define ourselves as servants. This is, after all, one of the primary ways in which Paul defines the people of God: slaves of Christ (Douloi Christou), and slaves of one another. In this way, we begin to realise the truly “radical” nature of our call to follow Jesus on the road of the cross. Rather than exerting force on others, we are those who are willing to have force exerted upon us. We do this with the hope that, as on the cross, so also in our lives, that force will be exhausted and shattered even as it overwhelms us.
Think, in this regard, of how Paul describes the apostles in 1 Cor 4.8-13:
Already you have all you want! Already you have become rich! You have become kings — and that without us! How I wish that you really had become kings so that we might be kings with you! For it seems to me that God has put us apostles on display at the end of the procession, like men condemned to die in the arena. We have been made a spectacle to the whole universe, to angels as well as to men. We are fools for Christ, but you are so wise in Christ! We are weak, but you are strong! You are honored, we are dishonored! To this very hour we go hungry and thirsty, we are in rags, we are brutally treated, we are homeless. We work hard with our own hands. When we are cursed, we bless; when we are persecuted, we endure it; when we are slandered, we answer kindly. Up to this moment we have become the scum of the earth, the refuse of the world.
This, I think, is an appropriate Christian response to the contemporary discourse on “leadership.” Mostly the contemporary models of Christian leadership are akin to the model established by the “Super-Apostles” in Corinth (the Super-Apostles who, by the way, were leading the church astray). Like Paul, I think we need to be adamant that our focus should be upon a missional crucifomity and it should not be upon leading with power.
At the end of the day, I think it is best that we focus less on being “teachers” and “lords,” and focus more on washing one another's feet (cf. Jn 13.1-14; notice how, when washing the disciples' feet, Jesus claims the titles “Teacher” and “Lord” and does not suggest that his disciples will also become “teachers” and “lords” [i.e. “servant leaders”] if they go on to wash each other's feet. Rather, he simply tells them that they should follow his example. The disciples remain only “servants”; Jesus alone is the “master”).

It's been an odd sort of week, full of death and resurrection; tears of sorrow, tears of joy.
After a suicide attempt, a good friend relapsed on crack cocaine. He had one and a half years of clean time and appeared to being doing well — no one foresaw the suicide attempt or the relapse. Now he's lost his housing, and we've lost all contact with him. I've been walking the alleyways and the neighbourhood where I know he goes to buy, but I can't find him. I don't know how he will be able to stay alive, if he is alive.
Another friend, a young girl, had also gotten a good amount of clean time under her belt. She had gotten off the street, out of sexual exploitation, and into a relationship with a decent guy who had no history of street-involvement. Yesterday I learned that she relapsed, is back on the street, and is working the trade again. Turns out she was recently grabbed, forced into a car, and gang-raped. Such an experience is not uncommon among the girls who work my neighbourhood.
One of my former professors, who continues to be a guide and friend to me (one of the three “'radical' academics” I mentioned in my last post) was just diagnosed with colon cancer and goes in for emergency surgery tomorrow.
So Death continues to work among us.
But resurrection was also at work this week (a rare event, but truly marvelous when it occurs). A few years ago I got to know an incredible young man (one of the most truly beautiful people I have ever known) who was addicted to crack and was suffering from a form of mental illness that caused him to hear voices that were constantly telling him to hurt himself, or kill himself, or whatever. He had gone through some horrible experiences that had shattered him before he had any real chance to develop into wholeness and so, over the time that I knew him, he drifted lower and lower into the belly of the beast. Finally, we lost all contact with him and, although we scoured the streets and agencies looking for him for ages, we never found him. A year went by and then, out of the blue, we got a phone call from him just the other day. Turns out he went to an “hard-core” treatment centre, got out of town, moved back in with his family, and has almost one year of clean time under his belt. He's working a good job, his mental state is under control, and he even volunteers once a week at a drop-in for street-entrenched youth in his town (I always told him that he would be able to do that sort of work far better than I can or could). What joy! This is the sort of miracle, the sort of good news, that gives me the strength to persevere and the ability to hope against all the odds. Behold, “this brother of [ours] was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found” (cf. Lk 15.11-31). Yes, he was dead; yes, he is alive again. Lord, have mercy on those who are still dead and dying.
It is weeks like this one that capture so well the reason why my blog is subtitled “This, therefore, is the life abundant.” I think we commonly misconstrue Jesus' promise of abundant living for his followers. We tend to put a sort of “health and wealth” spin on it, as though we just need to follow Jesus and “all our problems will be solved.” However, I believe that Jesus' promise of abundance is a promise that we will both suffer more and laugh more. It is a promise that we will experience greater sorrow and greater joy, abundant anguish and abundant peace. A promise that we will become intimate with both death and new life.
Thus, we come to know the life abundant when we begin to “rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn” (Ro 12). Ironically, in our pursuit of other forms of “abundance” (for example, the accumulation of capital, and the pursuit of status or power) we close ourselves off from the truly abundant life that is found in places like my neighbourhood. If you wish to find true abundance then go to places where the Spirit of life is moving among the crucified, places of mourning and laughter (tears of sorrow, tears of joy), places of death and resurrection.