Everett's warnings especially confused me, because I knew he wouldn't lie, but he was so full of anger and hate this his truths just didn't feel true.
~ Irwin, in The Brothers K by David James Duncan
So the question becomes one of truth-telling — or, more accurately, the possibility for a truth told to be received and accepted by any given audience. Must truths be free of anger in order for them to “feel true”? Surely there is a place for anger in truth-telling; after all, anger is often but a manifestation of broken-heartedness. And how can some truths not break our hearts? How can I speak of my people — and what is done to them — without sorrow, and anger, and hope, and delight all intermingled? Must truths told in such a way be rejected because of how they feel? And if they are rejected what hope do we have? For this is the only way that truth can be told truthfully.
I think that this might be why the prophets — those miserable tellers of truth — often have the paradoxical commission of summoning the people to return to the ways of YHWH and of hardening the hearts of the people (even though the prophet will also be broken in that process).

There are legitimate experiences of absence within this ever-present world of God's grace, but they are forms and modes of love. Such were the experiences of the prophets of the Old Covenant, of the Son of God on the cross and in the darkness of his descent into hell; such are the experiences of all those who, in their several vocations, follow the Son. These are the redemptive paths of love as it traces the foot-steps of sinners in order to catch up with them and bring them home.
~ Hans Urs von Balthasar
Balthasar neatly sums up what I have been trying to say for the last few years now. Yes, godforsakenness is very real — even as an experience of the people of God. But, thanks to the victory won by Christ on the cross, and to the presence of the eschatological Spirit, Christians transform forsakenness into intimacy. We have been saved from hell so that we can now descend freely into the depths of hell to bring God to those who have rejected him. There is such a thing as intimacy in forsakenness — and we are to be the living proof of that.

1. I've been thinking about how Christians that go from the West to the two-thirds world are often struck by the generosity of the people who live there. Here are people who have only enough for each day and yet they are willing to share the only food they have, to part with whatever little items they might own, etc. It is a humbling experience for wealthy Christians who are inclined to horde and accumulate material goods, as well it should be. However, I've also been thinking about how the same type of hospitality exists among communities of homeless drug-users in the inner-city. These are people who have nothing but the clothes on their backs. Yet whenever they get enough for a point of heroin or a $5 crack rock they don't hesitate to share it with their friends. Literally the only thing they have, and the only thing that gives them any sense of joy or peace or ability to survive, and many of them don't even think twice about sharing. This too should humble us.
2. I was watching The Shawshank Redemption the other day while I was reading and this line jumped out at me — “The walls here… at first you hate them, and then you depend on them”. The inmates were talking about how a person gets institutionalised so that they depend on the structures of prison to such a degree that they cannot function outside of it. So that got me thinking about fellows that I knew from the shelter in Toronto that had been institutionalised, but then I started thinking about how the disciplines and “walls” of the Church should perhaps function in this way for Christians. Maybe we too should be institutionalised to the Church so that we cannot survive apart from her. Besides, I think we are only fooling ourselves when we think we can survive apart from her. So should we be institutionalised to the Church? What would that look like? My oh my, how my thinking has changed in the last few years.
3. Another line jumped out at me the other day, this time from an Ani DiFranco song. Ani sings this: “I may never change the entire fucking world, but I can be the million that you'll never make”. Now Ani's singing about not selling out to the man (and good for her for taking that stand) but I got thinking about how Christians would benefit if they adopted a similar attitude. We are continually trying to change “the entire fucking world” and so we try to maximise our efficiency and our profits. However, I wonder if following Jesus on the road of the cross means having an entirely different attitude, one that doesn't seek to “fix” everything by adopting a Western paradigm of efficiency. Maybe we are far more effective if we embrace powerlessness…

Well, I had some interesting responses to the identity question. Some people got more profound than I expected. I was looking for “I am…” statements but instead I got some profound reflections on self, others, desires, etc. So, let me respond to a few of those before I jot down my “I am…” statement.
Chris argues that we are defined by our desires (and what do you desire, Chris?), Jord argues that we are defined by how we want others to perceive us (and how do you want others to perceive you, Jord?), and Robin basically argues for a more communal understanding of identity. We are not so much identified as individuals as we are by the culture in which we live.
Now all of these answers are good, and contain an element of truth, but I don't think that they entirely hit the nail on the head. I think all three of these answers are somewhat problematic because they suggest that our identity is merely a swirl of a number of characteristics with nothing tangible at the core. Thus, in response to Chris, I would say that I desire several things, so what is central to my identity? The thing that I desire the most? The fact that I desire? In response to Jord, I would say that I want people to see me as a number of different things. Which is central? And in response to Robin, I would argue that I take on a number of characteristics from culture (which you mention). Which is central?. All of these answers, lacking a centre, leave my identity as a somewhat arbitrary, intangible thing.
Therefore, in beginning to respond to the identity question, I want to argue that identity is something that is given to us, not something that we create ourselves. However, contra Robin (who argues culture gives us our identity), and contra Jord (who [sort of] argues that others give us our identity), I want to argue that identity is given to us by God. What is central to me is how God chooses to identify me. Jamie gets close to this when he defines himself as “a worshipper” but I think this is still too vague. My answer is closest to Eric's — who, alas, is still having trouble seeing himself through God's lenses. Understandably so though since I think all of us, especially Evangelicals, struggle with that. So the question of who I am is not ultimately about what I want, or how others see me, but how God defines me.
So how does God see me? Well, if I had to sum it up in one sentence, I think that I would say that I am a Spirit-filled member of the Body of Christ and a beloved child of God.
Thoughts?

Well, I'm not too sure how many people are still reading this since I've been rather tardy in the blog-world as of late. However, I have a question I would like to ask anybody that still reads this. I've been thinking quite about about how I define myself (or, to phrase that more accurately, how I am defined) and I've narrowed it down to a single sentence that I think encapsulates my identity. So here's the deal, I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Tell me, in one sentence, how you are defined. Please?

[This is an article I wrote in response to another article in the Regent paper.]
“All we can do with the Bible, if postmodernity is left in charge, is to play with such texts as give us pleasure, and issue warnings against those that give pain to ourselves or to others who attract our (usually selective) sympathy.”
~ N.T. Wright
It was with a sense of sadness that I read “Gender Adventures in Bible Land” by Sarah and Brian Marek. I can empathise with their struggle with traditional interpretations of Scripture that subordinate women – and I wholeheartedly agree with them that Christians must spend their time identifying with the victims of religion and society. Yet this is precisely why their article saddened me. I fear that the Marek’s culturally-conditioned approach to Scripture is one that ultimately makes their compassion impotent.
The cultural-conditioning that I suspect underlies this article is a “bobo” mentality. In his book, Bobos in Paradise, David Brooks explains that “bobos” are an amalgamation of the bohemians and the bourgeoisie – they are free-spirits who work for corporations, wealthy people who look down their noses at materialism, and sellers of goods who are not sell-outs. As the new ruling class bobos create the social codes and boundaries that structure our national lives and this has implications for everything, including spirituality. Thus, borrowing a term from Rabbi Winkler, Brooks calls bobo spirituality “Flexidoxy”. As proponents of Flexidoxy, bobos mix freedom and flexibility with rigour and orthodoxy. One of the major consequences of this approach is that bobos are no longer willing to recognise spiritual authorities. Bobos feel that it is important to be a part of a faith community but are not interested is any form of external authority. Thus, Flexidoxy is orthodoxy without obedience, morality divorced from any sort of established divine revelation.
The Marek’s article illustrates how this bobo mentality has influenced Christianity. They assert that Scripture is not an authority we are to wrestle with. We can simply “wink at Paul”, “turn the page”, and “disagree with some things written in an important [but far from authoritative] book”. Similarly, tradition is not something we need to come to grips with. We can simply “step outside” of it. This is the condescension of Flexidox Christianity – more temperamental than creedal, and more decent than saintly. The Marek’s, like most bobos, seem to have made themselves the sole spiritual authorities in their own lives. Of course, I’m sure that they would quickly reply that God is the sole spiritual authority in their lives but it seems that they are the one’s who have the authoritative revelation of what God approves of, and what God disapproves of. Thus, the Marek’s can be confident of the steps they have taken because they are possessed by the Spirit of God and “have felt God smiling in affirmation”.
However, the Marek’s article also reveals just how often a bobo-spirituality drifts into an old heresy. For, as Roger Olson writes in The Story of Christian Theology, whenever personal revelation from the Spirit is elevated to a level higher than Scripture we are, once again, confronted by Montanism. The early Church refused to give credibility to Montanus’ assertion that, due to the presence of the Spirit in his life, he possessed a greater authority than the Scriptures or the apostolic writings – and the contemporary Church would do well to learn from this. Indeed, it is essential that contemporary Christians learn to recognise authorities outside themselves. If we do not do so we will inevitably end up making God in our own image – instead of being transformed into the image of God. Faithfulness requires me to worship a God that I will sometimes disagree with. If I worship a God that ever only agrees with me than I am only worshipping my own reflection – which rarely stops “smiling in affirmation” whenever I look in the mirror. My point here is not to argue for a particular hermeneutic, but rather to emphasise that we must continue to struggle seriously with Scripture and tradition and this means that times will arise when we will have to submit to them even when we disagree with them.
Yet the most saddening element of the Marek’s article is the fact that at least part of the reason why the Marek’s have taken this approach to Scripture and tradition is because of their love for those who have been wounded by the Church and society. This is tragic because, by throwing aside all external Christian authorities, the Marek’s can offer little to those with whom they are seeking to journey (I suspect that this too is the result of a culturally-conditioned understanding of love and solidarity). Salvific transformation is found within the apostolic Church and the Word of God and, apart from those things, the love that I, the Marek’s, or anybody else, offers is incapable of making anything new. When we reject Scripture and tradition we end up perpetuating the very cycles of exile that our love seeks to overcome. Only when we are rooted in Scripture and tradition can we truly come alongside of the marginalised as Spirit-filled representatives of Christ. And if we are rooted in Scripture and tradition we must come alongside of the marginalised and declare the forgiveness of sins and the end of exile.

There are two statements I have heard over and over that I often question. One is in relation to suicide, the other in relation to terrorism.
I have often heard it said that suicide is the supreme act of selfishness. The person who kills himself or herself escapes suffering — but at the cost of imposing suffering on his or her loved ones. How horribly self-indulgent!
Of course, the more I think about this the less I am convinced. It seems to me that this argument does more to reveal our own perpetual selfishness. A person who is driven to suicide has often been isolated and abandoned. He or she has been left alone in the midst of his or her suffering and we have been too self-absorbed to share in that. And so when a suicide occurs we would rather turn the argument around and place our own selfishness on the shoulders of the dead person. The fact that we object so strongly to the suffering that the death causes us only further reveals how committed we are to self-gratification. To suggest that the person who has killed himself or herself was acting selfishly only highlights our inability to empathise.
The second statement that strikes me as odd is the assertion that suicide bombings are acts of cowardice. I simply cannot see how this can be true given state definitions of heroism and courage. I suspect that this is just another example of how terrorism causes us to feel afraid and so we simply try to reverse the tables by calling our “enemies” cowards. The bombers who, practically unarmed, infiltrated a hostile country and flew planes into buildings were cowards but somehow our boys, decked out in body armour gunning down civilians, are heroes. It makes no sense to me.

“In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words; and he who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because he intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.”
~ Paul, Ro 8.26-27
“The Spirit is then the one who conforms the Messiah's people to his suffering and glory, so that the Jewish expectation of the coming Messiah is fulfilled not just in the Messiah himself, but, extraordinarily, in his people as well… And, since the Spirit is given to us in the present as a down payment, we are charged already with implementing that ultimate accomplishment… This happens, at its core, through the presence of the Spirit in the groaning of prayer. The two little verses [in Romans 8] on prayer are not intended at this point as a simply aside to encourage devotion. They are the very heart of Paul's reworked, and inaugurated, eschatology.”
~ N.T. Wright, Paul in Fresh Perspective
Approximately two years ago I spent two weeks in Paris that revolutionised my prayer life. In the Catholic cathedrals I was struck by the reverence of genuflection — and I was also struck by the intimacy I experienced while there. And so, when I returned to Canada, I began to pray daily in a kneeling posture. I have been amazed by how much this practice has transformed my life. Since I began, I have come to realise that the single greatest impact upon my mood, my outlook, my patience, etc., is whether or not I am praying consistently. The practice of this discipline has also completely transformed my experience of prayer. Before my prayers seemed to be (and probably were) a hit-and-miss time with God. Sometimes I felt that God showed up, sometimes I felt like he did not (sometimes I felt like I showed up, sometimes I wasn't there at all). However, I now enter into prayer with complete confidence that I will encounter God. It is interesting because my prayers have become increasingly traditional and liturgical (I pray in the same position, I pray the same prayers daily [the Lord's Prayer, the Jesus Prayer, and I work through the Beatitudes and the Fruit of the Spirit]) while simultaneously becoming increasingly experiential.
In his book, In the Name of Jesus, Henri Nouwen argues that the first temptation Jesus faced (turning stones into bread) was a temptation to be relevant. He argues that the proper response to this temptation is contemplative prayer. The Church, he says, must move from pragmatic relevance to contemplative prayer, if she is to be salt and light. The funny thing is that I don't think I every really believed Nouwen, because I never really used to pray. Now, after a few years of prayer, I think I'm finally starting to get it.