I was cruising some theology blogs last week and I stumbled upon an entry written by Shane Wilkins, entitled “Six Propositions on What Makes Good Theology” (this post was written on Dec 3rd, and can be found here: http://shanewilkins.blogspot.com/2006_12_01_archive.html). Now, it seems to me that Shane's entry aptly describes the elements that should be present so that a theological paper can attain a good grade… but I got to wondering if these six things were really the key elements of a good (Christian) theology. After some reflection upon these things, I have decided to post an alternate list. Without further ado:
1. Good theology is a transformative, embodied proclamation.
Contra Shane, I would like to argue that the goal of the theologian is not to persuade me that his or her theological theory is true. The goal of the theologian is to proclaim God. This proclamation is not simply (nor even primarily) a propositional proclamation; rather, it is one that is embodied in our day to day activities, priorities, choices, and relationships. Good theology is a lifestyle.
Furthermore, and in part because this is an embodied proclamation, this is also a transformative proclamation. To proclaim God is to be transformed into the image of God and to see the Spirit of God's cruciform power bursting into the world. Thus, this proclamation transforms (a) the people making the proclamation, (b) the people to whom the proclamation is made, and (c) the place in which the proclamation is made. This means that good theology will be missional. It also means that good theology will be doxological — it will be an act of worship and of faithfulness to the God who is hidden within the proclamation.
Finally, because good theology is a transformative, embodied lifestyle, it must always be seen as incomplete, as pressing ever onwards towards its goal, as moving into ever deeper intimacy with one's God and one's neighbour. Until the day when God is “all in all,” good theology will remain unfinished.
2. Good theology is a communal activity.
Despite the Academy's (and Modernity's) love of rugged individual experts, good theology is never something done by a solitary individual. Good theology occurs in the community of faith. It does not simply heed the opinions of “experts” and “theologians;” it is also aware of the voice of Spirit speaking through the single mother who comes to the Monday night prayer gathering, or through the voice of the alcoholic who comes in for a free meal on Wednesday night. Good theology is done in community and as community. Or, to employ a slightly different metaphor, the theologian is to be viewed simply as the mouth speaking on behalf of the united members of the body of Christ.
3. Good theology is contextual.
All theology is, inevitably, contextual. Good theology is aware of this and engages both implicitly and explicitly with issues of context. This has at least three major implications: (a) it means that good theology calls this community to act this way at this time; (b) it means that good theology takes especial care to address the particularly insidious blindspots of the time and place in which it discovers itself; and (c) it means that it enters into dialogue with other contemporary voices. Good theology should not, and cannot, attempt to formulate “timeless” propositions, or “universal” truths based upon claims of detached objectivity — in part because there is no such thing as “detached objectivity”!
4. Good theology is biblical.
Despite the importance of being aware of one's contemporary context, an awareness of the biblical narrative is even more foundational. Contemporary dialogue partners are important but dialogue with scripture is more important still because this dialogue is more fundamental to the creation of good Christian theology. This is so because, within the Christian tradition, the bible is the primary authoritative witness to the Word of God. It is the bible that provides the Christian with the story of God's activities (and incarnation!) within the world God has created. Therefore, good theology is theology that lives within the trajectory of the biblical narrative.
5. Good theology is historical and ecumenical.
I could, perhaps, restate this point another way and say that good theology is traditional. By using the terms “historical” and “ecumenical” I want to stress two things. First, I use the term “historical” because all good theology is born out of the traditions of the Church — it does not simply appear out of nowhere. Therefore, it is essential that those who engage in theology are aware of what has been taught and believed by the saints who have gone before (in part because this is an especially useful way of becoming aware of contemporary blindspots, and in part because the Spirit has been active and present in the words and deeds of the Church from Pentecost until the present day, and one would be a fool to ignore that witness).
Second, I use “ecumenical” because good theology must enter into dialogue with the various Christian traditions. Good theology will listen to Roman Catholic, Protestant, Eastern Orthodox and Anabaptist voices. It will dialogue with contemplative and spiritual voices and with practical and political voices.
It is the recognition of the authority found in these traditions that also prevents good theology from simply blown here and there by whatever contemporary issues happen to be “hot” or urgent or whatever. Furthermore, it is this dialogue with the traditions of the Church that is continues to mark Christian theology as Christian theology.
6. Good theology is trinitarian.
As stated previously, good theology proclaims God. However, the God of Christianity is uniquely revealed as a Tri-unity, as Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Therefore, theology must consistently be faced with the question of what it means to proclaim a God who is known in this way.
However, to say that God is known in this way is slightly deceptive. For any notion of three-in-one, leads, inevitably, to the admission of mystery and God's transcendence. Thus, the fact that good theology is trinitarian, also leads us to the admission that good theology is also humble and proclaimed in utter reliance upon the One who is the subject of that proclamation.
Summary
If we were to boil all of this down to one sentence we could define good (Christian) theology as follows:
Good (Christian) theology is the embodied communal proclamation of the Christian God within the contemporary context, founded upon the biblical narrative and the traditions of the Christian Church.

When we go to the poor embodying the proclamation that, yes, they are forgiven, they are embraced they are beloved by God — even now, already, at this very moment — then perhaps they will find it in their hearts to forgive us for our apathy and for all that we have taken from them.
The problem is that we have been inclined to view ourselves as the forgiven — instead of as those in need of forgiveness — and we have made God's free offer of forgiveness conditional. Instead of proclaiming, “God has forgiven you!” we have said, “God will forgive you if…”. Instead of saying, “Please, forgive us!” we have said, “Clean up your act and we'll put up with you on Sundays.” And in this way we go from being lights to the world to being fires that burn ourselves and those around us.
Lord, forgive us, and help us to know that we cannot ask for forgiveness from a crucified Lord without seeking forgiveness from the crucified people of today.

I remember Wesley's old saying, “If I should die with more than ten pounds, may every man call me a liar and a thief,” for he would have betrayed the gospel.
~ quoted by Shane Claiborne in The Irresistible Revolution.
I've been thinking about materialism a bit these days. No, no, not just the general materialism of our society (who is not thinking about that? Being anti-materialism is hot these days!), but I've been thinking about my materialism — about the number of books I own, about the CDs I just bought, and so on and so forth. I find that this line of thinking is less popular than general critiques of “the materialistic West,” and it's easy to understand why. Because it requires me to start living differently and less “comfortably” (although, perhaps, more freely).
As I have been thinking about my possessions, I have also been thinking about how the Christian life is a life that should be lived along the lines of a certain trajectory. I call this trajectory the road of cruciform love — the road of the cross. Now, this road should impact all areas of our life. Following the road of cruciform love has just as much to do with how I spend my money, as it has to do with how I make my money. However, like any journey, it takes a number of steps along the way to get to the cross. Jesus didn't start on the cross, but he did take concrete steps along the way that anticipated that goal, and ensured that he ended up there. Similarly, we don't have to force ourselves to try and live as we will at the end of the road — but we do need to take steps right now that anticipate that goal, and ensure that we get there.
And so, as I think of these things in light of my materialism, this is what I hope to do. I hope, in conjunction with an intentional Christian community, to map out a road that would see all of the members arrive at a place where they no longer have personal possessions (except, perhaps, the clothes that they wear). Of course, within a community house it is easy to simply give one's possessions to the community house (and thereby not really lose anything). So I would also like to, with that community, map out the ways in which the community can live together simply. Of course, because I am not yet in that type of community, there are still steps I can take to make that transition easier. I can begin to scale back what I already own, and I can read more books from the library, instead of buying them all.
I suppose that that's about where my thinking is at on this subject these days. Suffice to say that I feel a great amount of dis-ease in relation to the amount of things that I own, and I would like to pursue another way of living. I would be curious to hear about steps that any of my readers take to confront their materialism (and not just the materialism of our general culture).

I have often wondered about the accolades that go to actors in Hollywood for playing certain roles. Two examples come to immediately to mind: Felicity Huffman was recently widely applauded for her portrayal of a pre-op male-to-female (MTF) transgendered person in the movie Transamerica and, not so long ago, Tom Hanks won an Oscar for his portrayal of a man with a mental disability in Forest Gump. Thus, in the first instance, we have a woman portraying a person born male who is transitioning to being a female, and in the second case who have a person with a normal intelligence, portraying a person with a “low IQ.”*
This then is my question: why wouldn't the movie studies hire an actual pre-op MTF person to play the first role, and an actual person with a mental disability to play the second role? There are, after all, aspiring actors who possess these characteristics. I wonder what this says about Hollywood's (and, by extension, popular culture's) attitude to people with these characteristics. Is it possible that, even as we produce movies that are intended to increase audience sensitivity to certain issues, we are actually promoting the marginalization of said individuals?
Now I realize that acting is about entering into the role of a fictional character and thereby becoming somebody or something that you are not. I mean, I don't expect Hollywood to only film soldiers as soldiers, or doctors as doctors, or whatever. However, there is something about the first two examples that irks me. Perhaps another example might help explain this. Imagine, if you will, a white actor being hired to portray a black hero — say Brad Pitt is hired to play Martin Luther King Jr. Now, do we think that Pitt would be widely applauded for playing this role? I suspect not. Indeed, I suspect that there would be a rather large outcry from the black community. I suspect that hiring Pitt to play that role would be seen as (at best) highly insensitive, and (at worst) as blatantly racist. Heck, I suspect that Pitt, and any other white actor, wouldn't touch that role with a ten foot pole.
Thus, when we read our first two (real) examples in light of this (fictional) example, my suspicion is that similar complaints have been voiced by the transgendered community, and by the community of people with disabilities — but I suspect that they, by and large, lack media attention and lobbying power in Hollywood and so those complaints have gone unheard.
I suppose I will have to ask my friends who are involved in those communities what they think about these things. I would, however, be curious to hear what any readers think about this (if y'all even care).
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* I also wonder a little bit about the way in which Hollywood seems to be enamoured by “beautiful” people playing “ugly” roles. After all, both Hillary Swank (in Boys Don't Cry) and Charlize Theron (in Monster) were awarded Oscars for playing characters that required them to disguise their beauty. Would more “ugly” women have received such accolades if they had portrayed these characters convincingly?

Well, apparently my blog has been nominated as the December “blog of the month” over at Theology Blogs (cf. http://theologyblogs.blogspot.com/). I am, of course, delighted (and a wee bit surprised) to find myself in such good company, and I now expect all of my readers to accept everything that I say as gospel truth.

On several occasions I have been challenged by readers of this blog about my assertion that the Church, as a whole, is called to journey alongside of those who are in exile today. More than once, readers have asserted that I am making the mistake of confusing my personal calling with the more variegated universal calling of the Church. As I have turned this thought around in my mind I have come to a few conclusions.
(1) It is true that, in my desire to emphasize that the whole Church is called to journey alongside of those who are poor and oppressed, I have often downplayed, or totally neglected, any suggestion that this could be a part of my personal calling. I have since realized that this is not the case. There are ways in which I have been personally called to this journey (significant in this regard is an especially vivid dream that I had when I was quite young). Furthermore, I recognize that I have been granted certain “chance” life experiences — experiences that others have not had — that have trained me for this particular vocation. Thus, I can only end up affirming those who argue that I am (in some ways) speaking of a personal calling, and a calling that has not been extended to all Christians everywhere.
(2) However, even as I affirm that, I remain adamant that the calling of the entire Church is to journey alongside of those who are in exile, and those who suffer — the Church must be an agent of transformation, healing, reconciliation, and salvation. Therefore, I still maintain that there is a Christian priority: the Church must prioritize those who are especially vulnerable, wounded, and isolated. Furthermore, I continue to maintain that the place of the Church's rootedness must be with those who are on the margins of society. All of this, I think, follows faithfully in the footsteps of Jesus, and faithfully reflects the priorities of God, as they are provided for us in the Scriptures. However, I want to now further fill out this statement by explicitly stating that the Church must also be missionally present in other areas of society as well. There must be those within the Church who are called out to live missionally amongst those who are quite comfortable, and privileged. After all, many of those who are wealthy are also suffering and are only further isolated by their wealth — I think especially of the children of wealthy people. I think of a friend of mine who underwent some life-shattering trauma and never told his/her parents about that event because s/he felt that the parents had done so much to give him/her a “perfect life” that s/he couldn't ever reveal that s/he was “fucked up.” Thus, s/he ended up carrying the wounds of that trauma alone for several years. Having spent some years working with Christian youth at a summer camp, I have learned that there are many, many others in the same situation.
(3) This means that I envision a bit of a reversal in how Christians have traditionally engaged in missions. Traditionally, Christians have been rooted in comfortable neighbours and have extended missional branches into marginal places. Furthermore, it has traditionally been assumed that places of privilege are the default place for Christians to be, and one must receive a special calling to go to the margins. By reversing this I am arguing that the Church should be rooted in the margins, only extend missional branches to more comfortable neighbourhoods. Furthermore, I tend to believe that the default place to be is on the margins, and one must receive a special calling to go to places of comfort (alhtough one should receive a calling for any vocation). Thus, just as with any calling, a great deal of communal discernment must go into determining who is called to live where. Of course, I should be clear that even those who are called to live in more comfortable neighbourhoods are called to live as a subversive presence, embodying an entirely different set of privileges and values. To say that some are called to live among the comfortable, does not mean that we are called to live there comfortably.
(4) In this regard, we must be careful about confusing life experiences with calling. I can imagine those who have always lived in a place of privilege arguing that this has uniquely trained them to minister among the privileged — just as I can imagine those who have always lived on the margins thinking that this has uniquely trained them for ministry on the margins. However, this is not always the case. Let me provide an example of what I mean. I happen to be friends with an older gentleman who spent a good deal of his life in prison, addicted to drugs and active in crime (a notorious bank robber, he was, at one point, Canada's most wanted!). However, this gentleman had his life transformed by Jesus some years ago and, although he continues to work with addicts and street-involved youth, he can never live in a neighbourhood that is riddled with drugs. This is so because he knows that the temptation would be too great and that his addiction would, over time, overpower him once again. Thus, although involved with the margins, he is rooted in a comfortable neighbourhood. I think he is a great example of the sort of person who is called to live amongst those who are more privileged (although he's not living in a mansion in a gated community… and I continue to maintain that no Christian is called to such an ostentatious lifestyle as that; heck, he lives, with his wife, in a townhouse). Similarly, I think that there are other (more socially acceptable) addictions that come from being raised in wealthy environments, so I suspect that such people are more often called out of such neighbourhoods. Remember: it is the rich young ruler that Jesus calls to surrender all and follow him, and it is the demoniac who lived among the tombs that Jesus heals and sends back to the village from whence he came.

Reflecting on Ted Haggard, coupled with some readings from Albert Nolan's Jesus Before Christianity (in which he emphasises the power of faith), has led me to reflect on another public representative of Christianity: Benny Hinn.
Now let me be clear from the start that I think that Benny Hinn is a predator. I believe that he preys upon the most desperate and vulnerable members of society in order to advance his personal wealth and power. I have serious questions about the faith Hinn professes to have, and I have even more serious questions about the healings he claims to perform. (Hinn refuses to provide any supportive documentation that his healings have been genuine. And when faced with documentation that suggested that a number of people [who claimed to be healed at his rallies] had not actually been healed, Hinn claimed this was so because those people had lost their faith, or fallen into sin, after the rally!)
However, I had a new thought tonight. Given Jesus' emphasis upon the faith of the recipient of healing, I asked myself this: “Is it possible that some healings have occurred at Hinn's rallies because of the faith of those who attend?” Of course, these would be healings that God performed despite of Hinn, and not because of him. Is God so humble, and so gracious, that he would choose to heal the sick, even in the presence of a fraudulent healer? He just might be. After all, God's compassion for the poor and needy seems to regularly overcome his distance from the wealthy and self-satisfied.
I wonder what the implications of this might be for those of us in the Christian community? Perhaps an implication would be that this simply highlights the absence of those within the Christian community who are willing to affirm the faith of others who believe (or long to believe) that God can make lame people walk, blind people see, and sick people healthy. Perhaps it reveals to us that we have lost something of Jesus' emphasis that the Spirit brings liberation from all things.
Of course, by asking this question I am in no way suggesting that the reason why so many Christians are sick is because they lack faith. Far from it. I actually believe that God can heal people based upon the faith of Jesus, not upon the faith (or lack thereof) that is held by the recipient of the healing. This is so for at least two reasons: I think that God often acts in our regard because of the faith and intercession of Jesus — and not because of our faith (or lack thereof); and I think that sharing in the sufferings of the world (include sharing in the illnesses that come from living in a world that is broken) is a fundamental element of the Christian vocation. If it is part of the Christian calling to be broken with the broken, then it is also a part of the Christian calling to be sick with those who are sick.
However, I also think that the near total absence of miraculous healings in the Western Christian community does, at least in some way, suggest an absence of faith in the Western church as a whole (and not in sick individuals specifically).
I long for a Christian presence at the margins of society that truly does offer addicts freedom from the power of drugs, drugs that, in the words of a friend of mine, “enter into your body and alter you at the level of your DNA” (this friend knows this from his firsthand experience with crack). The Spirit should be a presence that restores us, at the very same level.
I long for a Church rooted at the margins of society that offers freedom to people who suffer from mental illnesses, people who hear voices that torment them and tell them to hurt themselves. The Spirit should replace such voices with an inner voice of love.
And when such addictions and illnesses persist, I long for a Church that embraces those things and transforms them into redemptive acts of solidarity with our broken world. The Spirit should be a Spirit that binds us together and makes us one.
The near total absences of such transformations in the Western church, and the far greater presence of such transformations in African, Asian, and Latin American churches, suggests to me that we in the West could learn a thing or two about faith from our sisters and brothers in the two-thirds world.
So, I guess I have drifted away from my original question but I would be very interested in hearing how others might answer that question, and what others have to say about all these things.

Sister, we must love these people very much, so that they can forgive us for helping them.
~ St. Vincent De Paul (1581-1660)
I stumbled upon this quote in an essay by Krister Stendahl and I was struck by how “contemporary” it sounded. Given that much of Christian charity during the modern period has been marked by a certain triumphalism and condescension, we tend to consider those who speak of true service of the poor and the outcasts — service that discovers God already present within the poor, and service that discovers that one is often more blessed than blessing — as entering into a new and exciting phase of journeying with those who are in exile. The quote from St. Vincent would suggest otherwise. We are not discovering something new, we are discovering something that some of us lost somewhere along the way. St. Vincent realized just how much pride and how much justification of self-indulgence we tend to invest in so-called “acts of charity.” He knew that often the ways in which we “help” others are far more about us than they are about the people that we are “helping.” And he knew how much “charity” is often simply a veneer that helps perpetuate the broader social structures that maintain the gap between the rich and the poor.
Yet the solution St. Vincent offers is not to stop all our efforts to be helpful. Rather, we must learn to love “very much.” The contrast between the language of “helping” and the language of “love” is significant. The language of “helping” establishes a hierarchy and an unequal, and often unhealthy, power divide. Thus the “helper” is able to gain nearly total control over those who are, by definition, “helpless.” However, with love such hierarchies and such unequal divisions of power are abolished. Love leads us to the place where any exchange that takes place is mutual and, most importantly, natural. Thus, Stendahl goes on to say, “true love demands that neither the giver nor the receiver be conscious of giving or receiving.” The exchanges that take place because of love are not exchanges that keep tallies or records of debts. Rather, all such categories are abolished and we are no longer “givers” and “receivers” but “lovers” and “beloved.”
Indeed, as I have moved ever more deeply into journeying with those who are in exile, I have had the delight of experiencing both sides of that love relationship. As I have begun to travel down the road of loving very much, I have, to my delight, also discovered myself to be loved very much. This is a great source of joy to me. How I wish that all those who are in Christ knew the joy of being loved by those who are in exile.

For some time I have felt a certain amount of discomfort in relation to the “Emergent church” conversation. Now granted, the number of people who fall under that label is increasingly large and diverse and to make a general criticism of the Emergent conversation is pretty much impossible. Even to criticize the movement based upon it's most famous leaders would be misleading. Criticizing all things Emergent based upon the writings of Brian McLaren (who, IMHO, does really miss the boat a lot of the time) is sort of like criticizing the entire “New Perspective on Paul” based upon the writings of Ed Sanders. For example, people that I admire quite a lot (like Brian Walsh) also fit within the Emergent conversation, and to discard Walsh because of McLaren is sort of like discarding N. T. Wright because one disagrees with Sanders (although Walsh does misunderstand Lyotard's talk about “metanarratives” but that's an aside).
However, with this proviso in mind, let me say that there is a particular trend that seems quite common in the Emergent conversation, and I find this trend to be quite troubling. However, to speak of this as a “trend” may be a bit too strong. Let me just say that I have the impression that this trend is present across the board in the Emergent conversation… but I am open to being mistaken about this. Actually I hope I am.
So what is this trend that seems to be present? Simply stated, I am not convinced that anything terribly new is going on in the Emergent conversation. It seems to me that, for the most part, the Emergent conversation is just another generation learning how to culturally appropriate their Christian faith — it's just that this time faith is being appropriated within a postmodern consumer culture. At the end of the day, it seems as though Emergent folk are just as thoroughly grounded in contemporary culture as traditional Christianity was grounded in modern culture. We've moved from quoting Descartes to quoting Derrida, from reading Dostoyevski to reading Nabokov, from listening to Gospel music to listening to Sufjan Stevens, from celebrating “stale” liturgies to celebrating “ancient-future” services, and we think that this is causing a more genuine form of Christianity to come (back) into existence. I'm not convinced. For the most part, it appears as though the Emergent conversation is not rectifying the mistakes made by prior generations of Christians; in fact, it appears as though they are simply repeating those mistakes in new and updated ways. Thus, once again, you get a Christianity that is oh-so-relevant, but really it's just as self-indulgent as the surrounding culture and as previous generations of Western Christianity. It seems to me that the Emergent conversation is not much better and not much worse than most other church trends that have come and gone in the last one hundred years. It's all just a little too convenient (but, after all, we consumers love convenience). Being Emergent lets me be “hot” and Christian and it doesn't cost me a thing (and we consumers love free things even more than we love convenience).
Now, show me a movement where people are committed to a costly form of Christianity, where people are radically committed to loving God and loving their neighbours, where people are daily laying down their lives for those whom they love, show me this movement or conversation, or whatever, and then I might be inclined to say, “yes, here is the Spirit breaking in (once again) in a new and marvelous way.”