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.

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.