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.

Just a brief note to say that, inspired by Patrik (http://shrinkinguni.blogspot.com), I have started a blog that I hope will provide us with a list of blogs maintained by people who are members of intentional Christian communities.
That blog can be found here: http://christiancommunities.blogspot.com.
Feel free to spread the word.

Ben Myers is currently going through a series called “Encounters with Tradition” on his blog (http://faith-theology.blogspot.com). Within this series he has had a number of guest bloggers speak of their transition from one tradition to another (“from Charismatic to Anglican?” or “from evangelical to post-evangelical” or “from Congregationalist to Reformed Baptist”). These posts have lead me to think a little about my own encounters (or lack thereof) with tradition, and so I thought that I would share a bit about that (pardon the introspection, I promise I will get back to writing about things more significant than myself some time soon).
Without going into too much detail about my younger years, I should emphasise that I grew up with a near total ignorance of the various Christian traditions. My parents were conservative, my mother a Christian, my father an agnostic who employed the rhetoric of Evangelicalism. I moved between four traditions while growing up — when I was very young my family attended a Mennonite church, then we moved to a Baptist church, which I continued to attend (for some reason, although I can't think of why) after my parents stopped going to church. Then, upon reaching high-school, I transferred to a Congregational church. However, I really wasn't aware of the differences between these traditions. As far as I was concerned the major differences were that the Mennonites had more farmers, the Baptists had more old people, and the Congregationalists had a kick-ass youth group.
Then, to complicate things further, after I hit my really rough years and was kicked-out by my parents, I ended up having my “road to Damascus” experience (Was it a call? Was it a conversion?) at a charismatic church. Not just any charismatic church, mind you. I had my life totally transformed at the church that birthed the “Toronto Blessing” — and my experience came in the mid-1990s, when things were going pretty crazy there (for example, I happened to be in attendance at that church when the whole “gold teeth/fillings” thing first happened — it was pretty hilarious, everybody staring into each others mouths to see if anything was happening. The whole idea seems totally nuts to me but, believe it or not, I actually did watch one person's fillings change colours). However, even after I got “jaded” off of the whole charismatic movement (a feeling I have since revisited and reevaluated in the last few years), I was still pretty blissfully unaware that there was any major difference between the Mennonite elder I knew who had experienced violent persecution in the Ukraine during the Russian revolution (and who had responded with nonviolent love and forgiveness), and the Baptist pastor who preached about moral issues in the news, and the Congregationalists who welcomed all sorts of people (including myself and some of my pretty messed-up and occasionally homeless friends), and the people at the Toronto Blessing who ran around playing “Holy Spirit paintball” (good fun, what what!).
So, still with a great deal of blissful ignorance, one thing led to another and I ended up applying to, and being accepted at, an evangelical bible college in Toronto (at the time, I didn't even know what “evangelical” meant). Whether by divine providence or by luck (I favour the former), it turned out that this bible college was viewed as something of a “black sheep” among evangelical colleges in Canada. It was considered by many to be “too ecumenical” and thus “too liberal.” However, if I had showed up to a number of other Canadian bible colleges, the way I showed up in Toronto, I learned later that I would have been turned away at the door (I was a bit of a punk rocker [I hadn't yet realised that the “punk movement” died years before], so I was wearing large torn boots, black nail polish, and I had my hair dyed and sculpted into large spikes)!
Anyway, my near total ignorance of the various Christian traditions certainly didn't prepare me for the debates that raged in dorm during my first year. Dutch Reformed kids were going on about this thing called “Calvinism,” Methodists were going on about “Arminianism,” the Baptists were attacking the one Roman Catholic guy about “infant baptism,” but he was being backed by the “high-church Anglicans,” whereas the Salvation Army folks were going at everybody about all the “sacraments,” plus they were throwing in this crazy talk about the poor, which was upsetting a lot of the Pentecostals, and so on and so forth.
Needless to say, I initially felt like I was at a disadvantage because I was so ignorant of all these things but, after the first year passed, I actually came to see my initial ignorance as an advantage. It seemed to me that most people had been “indoctrinated” into one particular tradition, and had only learned about the other traditions as examples of heresies, apostasies, misguided good intentions, or just plain nonsense. Thus, I think my ignorance allowed me to more easily appreciate the unique gifts and strengths that the various traditions bring to the Church. However, although I saw many things that were good and beautiful about each tradition, I also saw many things that I questioned or saw as flaws in each tradition. Couple that with some concluding negative experiences I had with the Congregational church I had left to attend college (to make a long story short, they basically dissolved the youth group after the original youth pastor moved on, and this had tragic and lasting results for some of my friends, for whom that youth group was their only life-line), and I made the decision to not root myself in any particular tradition. In fact, I dove into the community that existed at that college (and, for some reason, I managed to attend that college when the community was very vibrant), and I saw that as my participation in “church.” The rest of my years in Toronto, both during my undergrad and after, were spent questioning the whole idea of the “traditional” or “institutional” church, and exploring other ways of being or doing “church” (first, in the college community, then in the community agency I worked at that journeyed alongside of street youth).
However, after a few years on focusing on Christian “social service” agencies as “church,” I began to question most of the ways Christians engage with those on the margins of society. At the same time I began to read Hauerwas (and some of his students like Cavanaugh, and Bell Jr.), and my world was rocked. I decided it was time to continue Christian studies, and so I moved to Vancouver and began a Master's at Regent college, where I became increasingly convinced that the transformation of the world lies in the Church being the Church (although it should be noted that a number of my profs at Regent would strenuously disagree with this “Hauerwasian” way of thinking). Add to this some serious study of the sacraments and the role of liturgies and, for the first time in years, I found myself eager to attend a local church (indeed, I felt that I desperately needed to attend a local church!). Unfortunately, attending a local church demands particularity, and I was confronted with having to choose between various traditions — a decision I still found exceedingly difficult to make. Indeed, for two years I struggled with the idea of joining the Roman Catholic or Eastern Orthodox churches, but ended up being unable to do so — in part because of particular beliefs and practices found in those traditions, but mostly because choosing one tradition meant, to a certain extent, rejecting other traditions.
Consequently, the two main factors in deciding upon a local church ended up being: (1) a church that is actually a part of the community in which I live, a church within walking distance; and (2) a church that has some focus upon journeying alongside of those on the margins (the third factor I should mention would be a weekly celebration of the Eucharist). Consequently, I find myself attending an Alliance church that is very focused on being a church for those on the margins, and that also celebrates the Eucharist every week. However, I am not an official “member” of that church, nor would I ever describe myself as “Alliance.”
Therefore, I find myself to have undergone a transition from one form of ecclesial homelessness to another. Initially I was unrooted in any particular tradition because I was ignorant of the distinctions between the various traditions within Christianity. Now I find myself unrooted in any particular tradition because I am very aware of the distinctions between the various traditions within Christianity. Thus, the only title that I do apply to myself would be the title of “Christian,” and I would describe myself as a member of the “Church.” I know that the vague nature of this position aggravates some, just as I know how the trendiness of positions like this one aggravate others (myself included!), but I really cannot, with good conscience, get any more specific than that. Thus, I would not describe myself as “evangelical” (I am not evangelical), nor as “conservative” or “liberal” (I am neither), nor as “Alliance” (I am not Alliance), nor as any other denominational title.
In Acts (and, implicitly, in Mark's Gospel as well?), the Church is called “The Way.” I like this title because it reminds us that the Church has not yet arrived at her destination, she is not yet who she should be. It reminds us that being a Christian involves journeying from one place to another. Rather than being about simply affirming this or that doctrine or confession, the Church as “The Way” reminds us that our faith is about the active pursuit of a particular trajectory. Christianity is not about membership in any particular tradition, it is about being a member of the body of Christ and communally embodying the good news that has been shared with us.
Therefore, we must remember that all the various Christian traditions are but tracks along “The Way” of Jesus Christ. We must remember that we are never to become too comfortable or too “at home” within a particular tradition, for even our strongest, or oldest, or most appealing, traditions are themselves experiencing homelessness until the time when Christ returns, and God decides to make his home among us.

In my (unfortunately, still ongoing, but not recently updated) series on “Christianity and Capitalism,” I made an appeal for Christian to rethink the nature of sharing, and I encouraged Christians to think about charity in ways that would move charity outside of forms of economic exchanges that are encouraged within the structures of capitalism (cf. http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/109249.html). Thus, I encouraged Christians to give to all who ask of them, for example, to those who ask for change on the street.
I would like to highlight two of the responses I received from that post.
The first was from a fellow, “Craig,” who saw my post as an opportunity to get something from me. If I saw it as my Christian duty to give to all who ask of me, Craig figured that he would ask me for $500. Consequently, if I didn't share with Craig, that would allow him (and others) to toss my argument out the window. Unfortunately (perhaps for both Craig and I?), I didn't have $500 to share with Craig, but I sent him $20, while noting that I could never remember any person on the street seriously asking me for such a sum of money (why is it, I wondered, that those who already are among the “haves” demand so much more than those among the “have-nots”?).
The second response I received was from a young woman who requested anonymity. Although my community house has never made requests for money (we are self-sustaining at the moment), this young woman decided that, rather than asking for money, she would share some of her money with us and, after some dialogue (both with her and within my community), this woman sent us a gift of $500 — ironically, the exact amount that Craig had requested. The money, she said, was to go towards our community dinners, or gifts for the working girls (she even used the example of buying them smokes! It's pretty rare to find Christians who think that giving out smokes is an act of love — but it certainly is a fantastic way of connecting with people in our neighbourhood). Needless to say, my housemates and I were all rather floored by her generosity. And so, I thought it best to publicly acknowledge her gift and say, “thank you!”
It is interesting putting these two examples alongside of each other. One person reads a reflection on sharing and thinks, “Hey, maybe I can get something in light of this argument,” and another person reads the same reflection and thinks, “Hey, maybe I can give something in light of this argument.”
However, I suspect that both responses are a bit exceptional. I tend to think that the majority of us read such reflections and arguments and think “Neato!” …and that's about it. I suspect that reflections on sharing generally don't impact what most of us do in any way at all.