[On November 13th, Dr. John Stackhouse and I engaged in a public discussion of the question written in the title of this post.  I have held off blogging about this because I was told that what we said was going to be published through Regent College Audio (the discussion took place as a forum at Regent).  Unfortunately, I have been told that there was a problem with the recording, and so this will not be taking place.  Therefore, I have decided to ‘publish’ my opening remarks here.  What follows is the transcript of what I said in the first fifteen minutes of the forum.  Dr. Stackhouse then responded for fifteen minutes, we each had another five minutes to respond to each other, and then we took questions from the audience.]

1.

We have come together today to discuss the question: “Is Christian Scholarship accountable to the Poor?” There is a good chance that many of us have never seriously considered this question. It is worth asking ourselves why this is the case: why does it seem unnatural or unusual to connect the Academy with the Poor?

Perhaps, we could argue, the roots of this go back to an ‘Industrial’ or ‘Scientific’ mentality that compartmentalises all the various aspects of life, in order to study each in isolation from the others. After all, this mentality is part of what gave birth to the Academy as we know it, and it continues to be reflected in the Christian Academy as it exists today – we have divisions between ‘theology’ and ‘ethics’, divisions between research-oriented students and ministry-oriented students, and so on. Now, granted, this division of labour has resulted in a great deal of productivity, but it is worth exploring some of the other results.

One of the worst results has been the divide that has grown up between theory and practice. This divide is now so deeply established that, for the most part, we don’t even think to connect our research to our lives as we live them. Thus, for example, I could write an A paper on Pauline notions of cruciformity, but the chances are that I won’t make much of a meaningful connection between my paper and my life. Perhaps I’ll think about giving a little more money away to charity afterwards; perhaps I’ll try to be more patient with my partner. Either way, both responses, although decent enough, are quite superficial and are a far cry from allowing our lives to be fundamentally challenged and reoriented by our research. Sadly, I suspect that this superficial approach is how most of us tend to connect our scholarship to our living. We just aren’t accustomed, or trained, to make deeper connections.

Another of the results of this compartmentalisation of life, is that we are not accustomed to thinking of the Academy in conjunction with any other social body. In general, the Academy is seen as a self-justifying institution, accountable only to itself. Therefore, when confronted with this question, the general scholar will most likely respond that he or she is not accountable to anyone or anything, other than the rigours of his or her own discipline.

Of course, Christian scholars, like many at Regent, will likely give a significantly modified response to this question. At Regent, it is widely recognised that Christian scholarship is accountable to its Lord – Jesus Christ – and it is also recognised that Christian scholarship is accountable to the Church and her mission within the world.

Unfortunately, for many there is still a great divide between our understandings of Jesus and the Church, and the Poor. Thus, when confronted with the question at hand, a good many of us might respond: “I know I am accountable to Jesus, and I reckon I could be accountable to the Church, but why would I be accountable to the Poor?”

Now, before we go any further let us define our terms. By the term “Christian scholarship,” I am referring to the work done by professional researchers, writers, and teachers, as well as the work done by students who aspire to these things, within institutions of higher education. I am referring to what happens in places like Regent. This is fairly straight forward.

Defining “the Poor” requires more care. There are two extremes that I want to avoid. First, I want to reject a too narrow, overly material, definition of “the Poor” — one that limits the term to the economically disadvanaged. Second, I want to reject a too broad, overly spiritual, definition of “the Poor” – one that allows people like you and I to call ourselves “Poor” because we’re (supposedly) “poor in Spirit”. Properly understood, poverty is experienced in the economic-material, socio-political, and religious-spiritual diminsions of a person’s life. Thus, the cornerstone of poverty is economic-material – signaled by the absence of income or possessions, often due to the loss of one’s economic base (say one’s kinship group, one’s capital, one’s health, or one’s means of “making a living”) – but this is both the cause and result of the loss of socio-political status, and the experiences of marginality, social vulnerability, and openness to exploitation. Furthermore, this is often aggravated by religious-spiritual dynamics which heighten the isolation and oppression of the poor, because it labels them as ‘sinners’ and treats them as outcasts bound for damnation.

Of course, there are always degrees of poverty, but the male and transgendered sex workers whom I have gotten to know in recent years, illustrate this combination of things quite well. They suffer from economic-material poverty – being homeless, and lacking an economic base due to abandonment, addictions, mental health issues, and other illnesses like HIV and Hepatitis – they suffer from socio-political exploitation, marginality, and vulnerability – being required to sell their bodies for sex in order to make money, they are targetted and beaten by pimps, johns and police officers (in equal measure), and are almost entirely invisible within society at large – and, finally, they are ostracised by the Church – in this regard, it is telling that, in the ten year history of the drop-in that focuses on male and transgendered sex workers, I am the first Christian to volunteer there.

Thus, when I ask: “Is Christian scholarship accountable to the poor?” I am thinking of these sex workers and others like them, not just within our own city, but around the world. Does our research, writing, teaching, and living as Christians necessarily have something to do with these people?

2.

I believe that it does, and here are the steps that lead me to this conclusion.

The first step is taken when we begin to overcome the fracturing of the Christian life. As Christians, we should be seeking to live integrated lives, wherein all areas of our lives are subjected to the lordship of Jesus. We need to begin to bring the scattered pieces back together.

In this regard, it is helpful to reimagine our Christian academic efforts as the pursuit of wisdom, and not simply the gathering of knowledge. The gathering of knowledge is the accumulation of information (theories, perceptions, discoveries, etc.), but wisdom, understood biblically, is something different. In the bible, a person is said to be wise when that person lives according to the will of God (which suggests that this person also knows what the will of God is). Thus, although knowledge may be something we carry around in our minds, wisdom is something we do with our lives.

The implication of this is that we must surmount the divide between theory and practice, because Scripture tells us that right thinking can only be found in connection with right living. So, to return to the example of my hypothetical A paper on Pauline notions of cruciformity, I would argue that the fact that I got an A on the paper does not accurately reflect whether or not I have actually understood that topic at hand. Rather, how much I understand the topic of cruciformity is directly related to how much my own life becomes cruciform, and has little or nothing to do with the grade I received.

Furthermore, because the Christian life is focused on how we live as Christians, we must go one step further and say that theory must be practice-oriented. It is not enough to say that theory and practice exist in a symbiotic relationship; we must also give practice the place of privilege. This is not to say that there is no place for theory but, for as long as we exist on this side of the new creation of all things, theory must be placed in the service of practice. In this regard, I find myself in agreement with Latin American liberation theologians who define theology as “critical reflection on praxis.”

The second step leading us to the question under discussion today is this: as we begin to piece our fragmented lives back together into some sort of “Christian” whole wherein theory serves practice, we discover that there are certain priorities and demands that apply to all Christians, at all times, in all places. Now, if any of you have read Making the Best of It, or some of Dr. Stackhouse’s other writings, you will know that I will meet a great deal of resistance on this point. So, allow me to try to make my case.

All of us, Dr. Stackhouse included (I think), would agree that there are certain foundational confessions and beliefs that unite, and define, all Christians, at all times, in all places. Notably, the confession of the Lordship of Jesus and the belief that salvation is found in him. To this we could probably add other confessions and beliefs, but the point is that all of us would argue that these confessions are, or at least should be, common to all Christians.

I would like us to expand our thinking in this regard, and argue that there are also certain practices and priorities that are, or should be, common to all Christians, at all times, in all places. Indeed, affirming common confessions, or beliefs, while denying common practices, is, perhaps, one of the more insidious symptoms of the divide between theory and practice.

Therefore, I would like to argue that the preferential option for, and with, the poor is one such common Christian practice. I believe that this preferential option is one of the definitive characteristics of the Christian God, as that God is revealed in history and in Scripture. This preferential option is central to the identity and mission of God. Consequently, it is also central to the identity and mission of the people who claim to follow this God. This is one of the inescapable threads running through, and uniting, the entire biblical narrative. From Ex 2 to Deut 15, to Is 25, Mic 6, Lk 4, Acts 2, Phil 2, James 1, 1 Jn 3, Rev 18 – and a whole host of other passages – we are inescapably confronted with the call to prioritise the poor.

Hence, we arrive at the question confronting us today. The call to prioritise the poor means that we are accountable to the poor – not just as scholars, but as Christians in any profession. Is Christian scholarship accountable to the poor? Yes, it is; because all Christians, as Christians, are accountable to the poor.

3.

Now I reckon that this conclusion is unsettling to most of us – it certainly was to me – so let me try to support it in two further ways. Earlier I mentioned that people at Regent would probably agree that Christian scholarship is accountable to Christ and to the Church. Now I would like to argue that being accountable to Christ means being accountable to the poor, and, being accountable to the Church also means being accountable to the poor. Thus, I hope to demonstrate the intimate and inextricable connection of the poor to both Christ and the Church.

Let us begin with Christ. Matthew 18.20 has been used as one of the foundational verses supporting the notion of the real, sacramental presence of Christ found within the Church. However, what has often been neglected in discussions of Christ’s presence is that an equally strong statement is made regarding the poor in Mt 25.40, 45, when the king in this parable says that whatever is done to “the least of these” is done to the king. Of course, the king in the parable represents Christ and the implication is that whatever we do (or do not do) to the poor is also done (or not done) to Christ. What is interesting is that the union implied between Christ and the poor is even deeper than the union implied between Christ and the Church in Mt 18. While Christ incorporates the Church into his company in Mt 18, he goes one step further and fully incorporates himself into the poor in Mt 25. This reading, then, is further verified by the actual words and deeds performed by Jesus in the Gospels. Jesus becomes one of the poor, he shares their life and their death, and in doing so, he becomes fully identified with them.

In fact, Mt 25, along with further research and my own experiences with and amongst the poor, have convinced me that, just like the Church, the poor are a nation of priests administering God’s presence to the world. There are at least four ways in which the poor perform this duty.

First of all, the poor reveal to us, in history, the bleeding and suffering of God due to the brokenness of creation. The cry of the poor is, simultaneously, God’s cry. The wounds of the poor are, simultaneously, God’s wounds. Hence, the poor are a sacramental and eucharistic presence of the broken body and spilled blood of Christ within history.

Secondly, the poor, like Christ, bear the burden of our sins. They pay the price for our greed, and they bear the burden of our self-indulgent lives. In doing so, they reveal the falsehoods that structure our society, they make manifest the perverse results of our ideologies, and they expose the hypocrisy in our piety. In this regard, the poor are the sacramental presence of Christ known as Truth and Light.

Thirdly, by choosing to respond to us nonviolently – by refusing to harm or rob us, even though we have played a role in taking their food, their clothes, their health, and their loved ones – the poor demonstrate an “amazing grace” towards us. In this regard, the poor are a sacrament of God’s grace in Christ that calls us to conversion.

Finally, returning once again to Mt 25, and building on the point just mentioned, the poor are also a sacramental presence of Christ as Judge. Note well: if we will be judged on the basis of our actions towards the poor, then surely in the work we do – scholarly or otherwise – we are already accountable to the poor.

Consequently, in light of all these things, I must conclude that being accountable to Christ means, at the same time, being accountable to the poor.

Of course, the most immediate and obvious objection to my desire to connect Christ and the poor in this way is that there are many amongst the poor who do not confess Jesus as Lord. In fact, some amongst the poor would deny the lordship of Jesus, so how can we maintain that they are, at the same time, a priestly people and the sacramental presence of the one whom they deny?

The answer to this question is found when we are honest about ourselves. Are not the poor, like us, simul justus et peccator? Do we not, by living self-indulgent lives, deny Christ in our actions, even though we confess Christ with our lips? Yet, do we not, at the same time as we confess this sin, still affirm the sacramental presence of Christ within the Church? We do. Thus, if our sin is that we confess Jeus as Lord while maintaining lifestyles that serve the Lords of Sin and Death, then the poor sin by not recognising the lordship of Jesus (although this is largely because we make Jesus so unlikeable). However, in God’s grace, both parties are still identified with Christ.

This, then, leads to my next assertion: being accountable to the Church means being accountable to the poor. Our previous conclusion regarding Christ’s incorporation of himself into the poor, should lead to the further conclusion that the poor are members of the body of Christ. Again, the biblical narrative confirms this idea.

Let us begin by referring to 2 Ki 24. After we read about the fall of Jerusalem, and learn that the king, the nobles, the officers, the fighting men as well as “all the craftsmen and artisans” are led into exile, the narrator concludes: “Only the poorest people of the land were left.” The poor are not led into exile. Of course, on the one hand, it makes sense that Nebudchadnezzer wouldn’t take the poorest members, since he would have little to gain from them. However, on the other hand, the reader also knows that exile is what happens when God abandons his people to the consequences of their sins. Exile occurs when God says, as he does in Hos 1, “those who were my people, are my people no longer.” Therefore, the ongoing presence of the poorest members in the promised land, means that they have been spared from this punishment. This is not because the poor are any more righteous than others; rather, in this passage, that which permits a person to escape from God’s wrath is poverty. And who are those spared God’s wrath? God’s people.

Fast foward, then, to the arrival of Jesus and his embodied proclamation of the end of exile and the forgiveness of sins. What is intriguing about this is that Jesus simply proclaims the forgiveness of the poor as a fait accompli. The poor are regularly said to be forgiven, even though they do not come to Jesus asking for, or expecting, forgiveness (cf. Mt 9/Mk 2/Lk 5; Lk 7; Jn 8). Jesus’ harsh words, wherein he withholds the proclamation of forgiveness and makes it conditional, are reserved for the wealthy and the well-established – people like you and I. This fits well with our reading of 2 Ki 24. Jesus’ proclamation of forgiveness for the poor is unconditional because the poor were never sent into exile in the first place. The poor were never rejected by God, they were only rejected by other members of their society.

In light of these things, I would assert that our contemporary understandings of church are far too narrow, and reflect a tragic divide between the confessing members of Christ’s body – people like you and I – and the crucified members of Christ’s body – the poor. Therefore, to unite the body of Christ, the confessing members are call to cruciformity, and the crucified members are called to confession. Indeed, apart from this unity, I believe that the body of Christ is sick unto death. In this regard, I would refer us to 1 Cor 11. Here we see a church that is practicing eucharistic table fellowship in such a way that the poor are excluded and marginalised. The result of this is that some members in the Church are growing sick and dying. Although many have been puzzled by this passage, this result should not surprise us. For, on the one hand, when the poor are abandoned, they are abandoned to die of things like malnutrition, starvation, and otherwise treatable illnesses. On the other hand, when the rich abandon the poor in this way, they are acting as subjects of Sin and Death – so it is not surprising that Death would come to claim some of his subjects.

Therefore, although St. Cyprian was correct when he stated extra ecclesiam nulla salus, Jon Sobrino is certainly correct to argue that this necessarily means, extra pauperum nulla salus. The result of this, is that when we say that Christian scholarship is accountable to the Church, we are also saying that Christian scholarship is accountable to the poor.

4.

So, my response to the question under discussion today is a threefold “yes.” First, Christian scholarship is accountable to the poor because the preferential option for the poor is central to the identity and mission of all Christians. Second, Christians scholarship is accountable to the poor because this is one of the necessary implications of our accountability to Christ. Third, Christian scholarship is accountable to the poor because this is also one of the necessary implications of our accountability to the Church.

In his fascinating study of idolatry, We Become What We Worship: A Biblical Theology of Idolatry (Downers Grove: IVP, 2008), G. K. Beale develops the thesis that the bible consistently argues, and demonstrates, that ‘what people revere, they resemble, either for ruin or restoration.’  That is to say, if one worships lifeless, deaf, and blind idols, then one becomes lifeless, (spiritually) deaf, and (spiritually) blind.  Conversely, if one worships the living God, then one becomes the living reflected image of that God.
In this post, I’m interested in pursuing a thought that Beale develops in his third chapter, wherein he argues that Israel’s first act of idolatry after being liberated from Egypt — the worship of the golden calf, depicted in Ex 32 — becomes paradigmatic of how both Israel, and her idolatry, are described elsewhere in the Old Testament.  What is fascinating about the thought developed by Beale is the way in which Israel is described as a rebellious and wild calf — precisely because she chose to worship a golden calf.  Thus, Beale develops the following five points of comparison:

(1) “stiff necked” (Ex 32:9; 33:3, 5; 34:9) and would not obey, but (2) they were “let loose” because “Aaron had let them go loose” (Ex 32:25), (3) so that “they had quickly turned aside from the way,” (Ex 32:8) and they needed to be (4) “gathered together” again “in the gate” (Ex 32:26), (5) so that Moses could “lead the people” where “God had told him to go (Ex 32:34).

Thus, the people of Israel are depicted as ‘rebellious cows running wild’.
This becomes even more fascinating when one realises that, upon his descent from the mountain, Moses’ face is described as ‘horned.’  Now, as far as I know, the English translations of this passage — Ex 34: 29-35 — tend to favour the translation that Moses’ face “shone with glory” but the literal translation is that his face became horned — as Beale says, ‘it emanated a horned-like radiance’.  Hence, what we see is a divine parody of the people’s idolatry, wherein God chooses to portray himself as a warrior bull figure to demonstrate that he is the truly glorious and powerful God — unlike the pathetic calf Israel has chosen to worship.  This, then, helps explain why this made the people afraid, and why Moses’ face needed to be veiled — if his face had remained unveiled then people may have been gored and utterly destroyed and so, as Beale says, veiling appears to be an act of ‘mercy in the midst of judgment’.  The revelation of God’s glory in the context of active idolatry, rather than finding its reflection in the people, ends up judging the people.
In the remainder of this chapter, Beale then goes on to demonstrate how this event is paradigmatic of later events of idolatry within Israel, and how Israel continues to be described as stiff-necked (like a rebellious calf) or like a cow that has turned aside from the way in which it is to go.
Now, what this automatically made me think of (even though Beale does not develop this connection) were Jesus’ words in Mt 11.28-30:

Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

Now, in this passage, Jesus is probably alluding to Jeremiah 6.16 and following, which begins in this way:

Thus says the Lord: Stand at the crossroads and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way lies; and walk in it, and find rest for your souls.  But they said, “We will not walk in it” (which then results in disaster for Israel and the bondage of exile).

Thus, we see the rebellious calf motif resurfacing in the language of being yoked and in the allusion to the need to walk in the proper way (which also calls to mind all of the times Jesus is described as on the way, or as calling people to the way, or as describing himself as the way).  Once again, in Mt 11, Jesus is drawing on the image of idolatrous Israel as a rebellious calf and he is pleading with her to return because his yoke is easy and his burden light.
However, it appears that the motif has been further developed in Mt 11 because Jesus calls all who are ‘weary and carrying heavy burdens’.  This is not the image of a wild calves running free through the fields, it is an image of bondage.  The lesson then is this: calves that run wild will inevitably be captured by other powers, exploited, and worked, quite literally, to death.  Or, to put this properly back into the context of idolatry, those who think they find freedom by running from God and God’s ways, are in fact running straight back into slavery to the horrendous powers of Egypt, Babylon, and Rome (and all other forces in the service of Sin and Death).
Consequently, true freedom is not found in being unyoked; rather, true freedom is found in being properly yoked.
This, then, takes me back to my last post on self-judgment and my own inability to be free.  My conclusion is that there is a tension here that one must constantly negotiate.  One the one hand, I am yoked because I am accountable to the judgment of Christ.  However, on the other hand, I am free because I am bound to the judgment of Christ.

Some time back I wrote an open letter to Jürgen Moltmann. Two people who read that post provided me with a mailing address for Dr. Moltmann, and so I was actually able to send my letter to him. Today I was delighted to receive his response.
I won’t copy everything he wrote (I don’t like to post personal correspondences without the express permission of the other party), but I will reflect on one of the things that he said.
Basically, my most pressing question for Dr. Moltmann was how he was (and is) able to reconcile the lifestyle of a privileged academic with the theopolitical conclusions of his own theology (a question that is deeply personal to both Dr. Moltmann and I). Here is his reply:

Your personal question is indeed challenging. Should I not leave my position of “privilege and power” and live with the poor? I have asked this question myself many times, especially in Atlanta, where I was attracted to leave my position as guest professor and join the Open Door Community working with the homeless. But friends said to me: Better use your capacities and possibilities to change the theological system and create a new ethics. And therefore I am still on this way.

He then writes this:

It is not my task to judge myself, this is Christ’s task.

I have been thinking about this line all day. You see, I have committed myself to not judging others — and leaving that to Christ — but I had never thought to apply this approach to myself. In fact, I am constantly judging myself… and finding myself to be full of lack, hypocrisy, and failure. So the statement “[i]t is not my task to judge myself” is one that seems to be full of liberating potential. Indeed, grasping this may be a part of what it means to embrace my own brokenness. Here I am, a broken, flawed and failing person… yet can it be that it is not for me to judge myself in this way? If it is Christ’s task to judge me, then instead of judging myself in this way perhaps it is better to say this: “Here I am. Beloved.” That’s all. Full stop. For this is all I have ever known from Christ–a deep awareness of being loved.
Yet, even as I write this, it is hard for me to fully accept it. I hear myself saying, “No, you must constantly judge yourself and evaluate your actions so that you can better serve those in need” or “To refuse to judge yourself easily becomes a self-serving ideology which will allow you to live a self-centred life, so while it’s nice to want to affirm this statement, it is better not to” or again “sure, it’s up to Christ to judge us in the end, but for now we need to be constantly evaluating ourselves so that that judgment does not catch us off guard” and so on.
Thus, even as I am confronted with a statement that is full of so much liberating potential that it brings tears to my eyes, I simultaneously feel a massive urge to flee from this liberation (just as I fled from resting with Christ in my dream four years ago).
I do not know how to be free. I do not know how to pursue the Way of Jesus Christ without judging myself. I don’t know how to be both-disciple-and-beloved, and so, because the lover side seems to be fraught with such sweet peril, I overdo the discipleship.
Well, I’m going to try to be done with that now. I’m going to try to not only embrace my own brokenness, but also embrace Christ as both the one loves me and as the one who will judge me. Amazing grace, indeed! To be free not only of the ways in which others judge us, but also of the ways in which we judge ourselves.
[Just as I was about to post this I remembered something. My name, Daniel, means ‘God is my judge’. How ’bout that, eh?]

From what I can tell, based upon the standards often used to measure one’s ‘calling’, I am not, and never have been, called by God to journey alongside of poor people.

• Based upon my family background — growing up in a quiet suburb with debt-free parents who were wealthy enough to send all four of their kids to a private Christian primary school; living an extremely sheltered childhood, basically cut-off from peers and non-Christian influences (like TV, or movies, or video games, or participation in things like Halloween), etc. — you would think I was being prepared to be called into some sort of sheltered, comfortable Christian life.
• Based upon my personal disposition — being an extraordinarily frightened child (something as simple as being left in a Sunday School class would cause me to cry uncontrollably); I am still fairly shy and introverted, not to mention socially awkward in a good many situations — you would think I was being prepared to be called into a profession that didn’t require much engagement with others, and certainly not any engagement in high stress or violent situations.
• Based upon my personal interests and talents — I’ve always loved reading and learning, nature and animals (I wanted to be a vet for years) — you would think God was going to call me into professional Academic work or perhaps work away from the city and out in the wild, where I love to be.
• Based upon the lack of any ‘call experience’ — the closest I’ve ever come to feeling like I was having a call experience was a dream I had when I was thirteen that led me to believe God was calling me to be a missionary to ‘Africa’ — you would think that moving into something so terrifying (to me) and so different than all that had come before would be out of the question.

So, based upon my family background, my personal disposition, my interests and talents, and the lack of any sort of ‘call experience’ I can only conclude that I am not, and never have been, called to journey alongside of poor people… but I want to challenge the way in which we approach this topic.
It seems to me that the notion of ‘calling’ is generally used to justify the pursuit of that which is advantageous to ourselves.
Thus, we see our background in places of privilege as rooted in God’s choice to put us in those places, which means (of course!) that we are called to remain in such places.  Or, we take our personal disposition as a sign of the way God wants us to go, and therefore remain within our comfort zones.  Or we take our personal passions and talents as ‘gifts’ God has given us to develop and so we pursue what we want to pursue.  In this way, all of these things are interpreted as the ways in which God ‘calls’ us — although markedly absent is any sort of call experience similar to that experienced by Paul or Isaiah or Abraham or whomever else.  Indeed, the absence of such an experience is taken as further proof that we are living ‘withing God’s will’!  Unless God appears to me in a dream or vision and says, ‘Go live and work amongst the poor!’, I’ll rest assured that I can take my place amongst the wealthy and privileged.
I trust I am not alone in noting that this ideology is conveniently and profoundly self-serving.
So, here I am, coming up on ten years of moving out of my background, challenging my disposition, and relinquishing my prior interests and talents, in order to attempt to journey alongside of the poor.  Why?  Because, to me, this is what it means to be a Christian.  Even more, I think that this is what it means to be truly human.  Our identity, as disciples of Jesus and as bearers of the divine image, is caught up in, and defined by, mutually liberating solidarity with the marginalised.  This journey has nothing to do with a sense of personal vocation, and everything to do with a sense of our communal identity as children, heirs, and ikons of God.
This is why ‘call narratives’ don’t take place all that often in the Bible.  A few individuals — notably those within the prophetic tradition — experience radical theophanic call events, but most people do not.  This is because the biblical narrative is already pretty clear on who we are to be and what we are called to do.  As Christians we don’t need to be ‘called’ to journey alongside of poor people, our Scriptures already make it plain that this type of life is essential to our identity.
If we miss this ‘call’ then the chances are that a theophanic dream or vision wouldn’t do much to change our minds.  Hence, I am reminded of Jesus’ parable regarding the rich man and Lazarus.  After the rich man dies and heads to torment, while Lazarus is welcomed into Abraham’s bosom, the rich man pleads that Lazarus be sent back to warn his brothers.  This is Abraham’s response: ‘If they do not listen to Moses and the Prophets, they will not be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.’  The same, I think, applies to us and whether or not we believe we are called to journey alongside of poor people.  If we do not listen to Moses and the Prophets (including Jesus), then I suspect that we would find ways to get around any other ‘call’ experience.

I confess: I frequently wonder if I understand or retain anything that I read, and worry that I’ve got a lot of people fooled because, in actuality, I’m a total blithering idiot.
I confess: Moltmann has been a huge influence on me and I’ve read more of his writings than any other theologian… but I stopped talking about him for about a year because I thought it was more scholarly or impressive to talk about Barth and von Balthasar.
I confess: I am often totally baffled as to how many of the scholars who inspire me can remain rooted in the Academy, while simultaneously writing what they write, and affirming what they affirm.
I confess: I believe that the single greatest and most transforming theological book I have ever encountered is not some massive tome full of five dollar words — it is Life of the Beloved by Henri Nouwen.
I confess: I distrust theological aesthetics and am suspicious about the popularity of Christian interactions with ‘the Arts’.
I confess: These days I prefer post-Marxist and anarchist philosophy and social theory over pretty much any theology.
I confess: I spend way more time reading biblical scholars than I do reading the bible (and I am quite happy with this state of affairs).
I confess: I often wonder if I should just spend my time rereading the (excellent) books that I’ve already read, instead of constantly trying to read new things.
I confess: I often think about walking away from theology (and all other theory) and never looking back.

I have been thinking about issues I struggle with, have struggled with for years, and expect to struggle with for the rest of my life. I thought I would write a few down here. I’d be interested in hearing the tensions others struggle with (either in the comments or on their own blogs) or how they resolve these ones. Here are a few of the definitive tensions in my own life and thought:

1. The tension between (a) life as a form of cruciform dying and (b) life as the overcoming of death in the power of the resurrection Spirit (of course, one can resolve this propositionally by saying that one is empowered by the resurrection Spirit to live a cruciform life… but how this plays out in one’s day to day existence, that’s the catch!).
2. The tension between (a) experiencing one’s own finitude, insignificance, and inability to do anything lasting or meaningful, and (b) recognising the sacredness, breath-taking value, and ‘weight of glory’ contained in every single person.
3. The tension between (a) ‘rejoicing with those who rejoice’ and experiencing the peace of Christ, and (b) ‘mourning with those who mourn’ and experiencing the groanings of creation and the Spirit.
4. The tension between (a) relying on God to create change within the world and (b) recognising that God has a habit of working through people to create these changes (this tension is especially manifested in the ways in which I go back and forth in my own practices of resting/receiving and working/sharing).
5. The tension between (a) affirming a God who hears the cry of those who suffer and who acts on their behalf and (b) knowing so many who suffered and died abandoned by everybody and forsaken by God.

[This Thursday, November 13th, at 11am I will be engaging in a public forum with Dr. John Stackhouse, Professor of Theology and Culture, at Regent College, UBC, Vancouver.  We will be discussing the question: “Is Christian Scholarship Accountable to the Poor?” and our discussion will take place in Room 100 at Regent.  Anybody is welcome to attend.  As a way of anticipating this event, I thought I would write the following post as both a teaser regarding what is to come, and as a tribute to Dr. Stackhouse who has been a very good friend and professor to me.  I look forward to many more years of challenge!]

I have spent quite a lot of time thinking about why the form of cultural and political theology espoused by Dr. Stackhouse (particularly in his latest work, Making the Best of It: Following Christ in the Real World) is so compelling to some, and so unsettling to others (like myself).

I have come to the conclusion that one of the key strengths of Stackhouse’s approach is that he is almost a Marxist. Now, as I’m sure Stackhouse knows, I am paying him a very high compliment by saying this, but let me explain what I mean.

First, I do not mean that Stackhouse reflects the same priorities or content as our Marxist or post-Marxist friends. To some extent this is true, in that Stackhouse stresses the centrality of things like shalom and the new creation of all things, but in this regard the differences outweigh the similarities. Stackhouse and our Marxist friends seek peace and justice in two very different – often contraditory – ways.

So, when I suggest that Stackhouse’s arguments are compelling because he is “almost a Marxist”, I am referring not to priorities or content; rather, I am referring to method. That is to say, I believe that one of Stackhouse’s greatest strengths is the way in which his evaluation of our current situation is infused by historical materialism. Now, by saying this, I’m not suggesting that Stackhouse is particularly interested in exploring ‘class struggles’ and the way in which economics and modes of production impact society. Rather, what I am saying is that Stackhouse tries to honestly confront reality and – no matter how uncomfortable it makes him or us – he tries to come to grips with things as they are. Thus, although many people – and Christians and theologians are no exception here – try to flee from an honest confrontation with history and reality as they truly are, Stackhouse tries to be realistic and free of spiritual or ideological blinders when he assesses our world.

This, then, gives Stackhouse’s argument a great deal of existential force. When Stackhouse observes that the Bible is a horribly messy compilation of documents which seem to point to many, contradictory ways of existing as the people of God, I find myself nodding along; when Stackhouse points out how hard it is to create significant change, and notes how our best efforts tend to only produce mixed results, I find that my own experiences confirm this; and so on.

The honesty with which Stackhouse confronts our historical situation then adds weight to his conclusions. Unfortunately, it is these conclusions which I find so unsettingly – probably because I find myself agreeing so frequently with Stackhouse’s descriptive assessment of our situation.

Now, drawing from our Marxist and post-Marxist friends, it would be easy to argue that Stackhouse betrays his own method (his “realism” or what we could refer to as “Christian historical materialism”) and is unable to follow it through to its necessary conclusions. To use the language of Deleuze, these hypothetical critics might argue that Stackhouse reinstates a form of ideological overcoding in order to affirm an ontologically meaningful (and Christian) existence within this situation.

However, we need not go this route. After all, Stackhouse is writing a Christian realism. Therefore, although a fully committed Marxist historical materialism may naturally lead to Sartre’s existentialism, or Camus’ adsurdism, we need not go this route as Christians – although, if we are genuinely committed to confronting reality as it is (and not as we want it to be, or as we have been told that it is) we should be open to and profoundly unsettled by those like Sartre and Camus. Thus, in this regard, I find that I, too, am “almost a Marxist”.

Consequently, it is not Stackhouse’s ‘overcoding’ that bothers me – any effort to attain to some sort of meaning that runs deeper than simple human efforts to create meaning, any effort to affirm some sort of universal or ontological meaning, could be described as ideological ‘overcodings’. In my own efforts to find meaning in life, and to live Christianly in today’s world, I know that I am also engaging in acts of overcoding.

Therefore, Stackhouse’s conclusions are unsettling to me, not because they have an ideological element, but because of the particular ideology that they serve. That is to say, after engaging in a strenuous and honest effort to describe our historical situation (our ‘real world’), Stackhouse concludes that, well, such is life; we just have to accept that and make the best of it. Given the overwhelming presence of sin and compromise in our fallen world, and given the conclusion that God can call us to all sorts of different and even contradictory ways of being Christians in today’s world, we must simply try to do the little bit of good that we can in the places where we are at. Thus, if I am a rich oil man, called to Christ, then I try to live as a rich Christian oil man; if I am a poor slave woman in Sudan, called to Christ, then I try to live as a poor Christian slave woman in Sudan; and so on. This is not to say that Christ might call us away from these situations – Stackhouse affirms that any one of us, as individuals, could experience that call – but there is nothing about Christianity that would require us to move away from those situations.

What this ends up becoming, perhaps despite Stackhouse’s intentions, is a powerful affirmation of the status quo. Yes, Stackhouse recognises that our status quo situation is one that is terribly messy and compromised, but all of life is terribly messy and compromised. So, we might as well get on with it, make the best of it, and try to enjoy it as well.

This, then, is where Stackhouse and I part ways. While we both recognise how terrible our current situation is, Stackhouse has found a way to be at peace with it, while I have not (no doubt, the different environments in which we live and move have some impact on this). I’m not saying that this makes be more right (or more righteous) than Stackhouse. I am observing this, without making any value judgments. After all, I frequently think that I should feel more of the “peace of Christ” in my own self… but I also think that many others, who seem fairly comfortable, should feel more of the groanings of creation and the Spirit.

However, while Stackhouse can accept my way of thinking, without being too deeply challenged by it (after all, he can argue that God has simply called he and I to very different ways of both thinking and living… although, to be clear, I have also never felt simply, and a priori, brushed aside or disregarded by Stackhouse, but have always felt that he has responded to me graciously and thoughfully), I am left deeply unsettled by his conclusions. Precisely because I have so little peace related to the world as it is, I read Stackhouse and think:

“My God, isn’t there something more (to life and to living as Christians)? Is this all there is? We all do what we can, where we can… but mostly evil and suffering continue unabated, and – despite our violent or peaceful efforts (both of which are permitted to different people) – we mostly don’t make much of a difference? There’s got to be something more. Please, God, let there be something more.”(And, yes, I realise how much this reveals my own rootedness within a particular ideological position.)

In conclusion, I cannot help but think of The Myth of Sisyphus, and I cannot help but find myself thinking that Stackhouse, like Camus, fails to provide me with a satisfactory answer to what Camus refers to as the one really serious problem of philosophy. That is to say, Stackhouse does not provide me with any convincing reason as to why I should not kill myself (which, Stackhouse might be quick to add, is precisely why God has called me to a different way of thinking!).