No object is proposed to the consumer as a single variety… what our industrial society always offer us 'a priori', as a kind of collective grace and as a mark of a formal freedom, is choice. This availability of the object is the foundation of 'personalization': only if the buyer is offered a whole range of choices can he transcend the strict necessity of his purchase and commit himself personally to something beyond it. Indeed, we no longer even have the option of not choosing… Our freedom to choose causes us to participate in a cultural system willy-nilly. It follows that the choice in question is a specious one: to experience it as freedom is simply to be less sensible of the fact that it is imposed upon us as such, and that through it society as a whole is likewise imposed upon us… Clearly 'personalization', far from being a mere advertising ploy, is actually a basic ideological concept of a society which 'personalizes' objects and beliefs in order to integrate persons more effectively.
~ Jean Baudrillard, The System of Objects, 151-52.
There is much that I find worthwhile in this quotation from Baudrillard but, given some of the ongoing discussion about Christian universalism, I was especially struck by what Baudrillard had to say about choice. Let me explain the connection.
D. W. Congdon has continually contributed to the discussion of Christian universalism on his blog and Ann Chapin, a commentator on a recent post (cf. http://fireandrose.blogspot.com/2007/07/paul-among-evangelicals-1-problem.html), asked what I (and others, apparently) believe to be a central question to this discussion. This was her question:
“Is part of the problem equating the experience of choice with real freedom?”
This question is, of course, raised in light of the general Christian view that our salvation is somehow connected to our own choices. Thus, those who hold to this view accuse Christian universalists of negating human freedom. In this way “real freedom” is equated with the “experience of choice.”
This, then, is where a cross-reference to the above quotation from Baudrillard begins to make things much more interesting. Essentially, what Baudrillard suggests is this: if we equate freedom with choice, then we lose our ability to recognise that which actually enslaves us, and our choice-making both confirms and deepens our bondage, regardless of what we choose.
This perspective on freedom and choice also sheds light on another traditional Christian assertion — the assertion that true freedom is found in obedience to God. However, before we assert this too hastily, we must ask ourselves the following question: if freedom is not to be equated with choice, how can it be equated with obedience? After all, many who are forced to obey, would understand that obedience as slavery — as just another form of bondage. And they would usually be correct in that understanding. After all, the notion of “freedom in obedience” has been continually applied by dictators, and totalitarian powers (remember, “arbeit macht frei” hung over the gates of a number of Nazi concentration camps).
We are thus confronted with the following question: if freedom is not found in choice, when, or how, is freedom found in obedience?
The key to answering this question is recognising that freedom comes to us as a gift given in two movements. As far as I can tell, the bible presents a picture of a world, and a people, who are in bondage. Although people can choose this, that, or the other thing (and they do choose pretty much all of the above during the course of the biblical narrative), it is clear that humanity is not free — it is enslaved to sin and death, and to all the spiritual and material forces that are in the service of these two great powers. However, there is good news: the hold of these powers is forever shattered by the Christ-event and the dawning of the new age. In the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, the bondage of humanity — and of creation — is shattered, and, in the out-pouring of the eschatological Spirit, freedom is given as God's free gift to humanity. As Paul says, “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free” (Gal 5), and again, “The mind of sinful man is death, but the mind controlled by the Spirit is life and peace; the sinful mind is hostile to God. It does not submit to God's law, nor can it do so. Those controlled by the sinful nature cannot please God. You, however, are controlled not by the sinful nature but by the Spirit, if the Spirit of God lives in you” (Ro 8). This is the first movement in God's giving of the gift of freedom and it is the movement in which we now live. Here we see that freedom is understood as liberation, not choice.
We are, however, still awaiting the second movement. Because we live in the “now-and-not-yet” of the kingdom of God, because we embrace an inaugurated but not yet consummated eschatology, the freedom that we experience now is only a partial freedom. Although we have been liberated from bondage to sin and death, we still suffer at their hands (and at the hands of their spiritual and material associates). Thus, Paul also says “We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved” (Ro 8, again). The first movement is only the “firstfruits”; the second movement is the consummation. The second movement is the final act of liberation that will be accomplished when Christ returns and puts a final and total end to sin, death, and their lackeys; and it is the coming of God to heal all wounds, to dry all tears, to make all things new, and to become “all in all” (1 Cor 15).
Consequently, we can now see that Christian universalism does not negate human freedom; rather, it recognises that all freedom is a gift from God; it recognises human freedom as liberation from bondage to sin and death, and believes that God will one day finalise this liberation by completely destroying the powers of sin and of death, thereby setting us all free.
In this way, we also come to see how freedom is found in obedience. Obedience is simply living as those who have been so liberated. Obedience is remembering the first movement in God's giving of the gift of freedom and proleptically anticipating the second movement. Obedience is standing firm and refusing to “be burdened again by a yoke of slavery”( Gal 5, again). This is why the martyrs — those who are chained, tortured, and killed — are the greatest signs of freedom in the world; wholly deprived of choice, they become holy witnesses to the gift of liberation found in Christ.
In conclusion, it is worth remembering Baudrillard's argument one more time. If a focus on choice simply masks that which keeps us in bondage, one cannot help but wonder if there is some sort of bondage at work in the argument of those Christians who wish to equate freedom with choice. I suspect that there is. By linking freedom to choice, freedom moves from the theological to the anthropological — freedom, from this perspective, is simply part of who we already are, and who we always were, as humans. Such a way of thinking inevitably makes us the agents of our own salvation. However, because we cannot save ourselves, such a way of thinking ends up leading us back into bondage. Thankfully the God who has saved us and who will save us, liberates us from all forms of bondage, even forms currently imposed by poor theology!

Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” says the Lord. “But if your enemy is hungry, feed him, and if he is thirsty, give him a drink; for in doing so you will heap burning coals on his head.” Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.
~ Ro 12.19-21
For awhile now, I have suspected that God claims a monopoly on vengeance because the divine implementation of vengeance might look very different than we imagine it to be.
You see, we have tended to imagine vengeance as punitive, as retributive, and, usually, as some form of violence — “an eye for an eye,” and the sort of thing prescribed in the Lex Taliones. Such an understanding of vengeance declares that the punishment must be “equal in magnitude” to the crime. Hence, the more violent the crime, the more violent the punishment. Yet what is the result of this? An ever-expanding spiral of violence.
However, Ro 12 makes it clear that Christians are not to engage in any form of vengeance. Rather than “repaying” those who wrong them, Christians are to respond with acts of mercy. Instead of ensuring a form of punishment that is equal in magnitude to the crimes committed against them, Christians are to respond with a form of grace that matches the violence of the wrongdoing. Hence, the more violent the crime, the more gracious the response of the Christian community. And what is the result of this? Evil is overcome with good.
Indeed, where this begins to become intriguing is that this is precisely the way in which Jesus overcame evil. On the cross, God declared his judgment on sinners and, behold, it was a judgment of grace and of forgiveness. On the cross, Jesus suffered at the hands of violent men, crying out, “Father, forgive them!” and evil was overcome with good.
Hence, we come to see why God claims sole ownership over vengeance. We are too inclined to see grace and vengeance as opposites. On the cross, God reveals his vengeance as grace. We tend to think that vengeance means inflicting violence on others. On the cross, God shows us that vengeance means taking violence onto ourselves. We tend to think of wrath as a destructive force. On the cross, God's wrath is revealed as God's wounded, but life-giving, love.
Which leads me back to one of my favourite biblical passages, Is 35.3-4, which goes as follows:
Strengthen the feeble hands,
steady the knees that give way;
say to those with fearful hearts,
“Be strong, do not fear;
your God will come,
he will come with vengeance;
with divine retribution
he will come to save you.”
The vengeance of God is our salvation. It is salvation for “the oppressed” and it is salvation for “the oppressor.” This, I think, is good news.
Maranatha, come quickly and save us, Lord Jesus. Amen.

[W]hat does it mean “to believe?” That would mean maintaining some kind of subjectivity as a criterion of the validity of things… What interests me instead (but can you still call this history?) is the possibility of a pure event, an event that can no longer be manipulated, interpreted, or deciphered by any historical subjectivity.
~ Jean Baudrillard, Forget Foucault, 73.
[T]he chief priests, the teachers of the law and the elders mocked [Jesus]. “He saved others,” they said, “but he can't save himself! He's the King of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God. Let God rescue him now if he wants him, for he said, 'I am the Son of God.'”
~ Mt 27.41-44.
It seems to me that a good many of the influential thinkers of the last one hundred years, when confronted with their own subjectivity, were incapable of moving beyond that subjectivity into the realm of “the real.” Granted, some felt that they could grasp the real as far as the real consisted of the elements of the natural sciences, but the reality of “truth” or “meaning” or “value” seems to be beyond their grasp. Although I am no philosopher, it seems to me that this “crisis of subjectivity” (if I can call it that) profoundly impacts the writings of many who have influenced, and continue to influence, “postmodern” thought — Wittgenstein (speaking of values is non-sensical), Lacan (Reality is always mediated by the Symbolic and the “Big Other”), Derrida (that which causes us to see is that which also blinds us), Foucault (power determines what is real), and Baudrillard (disenchantment and nihilism have led us into a world where “the name of the game remains a secret”) are all, in their own ways, caught in this crisis.
Those of us who are accustomed to assuming a less complicated and more direct access to “the real,” whether because of our removal from philosophical discussions or because of our ongoing attachment to the naivete of “enlightened” claims to objectivity, may be inclined to think that such writers are prime examples of the collapse or decline of Western thought.
However, we would be foolish to dismiss such thinkers so easily. Intelligent critiques must be confronted honestly. Furthermore, all these thinkers desire access to the real. They pursue the real, they pursue value and truth and objectivity, but, due to “the crisis of subjectivity,” they find that these things are continually beyond their grasp. Indeed, this crisis is so deep that many of them are convinced that any who now claim to have contact with the real, to have access to truth, value and objectivity, are to be treated with suspicion. All such claims are generally challenged and rather thoroughly refuted. Thus, in their longing for what Baudrillard calls “a pure event” they assail anything that claims such status and continually find that such claims are consistently “manipulated, interpreted, or deciphered” by historical subjectivities.
This pursuit of the real by attacking all those who claim direct contact with the real reminds me of the way in which the Jewish religious leaders of Jesus' day mocked him while he was being crucified. These leaders are not simply mocking Jesus because of their cold-heartedness. Rather, their “mockery” is also an appeal to Jesus (I forget who first introduced this idea to me, perhaps it was N. Elliott). In this regard, this “mockery” is the religious leaders' final appeal for “a sign” that will confirm his Messianic status (cf. Mt 12.38-45). Because, in actuality, they probably do want Jesus to save himself, they probably do want Jesus to come down from his cross, because they too are probably longing for a Messiah who can overcome the crucifying power of Rome. By crying, “He trusts in God! Let God now save him!” they are also saying, “We trust in God! Let God now save us!” And so, even as they crucify Jesus, they are disappointed that another so-called “Messiah” has come and gone and they are still not free.
It is interesting to juxtapose the position of these religious leaders with the position taken by the contemporary thinkers mentioned above. The religious thinkers long for “a sign” in the same way in which Baudrillard longs for a “pure event.” Further, just as the leaders' longing for that sign leads them to crucify Jesus, so also our thinkers' longing for the pure event leads them to attack all claims of truth, value, objectivity, and contact with the real. Both refuse to accept anything less than that which has been denied to us and so both become transformed into death-dealing forms of life-seeking.
So how are we Christians, as those who insist on some contact with reality, some sort of objectivity, and some understanding of truth and value, to respond to these things?
First of all, we cannot respond by arguing that any sort of irrefutable sign, or pure event, has occurred. If the advent and the resurrection of the Son of God was open to manipulation and interpretation even during Jesus' lifetime then we cannot claim revelation as the sort of universally binding pure event for which so many are longing. Of course, I would be inclined to believe that God's direct and unmediated revelations of Godself to small groups or individual persons — like Jesus' appearance to Thomas and the twelve after the resurrection, or his appearance to Paul on the road to Damascus — function as a “pure event” to those involved, but there is no way that that encounter can be offered, or reproduced, as a “pure event” to those who were not a part of that encounter as it occurred. Consequently, from a Christian perspective, only the parousia of Jesus and the final coming of God can function as the hoped for pure event of which we have been speaking here. Thus, such a universally applicable pure event really does not belong to the realm of “history” (Baudrillard is right to wonder about this). Rather, it belongs to the consummation of “history” as we know it.
Therefore, it really does appear as though we are trapped with a hold on reality that is subjectively influenced. However, rather than rejecting such a hold on reality (which I believe is at least some sort of tangible hold — even if it is a small one — and not simply a picture or simulacrum of reality) we must walk the path between objectivity and subjectivity. I think that critical realism shows us the way here. Critical realism reminds us that both those who claim total objectivity and those who claim total subjectivity tend to crucify others.
However, there is nothing about critical realism that makes it any more convincing (or any more of a “sign” or “pure event”) than that which is offered to us by nihilism or critical anti-realism. Consequently, we really do seem to be in the situation that Lyotard has described for us: we all belong to our small tribes, we all ascribe to our “small narratives” and our own understandings of truth, value, and meaning (or the lack thereof), and there is no way for us to posit one of these approaches as the approach for all of us. The quest for a system that will provide us with universal assent and certainty has failed, and we have awakened to the realization that we all live in the absence of total certainty. I have addressed this situation several times before on my blog, so now I will only mention that such a crisis of the word (which is both a crisis of the meaning of the word, and a crisis of the communication of the word) inexorably draws us to the issue of embodiment and performativity (an issue that has been well addressed by the likes of von Balthasar, Lindbeck, and, more recently, Vanhoozer). Of course, performance does not become the new means of producing certainty (as if our lives can be the pure event that Jesus' life never was!) but it can, perhaps, tip the scales. After all, it is worth remembering the following words from Dorothy Day:
We had a mad friend once, a Jewish worker from the East Side… He sat at the table with us once and held up the piece of dark bread which he was eating. “It is the black bread of the poor. It is Russian Jewish bread. It is the flesh of Lenin. Lenin held bread up to the people and he said, 'This is my body, broken for you.' So they worship Lenin. He brought them bread.”
Those of us who pray daily for bread, and who break bread together in communities where no one should have too much or too little, would do well to think on this.

What the fuck are you laughing at? Hey? What the fuck? How about I cut those smiles off of your faces, then we'll see if you're still laughing.
This, or roughly this, was what a working girl was yelling at what appeared to be a group of Christian young people on some sort of tour of my neighbourhood. I know this because I was walking behind her when she was yelling at the group — and because I wanted to say the same thing to them.
Because they were laughing at a naked woman.
A naked woman at Main and Hastings, the busiest corner in the neighbourhood, trying to walk and cover herself by pressing a small piece of cloth to the front of her body. She wasn't even wearing shoes. I am sure of this because I was looking at the ground when I stopped and offered her my shirt. As I was in the process of giving it to her, the working girl caught up to us, stopped, gave her an outfit, a few encouraging words, and then moved on. And I moved on, too. It was then that we passed the Christian young people who were smiling and laughing awkwardly. I wanted to yell at them, too… but I didn't. What difference would it have made? So I just turned to my friend, a woman who was visiting from out of town, and said: “I'm sorry, I wanted you to see more of what my neighbourhood was like, but I didn't expect you to see this.” Then, later that night, I cried while saying grace at dinner.
How does a woman end up walking through that sort of nightmare? Was she stripped and dumped at the corner by a “bad date”? Stripped and turned out by a boyfriend? Stripped in the alley over some sort of debt? Who knows. All these things have happened before and will happen again. But how, how the fuck, does nobody offer her clothes? Everybody stops and stares, but nobody does anything. Unbelievable.
Sister, I'm so sorry. Sorry for all of this. Sorry for their apathy and for my powerlessness. You have come and you have gone, and I will almost certainly never see you again. I could not save you from this hell. But this much I do know: I would rather burn here with you than laugh with those whose apathy damns you to this place.
Fire on Babylon; Lord, have mercy. Amen.

The spaces of this life, set over against eternity, are brief and poor.
~ St. Anthony
Where there is no love, put love and you will find love.
~ St. John of the Cross
I recently had the chance to talk with an old friend. As we were chatting, I mentioned that, as I move more and more into intentional Christian community and journeying alongside of those in exile, I suspect that I will have less and less time or freedom to spend doing some of the other things that I really love doing — things like reading, writing, camping, whatever. These are the things that I feel that I will have to continue to sacrifice — they are, after all, signs of luxury and of privilege, and proof of my own distance from the poor.
This concerned my friend a great deal and she tried to warn me that giving up such things might make me unable to minister to, or genuinely journey alongside of, others.
Now there is some truth in this. I do find that I am “recharged” through study, solitude, and prayer, and I do intend to practice these things, as spiritual disciplines, over the course of my life. However, I do not think that some of these things — study, in particular, and probably times of solitude as well — will continue to hold the space that they do in my life. And that's okay. If we are called to “lay down our lives for those we love” then surely this means we will be forced to sacrifice things we love in order to embrace people with love. If I desire to challenge others to surrender the luxuries that they cling to, then who am I to cling on to my books, and my leisure time?
In this regard, there is a scene at the end of Schindler's List that I often remember. Near the end of that story there is a moment, after the war has ended, when a group of factory workers present Herr Schindler with a gold ring. Schindler realises just how valuable this ring is and then comes to the realisation of the value of so many of the things he still has. He looks at the ring and seems to think: “For the price of this ring I could have saved another 10 lives.” Then he looks at his watch and seems to think: “and here, if I had given up my watch, are another 10 lives I could have saved;” and he looks at his car and seems to think: “Had I given up my car, I could have saved another 100 lives.” Thus, precisely at the moment when he is being praised as a hero and a saviour, he realises how much he did not do, and he breaks down and weeps. I wonder how many of us will make the same realisation at the end of our “brief and poor” lives. If I had not clung to my luxury, if I had not clung to my time, if I had not clung to my self and my privilege, then I could have done and been so much more — so much more for those who desperately need something more, so much more meaningful, so much more like Christ.
Further, as I thought about my friend's warning, I remained suspicious about many of our notions of the forms of “self-care” that we seem to find so necessary. It is worth remembering that most of the world does not wake up feeling comfortable and well-rested. Most of the world wakes up hungry. Most of the world wakes up tired. Most of the world wakes up sore. Who are we to think that we need to be full, and rested, and comfortable in order to minister to the needs of others? Eugene V. Debs once said that: “while there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal element I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free” and I wonder why such thinking should not apply here. While there are those who wake up tired, I will wake up tired; while there are those who wake of sore, I will wake up sore; and while there are those who force themselves to do what they must do simply in order to survive the day, I will force myself to do what I must do.
Besides, this is all a part of what it means to travel the road of love; it is all a part of what it means to go to where there is no love in order to put love and find love. Love is that which is focused on the other, on the beloved, and not on the self. That I find these sacrifices burdensome or difficult simply shows how little I know of love.

Every one of us who was attracted to the poor had a sense of guilt, of responsibility, a feeling that in some way we were living on the labor of others…
Many left the work… because of their own shame. But enduring this shame is part of our penance.
~ Dorothy Day, The Long Loneliness, 204, 216.
Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?”
And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”
He said, “Go and tell this people: 'Be ever hearing, but never understanding; be ever seeing, but never perceiving.' Make the heart of this people calloused; make their ears dull and close their eyes. Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts, and turn and be healed.”
~ Isaiah 6.8-10.
Inevitably, when one speaks of social issues, of liberation, of exile, and of the poor, one is confronted with the issue of guilt. Specifically, when speaking of these things, one regularly encounters those who are quick to reassure themselves, and others, that they should feel no guilt.
I was reminded of this recently in an exchange on my younger brother's blog (he is a nurse at a health centre for street-involved people). In that exchange, one person wrote the following:
Adressing social issues doesnt always require you to turn you life upside down (although it might!) and those of us that dont shouldnt feel guilty for not doing so… I have noticed that people who tell me that I should feel guilty are usually trying to make themselves feel good, not cause real change. After all, me feeling guilty doesnt really do anything, the reality is that guilt isnt going to cause me to devote my life to poverty, however conviction that it is a valid issue will (hopefully) cause me to play my role, whatever that may be.
What I find so intriguing about this comment, is the way in which the commentator seems to assume, a priori, one should not feel guilty for not being more actively involved in “social issues.” Further, this commentator then goes on to create a distinction between “guilt” and “conviction,” the first, guilt, “doesn't really do anything” and the second, conviction, causes the commentator to play whatever role is appropriate to him. The commentator then goes on to explain that playing the role appropriate to him involves (a) paying taxes; (b) not being rude to the poor; and (c) not “looking away.” Thus, as long as s/he does does things, s/he, and I quote, “shouldnt feel guilty for not playing the same role as you [i.e. my brother and I] do”
(cf. http://nurseabe.blogspot.com/2007/06/always-with-us.html#comments).
I have heard arguments like this countless times from Christians. Christians tend to respect those who work with the poor in more “radical” ways, but they make no connection between that work and their Christian faith in general. Instead, they tend to turn it into an issue of “callings.” You see, they will explain to me, I really admire what you do, but I just couldn't do what you do; it's not my calling. Of course, the “respect” that is shown here, is often just a way of romanticising and/or glorifying those who live lives that are genuinely committed to the poor. However, because such people are “radicals” they are not the norm, and so the respect that is shown is a way of distancing oneself from a similar form of involvement.
But why is it, I wonder, that we are so eager to exculpate ourselves of all manifestations of social guilt and responsibility? How is it that guilt has become an individual, spiritual issue divorced from social realities?
How is it, for example, that an issue like pornography — wherein countless women and children are violently exploited — becomes about “every man's battle,” as though what is at stake is a struggle within the internal consciences of men, and not a struggle that wounds the physical bodies women and children? Do the Christian counselors who speak with men about pornography tell them about the streetkids that are forced into making pornographic videos so that they can have a place to sleep at night? Do they tell them about the women that are trafficked into the porn industry and raped in front of video cameras? Do they tell them about the women, like twenty-six women found in Vancouver, who are raped and then killed in the making of snuff films? When we think of these things, what role does guilt play in our understanding of “every man's battle”? Should one feel guilty because one struggles with inappropriate sexual thoughts? Okay. But should one feel even greater guilt because those thoughts reduce people to sexual objects and also contribute to structures that systematically kidnap, rape, and torture women and children? Absolutely. How dare we reduce such a profoundly social issue to an issue related to one's personal conscience. This battle is not only spiritual and taking place in the minds of men. It is physical, it is bodily, and I know girls (girls, mind you, not yet women) who have the scars to prove it.
But wait, I have gotten ahead of myself. I have mentioned guilt, and assumed that we should feel guilty about some things. True, I have chosen an analogy wherein most men I know actually do feel guilty, and I have argued that the issue is actually a social issue, but I have presupposed the appropriateness of guilt.
However, let me be clear about one thing. I want to talk about guilt, as it relates to social issues and social responsibility, not “in order to make [myself] feel good” (as the commentator on my brother's blog might suggest), but precisely because I know what it is to feel guilty. That is why I began this post with a quote from Dorothy Day: “Every one of us who was attracted to the poor had a sense of guilt,” yes, exactly. Do I feel as though I have participated in structures that “crush God's people” and “grind the faces of the poor” (cf. Is 3.15)? I do. Do I feel as though I have lived a lifestyle wherein both my sins of commission and my sins of omission have placed the blood of others on my hands (cf. Is 1.15; 59.3)? I do. Do I feel as though I have received that which has been taken from others (cf. Is 10.1-3)? I do. Even as I learn to live in new ways, and learn to journey alongside of those in exile, do I still feel guilty? Yes, I do. My shame has not been lifted, nor will it be lifted until the day when all things are made new. It is, as Day says, a part of my penance.
So, do I believe that others should feel guilty for living lives that are, in general, apathetic, self-absorbed, and damaging to others? Sure I do. I really do wonder about this aversion to guilt that we have — it is as though we believe that “accepting Jesus into our hearts” absolves us from all responsibility. But that is not the case. I am well aware of the fact that I am God's beloved, indeed, I have vividly experienced that love, but I am also aware of how complicit I am in corrupt social structures and lifestyles, just as I am aware of the responsibility I have towards my neighbour. Indeed, it is precisely the awareness of ourselves as God's beloved that empowers us to confront, and admit, how guilty we are. That so few Christians seem able to confront or admit their guilt, especially as it relates to social issues, suggests to me that very few Christians actually have been transformed by encounters with God's love.
This is why, when speaking of these things, I rarely mention guilt. Making those who do not know God's love feel guilty usually doesn't lead to significant social change (so, in this regard, I tend to agree with the commentator on my brother's blog). However, in recent reflections, I have come to the conclusion that we cannot, for this reason, refuse to speak of guilt. To refuse to speak of guilt because “it does not cause real change” is to allow our lives to be dictated by pragmatism, and not by faithfulness. Further, to speak faithfully as Christians today, is to speak of our guilt, and of our guilt as it relates to social concerns, as it relates to our neighbours, to the poor, to the dispossessed, to those in prison, and so on and so forth. However, by speaking in this way, we may very well be following the road laid out before Isaiah (the passage I quoted at the start of this post describes Isaiah's prophetic vocation) — we will speak and “make the heart of this people calloused; make their ears dull and close their eyes.” Now when people come to me and ask, “should I feel guilty?” I think that I will say this:
“Yes, you should feel guilty. But we, too, have felt, and often still feel, guilty. However, we have discovered something that enables us to walk a new path through our shame and if you come and journey with us, the community of the forgiving and the forgiven, you might also come to know that path.”
Guilt is a part of repentance, it is a part of the sort of conviction that leads us to turn our lives around, and to continue to live turned-around-lives (and if you want to tell me that you can experience “conviction” about social issues without feeling “guilt” then I would be inclined to think that your conviction is rather superficial — which is why the impact that “conviction” has on your life is also rather superficial).
However, as a final note, I should mention that this emphasis upon guilt is one that I usually reserve for those who benefit from, and perpetuate, exilic conditions. Those who suffer most under the conditions of exile are already well acquainted with guilt (after all, many of them are those who have, literally, been pronounced “GUILTY” in law courts, in society, and in the Church). When speaking with those who suffer most, the emphasis should fall on forgiveness.
However, all of us would do well to keep in mind these words from Augustine of Hippo:
He who says he has done enough has already perished.
Lord, have mercy. Amen.

Sin and death cannot be separated, Paul uses them almost interchangeably… so that sin in effect is death-in-life, with the awful threat that it will one day be made absolute.
~ John A. Ziesler, Pauline Christianity, 53.
I was doing some research for my thesis when I came across this quote from Ziesler. Given recent conversations (wherein it has been argued that I am making “political” something that is essential “spiritual” — with the implication that the “political” and the “spiritual” belong to two distinct realms), this quote jumped out at me.
You see, it is precisely this intimate and indissoluble link between “sin” and “death” that reminds us, once again, of the intimate and indissoluble link between the spiritual and the political. The language of “sin” plunges us into the realm of the religious and the cultic, whereas the language of “death” plunges us into the social and the economic. Sin speaks of less tangible realities (like the fracturing of relationship between God, creation, and each individual person), whereas death speaks of more concrete realities (like disease, neglect, violence, and starvation). Of course, as Paul makes clear, we cannot speak of one of those things apart from the other. It is not as if we can choose to confront sin while ignoring death (the error of many socially “conservative” Christians), or confront death while ignoring sin (the error of many socially “radical” Christians). Death is sin-made-manifest, and sin is the hidden root of death.
Consequently, if the Church is to engage in the “spiritual” proclamation of the forgiveness of sins, such a proclamation must be accompanied by the “politics” of (new) life. These, too, are two sides of the same coin. Forgiveness speaks of less tangible realities (like the restoration of relationship between God, creation, and each individual person), whereas life speaks of more concrete realities (like healing, charity, peace, and table fellowship). We cannot proclaim one of these things (in word and deed) without also proclaiming the other (in word and deed). Life is forgiveness-made-manifest, and forgiveness is the hidden root of life.
Thus, if sin is “death-in-life” carrying “the awful threat that it will one day be made absolute” then forgiveness is “new-life-in-the-presence-of-death,” carrying the wonderful promise that it will one day be made absolute. And that, well, that is very good news.