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.

Just over a year ago, and a few weeks before their thirty-third wedding anniversary, my parents separated (see this post: http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/90167.html, for my first public effort to “come to grips” with this event). Neither my mother nor my father are seeking a legal divorce, but they no longer have any contact with one another and are well on their way to legalising their separation.
So it goes, as Vonnegut would say.
As I have sought to journey alongside both of them, albeit from across the country, the last twelve months have contained quite a swirl of emotions — there has been joy in seeing both of my parents experience various forms of liberation, and there has been sorrow in seeing the unveiled suffering, both old and new, of those whom I love — but mostly I have felt a lot of unknowing. Often I have not known how to feel, let alone what to say or do. However, this is an unknowing that, despite the discomfort that it brings, is one that I willingly embrace. I think that genuine empathy requires us to move into places of unknowing, for in those places we come to share the unknowing and the helplessness of those with whom we journey.
However, if there is one thought that I have found myself returning to, and emphasising to others, again and again, it is that we must think of emotional woundedness in exactly the same way as we think of physical woundedness.
It seems that this point is one that Christians (especially of the Conservative/Reformed/Evangelical variety) seem to have trouble grasping. Given the emphasis within Christianity upon forgiveness, reconciliation, and embracing suffering, many Christians refuse to take seriously the depth of emotional woundedness a person can experience. Thus, in the situation of my parents, where it was my mother who formalised the separation by leaving (I say “formalised” because I believe that the marriage had already been in the process of fracturing for years), and where my father has become a very different person over the last few months (i.e. before my mother formalised the separation my father was not a Christian. Miraculously, one of the wonderful things that have resulted from all this is a “road to Damascus” experience that has begun to transform my father in many ways), many Christians have said that it is my mother's “duty as a Christian” to now return to my father. To suggest that there may be a wound in my mother (or in her marriage) that makes it, literally, impossible for her to return sounds like a whole lot of “liberal” or “unbiblical” nonsense to those who provides this so-called “counsel.”
However, I believe that we can be emotionally wounded in ways that make some things impossible for us, just as we can be physically wounded in ways that make other things impossible for us. Think for example, of a young man, let's call him Mark, who breaks his spine, and becomes paralysed from the waist down. Of course, we all know that God's desired ideal is for us to be “whole” and unmarked by brokenness, but none of us would tell Mark that, because of this ideal, it is his “Christian duty” to learn to walk again. The idea of wagging our heads, and continually making Mark feel guilty if he isn't making walking-again his top priority, is totally absurd. Now, one of the things I can say with certainty after having spent a lot of time journeying alongside of people experiencing brokenness, is that emotional brokenness can be just as real, and lasting, as Mark's form of physical brokenness. Telling my mother that it is her duty to fix the brokenness in her marriage is just as stupid (and harmful) as telling Mark that he “god-damned better get up and walk already.”
Futhermore, I like to use the example of Mark, because it reminds us that the language of “woundedness” or “brokenness” doesn't have to carry derogatory implications. Sure, Mark's back is wounded, sure his spine is broken, but that doesn't mean he is any less virtuous, or any less human, than the rest of us. Sure, my mother may have a wound that means that her marriage will always remain broken, but that doesn't make her any less virtuous, or any less human, than the rest of us. I would never think of defining Mark by the fact that he can no longer walk, and I certainly would never think of defining my mom by the fact that she can no longer be married.
Of course, by making this argument, I'm not trying to deny the fact that God sometimes intervenes and works miracles. I'm just saying that the chances of that happening in my parents relationship are probably as likely as the chances of God healing Mark's spine and making him walk again.
The irony of all this is that, if the Church began to approach brokenness from this perspective, we might actually begin to see a lot more of the miraculous for which so many of us long.

On or about “grace given by God,” deconstruction, as such, has nothing to say or to do. If it's given, let's say, to someone in a way that is absolutely improbable, that is, exceeding any proof, in a unique experience, then deconstruction has no lever on this… I am really Kierkegaardian: the experience of faith is something that exceeds language in a certain way, it exceeds ethics, politics, and society. In relation to this experience of faith, deconstruction is totally, totally useless and disarmed.
~ Jacques Derrida in conversation with members of AAR/SBL, as quoted in Derrida and Religion: Other Testaments.
Time and time again, I have found myself struggling with the limits of language as they relate to the verbal and written proclamation of the gospel. This struggle has led me to increasingly question the value of “traditional” apologetics (i.e. I think this type of apologetics only has value to those who already belong to the Christian community of faith), while simultaneously causing me to place increasing value upon the embodiment of proclamation (this, I think, has value, not only to those within the Christian community of faith, but also to those alongside of the Christian community of faith). In this process, I have come to the conclusion that there is no way that Christians can speak convincingly (or even sensibly) about the Christian faith to those who are not Christians.
What I find interesting about the quote I provide from Derrida, is that he takes all of this one step further and suggests that faith is something that we cannot honestly speak about at all — it is that which “exceeds language.”
Now, by making this claim, Derrida sounds very much like Wittgenstein, who reminds us that the language of faith (like the language of philosophy) is non-sensical. However, this is not reason enough to stop speaking of faith, as the later Wittgenstein also concluded. Although Wittgenstein had completed the Tractatus by asserting that “What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence” (or, as he summarises the argument of the book in the preface, “what can be said at all can be said clearly, and what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence”) he later wrote, “Don’t, for heaven’s sake, be afraid of talking nonsense! But you must pay attention to your nonsense” (as quoted in Culture and Value). Thus, as Christians we may continue speaking of the Christian faith, but it is important for us to realise that such speech is utterly nonsensical, lest we fall into the trap of trying to make our Christian speech more appealing or comprehensible to those who have not experienced Christian faith (and thereby end up with speech that is not Christian at all!).
Only those who have experienced Christian faith can view talk of Christian faith as convincing or as sensibly meaningful, as other-than-nonsense. Again, this is, I think, an assertion that Witgenstein (and Derrida?) would affirm. Wittgenstein draws the same conclusions about his own philosophical writings — only those who have experienced what he has experienced will likely find his writings comprehensible. Thus, he writes at the opening of his “Preface” to the Tractatus: “Perhaps this book will be understood by someone who has himself already had the thoughts that are expressed in it.”
However, we must also realise, with Derrida, that even when we speak of Christian faith to other Christians, we are speaking of the unspeakable — we are forever stuttering and striving after the Word that cannot be put into words. John's Gospel, however, reminds us that the Word became flesh, and so there is hope that we may be better equipped to embody the gospel proclamation. Perhaps it is the embodied proclamation of the gospel that will make the gospel more sensible (and, perhaps, even convincing) to those who have yet to experience Christian faith.

What is immortal in the United States, what refuses to lie down and die, is precisely the will… It is a terrifying uncompromising drive, one which knows no faltering or bridling, irony or self-doubt…
The cult of the will disowns the truth of our dependency, which springs from our fleshly existence. To have a body is to live dependently… We are able to become self-determining, but only on the basis of a deeper dependency. This dependency is the condition of our freedom, not the infringement of it. Only those who feel supported can be secure enough to be free. Our identity and well-being are always in the keeping of the Other.
~ Terry Eagleton, After Theory, 183f.
Do not be afraid.
~ YHWH, Jesus, and God's messengers, as quoted in several passages.
When I began to explore the idea of a Christian political economics that embodies a genuine alternative to capitalism, I suggested that the Church — as a community of beggars — needed to pursue sharing and dependence. I have spent the last few posts in this series exploring some of the ways in which Christian sharing (as “nonsensical charity”) could (and should) counter capitalism, and I would now like to spend some time exploring the issue of dependence and what I like to call “nonsensical vulnerability.” I like to refer to dependence as “nonsensical vulnerability” because dependence is risky and, if you believe what the culture of capitalism teaches us, it is risk that is to be avoided at all costs. Indeed, if we are living rightly, according to capitalism, we are taught that dependence is a risk that is unnecessary. Hence, to chose to move into a lifestyle of dependence can only be described as the pursuit of nonsensical vulnerability.
It does not take much thought to realize that the political economics that I have been developing is one that makes those who seek to embody it dependent, and therefore vulnerable, in some rather ways. However, I would like to emphasise that such vulnerability-as-dependence is not a drawback to this political economics; rather, it is another essential way in which this approach offers a genuinely Christian alternative to capitalism.
Capitalism teaches us to be self-sufficient. Becoming independent is a rite a passage, a sign of maturity, and the more we embody “rugged individualism,” the more we are honoured within the culture of capitalism. However, the first thing to realise is that this “independence” is not any sort of independence at all. Sure, we learn to be independent of our parents, our friends, and our churches, we learn “not to be a burden to anybody,” but all the while we are still absolutely dependent upon our capital. We rely on our credit cards to pay our bills, we really on our RRSP, or GICs, or our other savings, to sustain us when we get old, just as we rely on our property increasing in value, and so on and so forth. Thus, capitalism teaches us to be independent of one another so that we will be absolutely dependent upon the structures of capitalism.
Therefore, if we are to truly embody an alternative to capitalism, we must become less dependent upon our capital. By saying this, I am not suggesting that we dive further into our pursuit of independence and rugged individualism (not least because the language of “independence” and “rugged individualism” are mythical fictions that, themselves, perpetuate ever-deepening cycles of consumption [as we, for example, spend more on more money crafting unique images for ourselves]). This is why I included the quote from Eagleton at the beginning of this entry — Eagleton reminds us that absolute independence isn't an option at all; rather, it is always a question of what we will be dependent upon. Consequently, I am suggesting that we must learn new forms of dependence — forms that fit more naturally with Christianity.
However, just as we find the reformation of desire to be unappealing, we find the reformation of dependencies to be rather scary. For some reason, we find that it is much easier to trust banks and credit companies, than it is to trust other Christians, let alone trusting the poor (or God, for that matter!). However, it is worth remembering that the command “Do not be afraid!” is one of the most frequent commands issued from God, and God's messengers, to God's people. The problem is that very few Christians actually take this command with any amount of seriousness. Therefore, in the next couple of entries I want to explore some ways in which we can stop being afraid and move towards vulnerability within the Christian community, vulnerability among the poor, and vulnerability before God.

Objectivity can mean a selfless openness to the needs of others, one which lies very close to love… To try to see the other's situation as it really is is an essential condition of caring for them… The point, anyway, is that genuinely caring for someone is not what gets in the way of seeing their situation for what it is, but what makes it possible. Contrary to the adage that love is blind, it is because love involves a radical acceptance that it allows us to see others for what they are.
~Terry Eagleton, After Theory, 131.
I am often told that I am “biased” or “blinded” by love relationships that I have with people who are experiencing poverty and oppression. I like the way in which Eagleton's argument, quoted here and developed in more detail in After Theory, reverses the charge. According to Eagleton (and I am inclined to agree), those who do no love people who are experiencing poverty, cannot judge the situation of the poor with any sense of objectivity.
Of course, “loving” the poor, means actually caring for the poor, as Eagleton says later on:
Love for the Judaeo-Christian tradition means acting in certain material ways, not feeling a warm glow in your heart. It means, say, caring for the sick and imprisoned, not feeling Romantic about them (146).
Furthermore, Eagleton argues that this means that objectivity means taking sides. He writes:
Objectivity and partisanship are allies, not rivals… True judiciousness means taking sides (136f).
From this we can conclude that only those who take the side of the poor, concretely loving the poor in various ways, are in a situation where they can hope to speak objectively about the poor.

Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again… If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. If you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same? If you lend to those from whom you hope to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners to receive as much again. But love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return… Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.
~ Lk 6.30, 32-35a, 36.
[C]apitalism is an impeccably inclusive creed: it really doesn't care who it exploits. It is admirably egalitarian in its readiness to do down just about anyone. It is prepared to rub shoulders with any old victim, however unappetizing.
~ Terry Eagleton, After Theory, 19.
I know that I had stated that I was going to move on in this series to exploring “dependence/nonsensical vulnerability” as a key element of a Christian political economics that offers a genuine alternative to capitalism, but I could not resist one final comment on sharing as nonsensical charity.
Of all the biblical passages about sharing, few verses have shaped my understanding as much as the passage I quoted from Lk 6 (see also Mt 5.38-48). Within this passage, I believe that Jesus is describing precisely the form of nonsensical charity for which I have been advocating in my last few entries. Furthermore, I believe that the form of giving Jesus describes here is consistent with the call to giving that runs throughout the rest of the biblical texts. Hence, Lk 6 serves as an appropriate summation and manifesto regarding the form of giving that is to define the community of those who follow Jesus. Christians are called to give to everyone who begs from us, and lend expecting nothing in return. Full stop.
Unfortunately, it is exactly this form of giving that strikes us as nonsensical within the structures of capitalism. Capitalism teaches us to be much more pragmatic about how we give. Thus, for example, we only give to charities that provide us with tax breaks (who among us would even consider giving to a charity that is unregistered and could not give us a tax receipt?). Furthermore, if there is one type of person we are consistently told not to give to, it is those who beg from us on the street corner (I have heard innumerable arguments from social workers, and Christians, as to why giving our change to beggars is a bad thing — but what all these arguments come down to, one way or another, is that giving to beggars is probably an absolutely wasted investment). Capitalism teaches (1) not to give to everyone who begs from us; and (2) to only give after considering what is to be gained from our giving — i.e. to give expecting something in return.
However, I find that I cannot shake the words of Jesus in Lk 6, and so I find myself participating in nonsensical (not only non-pragmatic but even anti-pragmatic!) forms of charity. Jesus makes it clear that we are not to have any motive for giving other than the act of giving itself, and the desire to be like God our Father, whose giving is shockingly and (wastefully!) merciful. That the form of charity for which I have been advocating is generally not the form of charity embodied with the Christian community, suggests to me that we rarely take Jesus' words seriously.
Thus, continuing with the examples provided above, I would encourage Christians to give to all beggars, and I would encourage Christians who donate to charities to refuse the offer of tax receipts. And, ultimately, if we can't entirely shake the pragmatic outlook of our culture, and we are disturbed by the (seeming) fact that our giving does not seem to be doing any good, then I would suggest that the solution is not to stop giving, but to give more.
Two final point: first, at the beginning of this post, I juxtaposed Jesus' words in Lk 6 with a quote from Terry Eagleton about the inclusivity of capitalism. I created this juxtaposition in order to suggest that, just as capitalism doesn't care who it exploits, so also Christians should not care to whom they give. Only this radically inclusive form of giving will provide us with a genuine Christian alternative to the radically inclusive form of exploitation of capitalism.
Second, by subtitling this post “a final appeal,” I am noting that this series is itself a part of the begging that I think is to define the Christian community. What else can we do but beg our brothers and sisters in Christ to reread the Scriptures, to reexamine the contemporary situation, and to rethink what it means to be a member of the body of Christ?

Is this not the fast which I choose:
To loosen the bonds of wickedness, to undo the bands of the yoke, and to let the oppressed go free and break every yoke? Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into the house; when you see the naked, to cover him; and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?
Then your light will break out like the dawn, and your recovery will speedily spring forth; and your righteousness will go before you; the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard. Then you will call, and the LORD will answer; you will cry, and He will say, “Here I am” if you remove the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger and speaking wickedness. And if you give yourself to the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then your light will rise in darkness and your gloom will become like midday.
~ Is. 58.6-10.
Extra pauperes nulla salus.
~ Jon Sobrino [“Outside the poor, there is no salvation.”]
I concluded Part VIII by asserting that Christians, following the “preferential option” exercised by God, and the life-trajectory established by Jesus, must learn to share life together with the poor. In order to grasp just how much this differs from the charity that is affirmed by capitalism, we must come to recognise the ways in which the Christian community has, by and large, outsourced the practice of charity to “professionals” and “social workers.”
Unfortunately, just as the outsourcing of blue-collar jobs devastated life in many North American inner-cities, so the outsourcing of charity work has had a similarly devastating impact upon the life of the Church. Generally what we find are Christians who provide others with the material resources that those others need in order to engage in charitable actions. So, for example, instead of feeding the hungry, they make a financial donation to a soup kitchen; instead of clothing the naked, they give some used clothes to the Salvation Army; instead of inviting the homeless poor into their homes, they donate some money to a homeless shelter. Consequently in these (and other) ways, charity is outsourced. Christians have learned how to share material resources with the poor, while also ensuring that their actual lives are well separated from the poor. Therefore, if we are to learn to share our lives together with the poor, we must move beyond this approach to charity.
In particular, we must begin to explore the ways in which our faith communities can began to enact the form of sharing that is described in the passage that I quoted from Is 58. Is 58 — along with the rest of the prophetic tradition, including Jesus — does not call us to pay others to feed the hungry, it calls us to feed the hungry, just as it calls us to clothe the poor, us to loosen the bonds of wickedness and oppression, and us invite the homeless into our homes — and this call is addressed to all of the members of the people of God — it is not simply directed at social work professionals.
Consequently, we realise that, in order to do these things, we must actually personally encounter the hungry, the naked, the poor, the oppressed, and the homeless. And this is why it is so important for the Church to be rooted in the marginal places of our world, the “groaning places,” the places where the darkness of exile is still most strongly felt. When we pursue the life-trajectory encouraged by capitalism we end up in self-enclosed work places, churches, and neigbourhoods which leaves us scratching our heads thinking:
Clothe the naked? I've never run into any naked person…. hmmm, that must mean that I should understand this to refer more to my attitude than to my concrete actions… in fact, maybe all the commands — about eating, or taking in the homeless, or fighting oppression, or whatever — aren't actually literal commands, maybe they're actually trying to point to a more “spiritual” reality.
However, when we are situated in the groaning places of this world we discover that the prophetic call of Isaiah, and the other prophets, requires us to engage in a very literal response to that call (staying with the example of “clothing the naked,” I have had at least half a dozen opportunities to literally do this in the last seven months). Therefore, the first step to sharing life together with the poor is to choose to live where the poor live. The life-trajectory of “downward mobility” leads us to move to “dirtier,” “more dangerous,” and less comfortable neighbourhoods, not because we want to be “more radical” but because, if we are called to love the poor, and love our neighbours, then it is vital that the poor become our neighbours.
Consequently, I would like to envision a network of Christian community-homes that are rooted in such marginal places (see here for more details on this approach: Personal Calling and the Calling of the Church). In this way, we can learn how to journey alongside of the poor, treating them as friends and neighbours, rather than as clients, projects, or targets. Furthermore, by rooting ourselves among the poor we quickly learn that, in our professional approaches (through social service agencies, or through churches), we often try to share things with the poor that are completely useless (and perhaps even detrimental) to the poor. Our proximity to the poor provides us with the insight to engage in more appropriate and meaningful form of sharing.
At this point, I would like to pick up on one particular aspect of the passage in Is 58. I have continually been struck by these words: “bring the homeless poor into [your] house.” It is interesting to begin here by noting that Jesus and his disciples, as well as Paul and those who traveled with him, assumed that people would take this passage literally. Therefore, in order to build on the model of Christian community-homes that I described in Part VII, I would like to argue that each community home should have at least one (or more, depending on the size of the community-home) guest room set aside for guests like “the homeless poor” and those who are oppressed. Thus, a network of community-homes, each with a particular missional interest becomes quite important — one home could focus on bringing in sex workers, another home could focus on women with children leaving abusive relationships, another could focus on men with addictions, and so on and so forth (the reason why a network is important is that it is often a good idea to keep members of these various different groups apart — for example, mixing sex workers and battered single moms together isn't the best idea because the single moms often end up getting recruited into sex work because they are so desperate for money).
Finally, although “success” is not my motive for pursuing this vision (my motive is a desire to be faithful — the motive that I believe should be at the root of all Christian action), I also suspect that, if we begin to share our lives together with the poor in this way, then we will begin to see the transformation for which we long. Why do I believe this? For two reasons: first of all, because I have personally invited the poor into my home on a number of occasions — and I have seen wonderful transformation result from that action — the sort of transformation that almost never seems to come through social service agencies and Church outreach; the kind of transformation that is best described as new life (and not just harm reduction). Secondly, I believe this because Is 58 tells us that this is the case. When we share our food, our clothes, and even our homes, with the poor, then God promises to hear our prayers and be present among us; conversely, when we don't do these things then God promises to ignore us and depart from us. This is why Sobrino is correct to assert that extra pauperes nulla salus. Such assertions are bound to make us uncomfortable, but discomfort is no basis for discarding or ignoring Sobrino's assertion.
Now, it doesn't take a lot of thought to realise that this sort of charity seems utterly nonsensical to those whose lives are dominated by capitalism. Our priorities and life-trajectory are bad enough — but the idea of inviting the homeless into our homes (homeless people that are strangers to us!) would be (and has been) described as crazy (“fucking insane” is how one of my friend's put it). However, given the content of scripture, I can only conclude that Christians are called to make their home among the poor, while inviting the poor to make their home within the Christian community.
I realise that the idea of embodying this form of charity is scary to a lot of people and so, in my next few entries, I hope to finally address what I see as the second key component of a a Christian political economics: radical dependence/nonsensical vulnerability.

Neil Elliott, in his excellent study of Paul (Liberating Paul: The Justice of God and the Politics of the Apostle), continually addresses the ways in which many traditional and contemporary readings of Paul neglect the socio-political issues that confronted Paul. Consequently, the result has often been a presentation of Paul as a “theologian,” or “genius” or “mystic,” and this theologian/genius/mystic Paul is consequently not so concerned with politics or ethics. Elliott wants to collapse the false dichotomy between “theology” and “politics” or between “thought” and “action” in order to to arrive at a new understanding of Paul.
Thus, in his chapter on “Paul and the Violence of the Cross,” Elliott argues that many traditional and contemporary readings of Paul “de-politicize” the political nature and significance of Jesus' death. Thus, Elliott writes the following:
Rather than God triumphing over the powers through Jesus' nonviolent self-sacrifice on the cross, the Powers disappear from the discussion, and God is involved in a transaction wholly within God's own self.
However, this has drastic consequences, as Elliott goes on to write:
The cross could thus become the focal symbol for a sadomasochistic piety cultivated by the Domination System itself: a piety that inculcates submissiveness and resignation in the oppressed and teaches the oppressor the divine necessity of “good” violence.
At this point, Elliott is engaging in dialogue with Walter Wink (Naming the Powers, Unmasking the Powers, Engaging the Powers. It was Wink who first popularised an understanding of the New Testament language about “the Powers” as language about socio-political powers, and it was Wink who named the structure of those powers “the Domination System.”
However, Elliott also goes on to disagree with Wink on one key point. Wink argues that the praxis of nonviolence that Jesus embodies on the cross is that which overcomes the Powers; for Wink, the cross is thus a revelation of the defeat of the powers. Elliott, however, argues that the only thing the cross reveals is the violence of the powers, it reveals that the powers are “intractably opposed” to God, but, in the cross, they are not yet overcome. For Elliott, it is the resurrection that reveals the imminent defeat of the Powers in the final triumph of God.
Elliott believes that he and Wink differ because Wink focuses more on Colossians and Ephesians (letters that Elliot believes to be pseudo-Pauline forgeries), while Elliott himself chooses to focus on 1 Corinthians (a genuine Pauline letter). 1 Corinthians, Elliott argues, is a letter that takes the Powers completely seriously whereas Colossians and Ephesians “have underestimated the magnitude of the Powers' imperviousness to nonviolence.”
Now then, I was on the bus thinking about Elliott's reflections on the “Powers' imperviousness to nonviolence” and the ways in which nonviolence can easily become one of the expressions of the “sadomasochistic piety” that is encouraged by the “Domination System,” when the person sitting in front of me suddenly decided to turn around and start talking to me (why does this sort of thing happen to me so often?).
It turns out that this person was a transsexual woman, who was in the midst of transitioning (in this case from “male” to “female”). She began to talk about her experiences transitioning, about the oppression and marginalisation of the trans community, and about her own experiences of systemic discrimination at the hands of doctors, counselors, and other professionals. Needless to say, I was intrigued and, given that we were both riding the bus to the end of the line, we had quite a bit of time to chat back and forth. The conversation moved quite naturally into a discussion of solidarity, resistance, liberation, and the relation of violence to these things. While I was advocating for nonviolent resistance, my conversation partner was adament that the time had come for the oppressed to take up arms. Nonviolence, she argued, just doesn't bring about any sort of significant transformation. We've done it enough, and we've seen how all our non-violent means of protest and resistance have been co-opted or neutralised by the oppressors. Violence, she continued, is the only thing that will truly create change. For example, she said, doctors will continue to discriminate against, belittle, and further marginalise members of the trans community, unless the trans community takes up arms and begins to shoot doctors that behaved in that way. (It seems that my conversation partner had not underestimated “the Powers' imperviousness to nonviolence”!)
Having seen firsthand the ways in which oppressive structures, break, scar, and destroy so many people, I can understand the appeal of violent resistance. Further, when I think about the ways in which those structures actually encourage nonviolence (“sadomasochistic piety”), and even nonviolent resistance (like the “designated protest zones” that are now created at G8 or WTO meetings) the temptation to resort to violence becomes even stronger. However, I also believe that this was a temptation that Jesus experienced, that appealed to Jesus, but that Jesus ultimately rejected. Consequently, based upon his witness (and the witness of the early Christians), I believe that violence is not an option for Christian action today.
Consequently, I have a few questions:
(1) For those who disagree with me and believe that violence is a viable option for Christians, when is violence a viable option? For example, the violence espoused by people like Bonhoeffer and the French, Dutch, or Italian resistance movements during WWII is often considered virtuous, admirable, and even heroic; why then do those who admire these movements seem to totally oppose the very idea of violent resistance within North America? In my mind, there is not much difference between the damage and death being inflicted by political and corrupt powers in North America today, and the damage and death that was inflicted by Nazi Germany in the 30s and 40s.
(2) For those, like myself, who believe that violence is never an option for Christians, how do we practice nonviolence in such a way that it cannot be co-opted by the Powers to met their ends?