And everyone has memories from the night that melted stone
The neighbour's nightgown, the screaming on the phone
And the tired man at the station says “we can't tell who's alive
All we ever know is that the tourists survive”
“Tra la la, tra la la, let's go” they say
“Let's go Pompeii”
~ Dar Williams, This Was Pompeii
Rowan Williams in his book Writing in the Dust: After September 11 speaks of his experience in New York (he was a few blocks from the World Trade Centre when the planes hit) and tries to articulate some sort of Christian response. One of his central points is the need for people to initially stay silent when crises occur. One's initial response can too often be co-opted by a religious or political agenda that only makes matters worse for everyone. Thus he talks about the importance of taking time to stoop and write in the dust (like Jesus did when the crowd brought him a woman who had been caught in adultery) before speaking. Those first moments of silence can change everything.
I have been thinking about what has been happening in New Orleans and have been on the edge of writing a post about it, responding to some of what the mainstream media has been saying but I realised that I needed some time to “write in the dust” before I spoke. And even now I submit these thoughts tentatively.
You see, my initial reaction was to cry out against voices that wanted to glamourise the event or trivialise other tragedies. Calling the hurricane's impact on New Orleans “our tsunami” only makes sense if American money is valued more than the lives of people in the two-third's world. The impact just isn't comparable. What such headlines reveal is the way in which those in positions of power are able to write history. Jon Sobrino makes this point in his book Where is God?. We all know the date when the planes hit New York but who can name the day when Afghanistan was first bombed, who can name the date when war was brought to Iraq?
However, I don't mean to make light of the loss of life and the suffering that has occurred, and continues to occur. In particular, I don't want to make light of the suffering of the poor. As Sobrino also notes, while reflecting on the earthquake that hit El Salvador in 2001 (who in the West remembers that date?), natural disasters have a way of revealing deeply rooted inequalities that remain hidden during other times. It was the poor in El Salvador who were genuinely devastated by the earthquake, and it will be the poor in New Orleans who bear the brunt of this crisis. This is becoming increasingly clear as the police, the major political forces and the media turn their focus to the protection of property and businesses — instead of focusing on saving lives.
I don't mean this to be a rant against the powers that be, I don't mean to trivialise what the people of New Orleans have experienced. Some who rail against the “our tsunami” comment mock the whole idea — people were told to evacuate the city 10 days before the hurricane it. There's no comparison. Yet what option do the poor have? Many people just don't have the ability or the resources to leave.
Thus, it seems to me that one of the inequalities that the hurricane reveals is the deep-seated racism that still exists in much of North America. It is saddening that most of the pictures of mourning and suffering people are of African-American people (at least the pictures that I've seen). It seems that poverty in New Orleans is still very much related to ethnicity.
And when the Associated Press runs a photo of a young black male with a bag of food he is described as “looting” a grocery store. When it runs a photo of a young white couple with bags of food they are said to have “found” the food at a grocery store.
So although I don't mean to rant I am trying to follow Sobrino's footsteps and “speak honestly about reality.” Especially since so many other voices will try to use this to reinforce lies that the hurricane threatens to expose.

I was listening to a presentation that Stan Grenz, Darryl Johnson, and Charles Ringma gave on the topic of Brian McLaren's “A Generous Orthodoxy” and the emerging Church “non-movement” and I was struck by Stan's opening prayer (Stan was another Christian leader who passed away this year — I hope to say more about this presentation in another post. Although I can't resist providing a teaser from Ringma. Ringma says that Brian is a “mischievous” fellow, and so, in that same spirit he comments, “Brian is like a kid in a lolly shop with twenty cents in his pocket. He wants to try everything — he licks every lolly — but he also plans on leaving with his twenty cents still in his pocket.” Or, “Don't even bother reading Brian's chapter on the seven different Jesuses. He's like a fellow who marries a woman that he is madly in love with — who then wants to tell you about each of his ex-girlfriends”).
Anyway, Stan opened his prayer in a traditional way speaking about being able to, through Jesus, enter boldly into the presence of the Father. For some reason this got me thinking about the whole notion of Christian boldness. And I think it must be rooted in the joy of the beloved. I always sort of pictured boldness like a sort of cockiness — because of Jesus we could swagger into God's presence and dare anybody to try to tell us otherwise. I've always associated boldness with a sort of Christian triumphalism or arrogance.
However, it is the boldness that stems from joy that is free of arrogance or fear. And this joy stems from being known as God's beloved. When one is beloved one does not hesitate to run into the presence of one's lover. There is no second guessing, no hesitation, no lingering or hanging back. Rather, “I am my beloved's and he is mine” and the joy that comes from this leads us to enter boldly into God's presence. It is as if love moves us beyond the categories of bravery and fear and into the categories of intimacy and delight.

Brother Roger, the founder and leader of France's Taize community, has been murdered. While Roger was leading the community in prayer last night a woman arose and stabbed him three times in the neck. He died quickly — he was 90 years old.
It is a sad day for those who have been deeply influenced by our Brother's understanding of Christianity community, reconciliation, and peace. It is tragic to hear of murder and think of bloodshed. But unlike many I am not shocked by the news. It just makes sense. Brother Roger followed in the footsteps of Jesus and, in the end, like so many other humble disciples, he had his life taken from him. Roger spent his life carrying a cross and martyrdom, although sad, is not surprising but rather what could be expected. So I will mourn the violence — I will grieve especially for the woman that killed him — but I remain convinced that on this cross Roger has triumphed. Jesus has taken the power of crucifixion, of murder, and of death, from the hands of the enemy, and we can be certain that resurrection awaits our Brother.
It seems that this year is one for the passing of renowned Christian leaders. First John Paul II and now Brother Roger. It is interesting to compare the two. Both lived long lives but one, the leader of a Church still closely tied to the practice of state power, died a slow laborious death that incapacitated him, took away his mental faculties, and made him unable to speak; the other, committed to a more humble path of reconciliation, worship, and peace, died the death of a martyr. This then marks the passing of two witnesses. Those who have ears to hear, let them hear.

One of the major themes that seems to regularly emerge in theological studies of the Old Testament is the incomparability of YHWH. YHWH is nothing like the other gods, nor is YHWH like any other kind of ruler, lover, person or thing. Indeed, it is incomparability that is the definitive characteristic of the God found within this story. This God is odd and (perhaps to the exasperation of the reader) strangely indescribable.
Similarly, Israel, as the first-born child of God, is to be an incomparable people. As a nation of priests set apart to mediate the divine presence and blessing to the nations they should stand out in peculiar — and sometimes painful — ways. Unfortunately the history of Israel often details the way in which the people tragically fail in this calling. Instead of being a peculiar people they become just like (and sometimes even worse than) the nations around them.
Even after the coming of Jesus this point remains. Granted Christians affirm that Jesus is the “human face of God” and a revelation of God's mystery — but the revelation of Jesus is genuinely incomparable. Jesus picks up on many of the things that set YHWH apart from all else, especially in his affirmation of strength in weakness and glory in shame. The notion that one should triumph on a cross is perhaps the oddest thing imaginable. In fact, it would not be imaginable had not Jesus done exactly that.
Therefore, if the Church is the people dedicated to following Jesus they should also be, at the very least, what Rodney Clapp calls “a peculiar people.” These Christ-followers should be exceedingly odd. We get a glance of this oddness in both the Pauline epistles and the description of the early Jerusalem church in Acts. Unfortunately the Church, just like Israel, has done a fine job of failing in its vocation and instead of mediating God's blessing to the ends of the earth it has become just like (and sometimes worse than) the other institutions around it. It has succumbed to the lure of power instead of embracing weakness, and has embraced a self-protecting pragmatism instead of traveling the road dictated by suffering love. Consequently Christians today end up looking just like everybody else and the whole idea of living like the Church in Acts seems too absurd to even contemplate. If we are to follow Jesus we must recover the oddity that is peculiar to Christ-followers.
This is one of the reasons why debates about “Christian relevance” continually miss the point. We should not worry about being relevant, we should worry about being the people of God — and we can trust that, when we do so, the world will also be transformed.

For the least few years I've struggled a lot with the whole notion of bible reading. As I've learned more and more about the bible as a collection of historical (and deceptively esoteric) documents I've felt increasingly incapacitated when it came to engaging in the simple practice of daily reading. I felt like I couldn't pick up the bible without also picking up a whole slough of commentaries. There is so much present in the texts that I felt unable to read it casually. Of course I felt that I was somehow missing the point, but I couldn't really figure out why. And so, over the last few years, I have spent far more time reading books about the bible than I have spent reading the bible itself.
Just last week I finally realised how I was missing the point.
I had recently read Lindbeck's Nature of Doctrine and was continually reading authors who approached the bible as story. But I continued to miss the point until I picked up Stephen Dempter's Dominion and Dynasty: a Theolgy of the Hebrew Bible. Dempster repeatedly asserts that the key to understanding is found in reading, rereading, and rereading the texts — and then all the pieces fell into place for me. Learning a language requires immersion and so does entering into a story. I realised that daily reading is something like a daily baptism by the texts. Suddenly I find myself free to simply read and enjoy the story I love so much. I don't always need to bring all my exegetical, historical, theological, and literary tools with me — I can put all those down and simply enjoy the pleasure of being immersed.
Now it just makes sense to engage in regular reading — what doesn't make sense is neglecting the very texts that are so formative to the people of God.

If one actually takes the time to study Jesus as he is portrayed in the texts (instead of studying the texts through the lenses of various faith traditions) one is struck by the manner in which Jesus proclaims the forgiveness of sins. You see, unlike most of contemporary Christianity, Jesus did not go around telling people that they needed to have their sins forgiven. Rather Jesus proclaimed that their sins already were forgiven. My, my, wouldn't that change the way in which Christians proclaim the gospel today — what would happen if we were to proclaim the forgiveness of sins, instead of proclaiming that people are in need of the forgiveness of sins?
Of course there is a way in which the Church has done this already. In Discipleship Dietrich Bonhoeffer talks about “cheap grace” and the ways in which the Church uses forgiveness to white-wash society and exonerate those who are seated comfortably in positions of privilege, wealth and power (that means the likes of you and I). Of course when the Church does this she engages in exactly the opposite of the proclamation of Jesus. When one looks at who Jesus is talking to when he proclaims (and embodies) forgiveness one realises that it is those who are damned by society that are privileged with this message. Those who fit comfortably into the corrupt social system — those in the positions of social and religious power — are the ones Jesus talks to about judgment. To the “damned” Jesus says, “you are forgiven.” To the “saved” Jesus says, “you need to remember that you will be held accountable one day.” It seems that we've gotten this message backwards. To the “saved” we say, “hooray, we've made it into heaven.” To the “damned” we say, “Woe to you for judgment is coming.”
Yet it is the very proclamation of forgiveness that enables the “damned” to live transformed lives. Forgiveness is an agent of reconciliation and when people are reconciled they are enabled to live new lives. If we do not offer such people forgiveness we offer them no alternative to the life they are already living.
This is why forgiveness must be at the heart of Christian attempts to live peaceably. Recognising the reality of sin Christians are able to live honestly within reality and not settle for a peace that is premised upon lies and injustice. Thus the Church must be able to engage in confession with the world — being honest about herself — in order to create a space for others to be vulnerable. It is the existence of a forgiven and forgiving people that creates the hope for a real and lasting peace.
…there is revealed that reality which is the ultimate and only tolerable ground of any community of peace, the forgiveness of sins. There is a community of peace for Christians only because one will forgive the other his [sic] sins. The forgiveness of sins still remains the sole ground of all peace.
~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer, No Rusty Swords

I think that we tend to view anger as a weapon. Anger is something that is used to hurt others, it is an act of aggression (and even sometimes of violence), that silences others and damages relationships. Once we have experienced somebody's anger we are more inclined to keep them at a distance — lest they lash out and hurt us again.
However, in my time working with street kids, homeless adults, and all those who are marginalised in the inner city, I have come to see anger quite differently. I think anger is actually something quite intimate. Anger is an expression of vulnerability — and in a culture where we do all we can to appear invulnerable such a thing is valuable indeed. Anger, when approached from this perspective, becomes something that can deepen relationships — not break them apart.
It took me some time to realise this. As I journeyed with marginalised people I was continually surprised that those who lashed out at me, those who seemed to hate me the most (even those who physically assaulted me), would often — after the outburst — have a much tighter bond with me. And it was a bond I felt as well. It puzzled me for the longest time. I was continually shocked that those who one day were ready to act violently against me were, the next day, far more affectionate towards me than I had ever seen them be. At first I thought they were just feeling guilty for their actions but I quickly realised there was something much deeper going on. Several of the deepest relationships I have developed have started this way.
And I think it is because I have recognised that their anger is something that was intimate, something that made them vulnerable. If I were to respond negatively to their anger it would be a personal rejection of them. Which is what happens over and over again. Kids can only so go long without an outburst and the rejection that follows that outburst only confirms the destructive, hopeless image they have of themselves. But I continue to love them after their anger and I think they feel more fully known and, therefore, more fully loved — perhaps loved in a way that they had not been loved before. Allowing someone the space to be angry, and loving them more deeply through their anger, this is what causes transformation.
How do we, who desire intimacy, we seek to live in any form of real community, create spaces for others to be angry? I think that the first step is changing how we view anger at a fundamental level. Increasingly I am learning to see anger as a gift given to me — not a weapon used against me.

Within many “charismatic” churches it seems that speaking in tongues is elevated to a special status and a form of elitism develops around the gift. One is thought to be an inferior type of Christian if one has not yet discovered one's “prayer language.” Those who do speak in tongues (along with those who pretend to speak in tongues) form a rather comfortable clique where the members congratulate each other for being baptised in the Spirit.
The problem is that all Christians receive the Spirit of the new age as soon as the become members of the people of God. There is no initial conversion followed by a later baptism of the Spirit.* The New Testament emphatically asserts that all who are in Christ have the Spirit. Among the body that is indwelt by the Spirit, glossolalia is a gifting (contrary to the assertion of some who would deny it altogether), but it is one among many, and even a minor gifting (contrary to the assertion of those would would develop a form of charismatic elitism around glossolalia; the greater gifts are those that more powerfully build of the body of Christ).
However, when someone becomes a Christian they do receive the gift of tongues — but not in the way that that gift has been traditionally understood. Christians speak a language that is foreign to all others. Their words have unique meanings and are unintelligible to those who stand outside the tradition.** By speaking Christianly, by proclaiming the Christian story and learning the Christian language all Christians end up speaking with a foreign tongue.
Here Paul's emphasis upon prophecy comes into play. The speaking of such a foreign language to those who do not understand it has a rather limited value. When the Church lives and acts prophetically it will give a new power to the words that it says. Living prophetically means becoming the message, it means becoming Jesus, becoming the Word made flesh.
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*I'm not arguing that the Spirit does not give us different giftings at later moments in life — which could also mean that a Spirit-related gift could only be momentarily accessible, and the removal of that gift would, therefore, not imply the removal of the Spirit.
**Once again I find myself referring to (and affirming) George Lindbeck's “cultural-linguistic” understanding of religion. Lindbeck asserts that the language of Christianity cannot be taught through translation anymore than one can be taught to speak French through English translations.

In the middle of a world given over to extravagance, desire and consumption I don't think the Christian response is to just try to learn to live a little more simply, give a little more charitably, or demonstrate a little more integrity.
In a world maintained by structures of evil and death I don't think the Christian response is to just try a little harder to do good.
Christianity is not about about improvement, it is about conversion.* That means Christians should have little interest in improving structures that are inherently flawed. That also reveals how most Christian discussion about “moral issues” completely misses the point. Generally such moral discussions miss how involved (and committed) all parties are to operating within the broader narrative(s) of the nation-state. By seeking to be less offensive Christians have discarded the language of conversion in favour of the language of moral improvement — and as a result they have given themselves over to a story that is not their own.
The first thing Christians must do is learn how to live within their story, speak their own language, and create their own space. This does not mean creating some sort of Christian state (as if such a thing could exist) but it does mean beginning to imagine time and space differently.** That, after all, is what is entailed in conversion. It means moving out of one story into another. Which also means that all of us, despite the language of tolerance that dominates public religious debate, are in the business of converting others. Because our foundational narratives govern our actions, we are all actors in one story or another and — depending on how we play our roles — we will either attract or repel others from our story.
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*I am indebted to Willimon et al. for highlighting this distinction; cf. Good News in Exile.
**This is what Cavanaugh attempts to do in his book Theopolitical Imagination where he confronts three myths: the myth of the state as saviour; the myth of civil society as free space; and the myth of globalisation as catholicity. The nation-state of the USA tells a particular story that imagines space and time in a particular way. Cavanaugh argues for a Christian story that imagines space and time in a subversive manner.