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.

For a long time I was put off by any theological talk around the notion of mystery. The suggestion that there are mysteries involved with faith, or with God, reeked too much of a church hierarchy that maintained a strangle-hold on the average person. In my mind mystery was too closely linked with the abuse of authority. Couple that with a cultural aversion to anything that cannot be explicated logically based on things that are “obvious” and it seems only natural that the notion of mystery is one that would make a lot of us uncomfortable.
Only recently have I begun to change my mind. I am indebted to Jon Sobrino for his talk about mystery in Where is God?, for that is what finally broke through my old way of thinking and enabled me to see mystery as something beautiful. Suddenly I discovered a mystery that was lovely and even desirable.
At the time I was reading Sobrino I was also also beginning to realise how incommunicable certain experiences are. I have no way of conveying what it is like to encounter God or what it is like to know Jesus as my Lord. Intimacy with God — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit — is the great mystery of the Christian faith. This is so because such intimacy is completely foreign (and incomprehensible) to those who live outside of that relationship.

Willimon, Copenhaver, and Robinson argue that worship is an activity that a community engages in, in order to centre itself within the narrative that it seeks to proclaim. Worship is a way for a community to gather and remind itself of its identity, what it believes, and what it hopes for. Thus a church that is bombarded over the week by the narratives told by liberal democracies, free-market capitalism, and “military consumerism,” can gather once a week and be reminded of the uniquely Christian story — and remember what it means to live within that story.**
However, when this element of worship is understood, it becomes easier to understand how worship can be an activity that Christians (and others) engage in, in every thing that they do. All communities are telling stories. Corporations tell a particular story, about a particular kind of world to their employees and costumers, nation-states also tell another kind of story to citizens who live within, and outside of, their borders. The challenge is therefore to live in a counter-cultural and subversive manner, to engage with those communities but not participate in the stories that they tell. Living the Christian story in the midst of nations that tell stories premised on fear, consumption, force, and hopelessness, will be a subversive activity, and will also be an act of worship.
This also means that the extent to which Christians participate in the stories told by other communities — whether that be Wal-Mart's story, America's story, or whatever — is the extent to which Christians engage in the worship of other gods.
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*This thought it not unique to these three pastors; they draw heavily from the writings of Hauerwas, Brueggemann, and Lindbeck; cf. Good News in Exile.
**The term “military consumerism” belongs to Brueggemann who argues that, contrary to the West's claim to exist within a genuinely peaceful, diversive, and pluralitistic culture, certain metanarratives still exist and drive society. Military Consumerism is the term that Brueggemann gives to the(?) metanarrative that drives America; cf. Theology of the Old Testament.

The early church coined the phrase lex orandi, lex credendi, which is translated roughly as “the rule of faith is the rule of prayer” or “prayer reveals the prayers' true theology.”
So my question is this: if our prayers are dominated by requests for finances, physical security, and good health, to what extent are we just praying to the same gods that are glorified in Western culture?
Granted there is a place for such things in conversations with the divine. Jesus, when teaching the disciples to pray does say, “Give us this day our daily bread,” suggesting that one should appeal to God to provide one's basic physical needs. However, that is only one line in a prayer that says a whole lot more — a prayer that is itself part of an address that emphasises that one should not spend much time worrying about such things. So when such things monopolise prayer (as they so frequently do — especially corporate prayer) I can't help but wonder if we are not simply worshiping idols.
It seems to me that one moves beyond idol worship when one prays for such things but does not devote one's life to attaining (and maintaining) such things. And when one lives in such a way then I suspect that one's prayers will gradually look more and more different.

North American politics, still bearing certain vestiges of Christendom, has maintained an ongoing love affair with the notion of justice (and, alas, quite often that love affair never moves beyond a notion into concrete practice… but I digress). The West has generally found it convenient to maintain the definition of justice that Christendom provided. Such a definition may well be worth re-examining. Once again I go back to a favourite subject of mine — just because Christians value “justice,” and contemporary culture values “justice,” it doesn't mean both parties are valuing the same thing. In fact I think Christian talk about justice is fundamentally different than the way in which Western culture, particularly North American culture, talks about justice (in this discussion I am especially indebted to Brueggemann; surprise, surprise, I told you that book was good; cf. Theology of the Old Testament, 735-42).
It seems that the prevalent understanding of justice is retributive. Justice is understood as giving a person their just deserts on the basis of performance — a system of reward and punishment based on an individual's behaviour.
However, the biblical understanding of justice is distributive. The intention of biblical justice is to redistribute social goods and social power, and reorder they way in which those are arranged. This is what the liberation theologians are talking about when they argue that God shows a preferential option for the poor. Distributive justice recognises that all members of a community are intimately linked with all other members. It seems to me that restorative justice picks up on this to a certain degree — it does well to emphasise the communal nature of human existence, but perhaps it does not emphasise the concrete physical ramifications of this as much as it should. Distributive justice makes it clear that practising justice is inextricably linked to things like the distribution of goods.
Now a case can certainly be made for both retributive and distributive justice within the biblical texts (the bible, after all, reflects various traditions that are often in tension with one another), but the bible is quite unambiguous about the fact that distributive justice — which destabilises the status quo — trumps retributive justice — which is often used to maintain “order,” specifically the way things are presently ordered. That is to say, those who have a vested interest in the status quo will be eager to maintain a retributive definition of justice. Unfortunately such justice, that is so triumphant in a society that perpetuates (and is premised upon?) social inequalities, has very little to do with any sort of Christian justice.