On Being Properly Yoked

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.

Moltmann and the Judgment of Oneself

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?]

I Was Never 'Called' to Journey Alongside of Poor People

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.

Theological Confessions

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.

Lest We Forget

lestweforget
On March 17, 1993, a teenager, Shidane Arone, was tortured to death by a regiment of Canadian soldiers on a ‘peace-keeping’ mission in Somalia. This is Shidane. Behind him is Master Corporal Clayton Matchee (one of the sixteen who tortured the boy, and one of the many more in the camp who listened to the boy scream and chose to do nothing).
This is what happens when armies are asked to maintain peace.
This is hell.
This is what I remember today.
Fire on Babylon.  Lord, have mercy.
(NB: Master Corporal Clayon Matchee was never brought to trial because he attempted suicide shortly after this event and, although he survived, he suffered massive brain damage. He was residing in a Canadian psychiatric hospitality until earlier this year, when he was discharged to private care. Due to the state of his mental health, he was ruled unfit for trial, and all charges against him were dropped.
Private Kyle Brown, who took the above picture, was implicated as the other major party in the torturing of Shidane. He was charged with torture and manslaughter, convicted, and served one third of a five year prison sentence.)

Tensions

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.

A Tease and a Tribute

[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!).

3 Books…

Because I just felt like writing something fun…
3 Books that intimidate me:

  1. Capital by Karl Marx
  2. Truth and Method by Hans-Georg Gadamer
  3. Of Grammatology by Jacques Derrida

3 Books that have (permanently?) traumatised and unsettled me:

  1. Necessary Illusions by Noam Chomsky
  2. Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre
  3. The Bible

3 Books that made me weep with joy:

  1. Life of the Beloved by Henri Nouwen
  2. Till We Have Faces by C. S. Lewis
  3. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

3 Books that made me weep with sorrow:

  1. Race Against Time by Stephen Lewis
  2. The Wars by Timothy Findley
  3. Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck

3 Books that manage to take both hope and godforsakenness seriously:

  1. The Crucified God by Jurgen Moltmann
  2. Mysterium Pachale by Hans Urs von Balthsar
  3. Hope in Time of Abandonment by Jacques Ellul

3 Books I love for reasons I won’t share with others:

  1. Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
  2. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
  3. East of Eden by John Steinbeck

Anybody else?

October Books

Well, since breaking my ankle and going through surgery, I’ve had quite a bit of time off work. That means that October was a pretty good month for reading. When I was all doped up, I even managed to read some fiction I wasn’t expecting to get to for awhile. Good times.
1. Reading Paul by Michael J. Gorman (Cascade Companions. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2008).
Well, I know that this has been said in a lot of other places, but this is a really excellent introduction to Paul and his (theopolitical) gospel. In many ways, this book acts as an handy summary of Gorman’s earlier (and equally excellent) books, Cruciformity: Paul’s Narrative Spirituality of the Cross of the the lengthier Apostle of the Crucified Lord: A Theological Introduction to Paul and His Letters. However, there is also a good deal that is new in this book, as Gorman continues to develop in his own thinking; hence, we see new emphases upon resurrection, multiculturalism, and nonviolence/peacemaking, within Paul’s life and experience.
This book also offers the best one sentence summary I’ve ever read of Paul (which, by the way, also acts as a summary of the book at hand). Here it is:

Paul preached, and then explained in various pastoral, community-forming letters, a narrative, apocalyptic, theopolitical gospel (1) in continuity with the story of Israel and (2) in distinction to the imperial gospel of Rome (and analogous powers) that was centred on God’s crucified and exalted Messiah Jesus, whose incarnation, life, and death by crucifixion were validated and vindicated by God in his resurrection and exaltation as Lord, which inaugurated the new age or new creation in which all members of this diverse but consistently covenantally dysfunctional human race who respond in self-abandoning and self-committing faith thereby participate in Christ’s death and resurrection and are (1) justified, or restored to right covenant relations with God and with others; (2) incorporated into a particular manifestation of Christ the Lord’s body on earth, the church, which is an alternative community to the status-quo human communities committed to and governed by Caesar (and analogous rulers) and by values contrary to the gospel; and (3) infused both individually and corporately by the Spirit of God’s Son so that they may lead “bifocal” lives, focused back on Christ’s first coming and ahead to his second, consisting of Christlike, cruciform (cross-shaped) (1) faith and (2) hope toward God and (3) love toward both neighbors and enemies (a love marked by peaceableness and inclusion), in joyful anticipation of (1) the return of Christ, (2) the resurrection of the dead to eternal life, and (3) the renewal of the entire creation. (Hey I didn’t say it was a short sentence!)

Over the last year or so, I have surveyed many books on Paul, and many introductions to his life and thought (by ‘many’ I mean something like 200-300), and this is definitely one of the best. I would recommend it to any reader interested in Paul, and especially recommend it to non-professional readers who are willing to read thoughtfully.
2. The End of the Age Has Come: The Theology of Paul by C. Marvin Pate (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1995).
Many thanks to Chris from Zondervan for this copy.
In this book, C. Marvin Pate develops Oscar Cullmann’s thinking related to Paul’s understanding of eschatology. That is to say, Pate, like Cullmann, argues that Paul believed that in Jesus’ death and resurrection, and in the bestowal of the Spirit, the Old Age of sin and death has begun to end, and the New Age of Christ’s universal Lordship and God’s new creation of all things had begun. Hence, the present is a time of eschatological tension between the “now” and the “not yet” — for one lives between the ages, neither fully in one nor fully in the other.
What is especially helpful about Pate’s study of this topic is (1) the way in which he demonstrates how this sort of thinking makes sense for Paul in his context; and (2) the way in which this eschatological framework is then demonstrated to be the foundation Paul’s entire life and thought. Thus, it is this eschatological tension that shapes everything that Paul says about theology (the doctrine of God and God’s triumph), christology, soteriology, anthropology, pneumatology, ecclesiology, engagement with society, and eschatology (more narrowly defined as last things). Pate devotes a chapter to each of these subjects and their intimate link to Paul’s eschatological framework.
I enjoyed this book and found it’s thesis to be convincing. I would especially recommend it to those who fail to see the central importance that eschatology (properly understood) has within the Christian life.
3. Put Down Your Sword: Answering the Gospel Call to Creative Nonviolence by John Dear (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008).
Many thanks to Bill, at the Regent College bookstore, for this review copy from Eerdmans.
This is a somewhat eclectic collection of essays written by John Dear, a famous American peace activist. The essays are divided into five sections. In the first section, Dear reflects upon the Gospel vision of nonviolence, as embodied especially by God in Jesus Christ. In the second section, Dear relates personal stories from protests against the Los Alamos Nuclear Weapons Laboratories, the School of the Americas, and the U.S. war on Iraq. In the third section, Dear provides his readers with excerpts from journals he kept while on peace-missions to ‘Gandhi’s India’ and ‘war-torn Colombia’. In the fourth section, Dear reflects upon peacemakers who have inspired him (many of whom he has known personally, and been imprisoned with) — the people included here are Dr. King, Ignacio Ellacuría , César Chávez , Philip Berrigan, Ten Nobel Laureates, Henri Nouwen, Denise Levertov, Joan Baez, Bill O’Donnell, Thich Nhat Hanh, Sophie Scholl, and Franziska and Franz Jägerstätter. In the final (and most scattered) section, Dear reflects upon care for the earth, the teachings of Thomas Merton, and ‘the vision of a new world without war, poverty, violence, or nuclear weapons.’
For those who have read of or about any of the folks listed in above, there is not much content that is particularly new here (except for Dear’s personal angle on things, of course). However, rather than reading this book as some sort of scholarly resource to be plumbed for it’s contribution to my own thinking (or whatever… which, come to think of it, is how I read too many books these days… I need to change that), I chose to read this book as a devotional, and I was quite surprised with how, in its gentle and yet persuasive way, it soothed my heart and offered me new hope.
You see, I have found myself increasingly hopeless these days. Specifically, I find myself with little hope that I (or we) will see any of the change for which we long. So, I find myself putting my head down, and trying to remain faithful, even though much of what I do ends up being pointless (say advocating for youth at my workplace or whatever else). However, reading Dear’s words, and the words of the people he quotes, breathed new life into me. What he writes is a beautiful, inspiring, and compelling call to persevere, not ploddingly or heavily, but to persevere with joy and with hope (this combination of perseverance in hard times, while simultaneously being full of peace and joy is also especially evident in the New Testament and in the writings of liberation theologians… and often notably absent in my own life. How does one get to, and remain within, this place?). For example, Dear quotes a conversation that often occurred between his friend Pete Seeger, and other parties:

“In the early 1970s, did you ever expect to see President Nixon resign because of Watergate?” “No.” “Did you ever expect the Pentagon to leave Vietnam the way it did?” “No, we didn’t.” “In the 1980s, did you expect to see the Berlin Wall come down so peacefully?” “No, never.” “In the 1990s, did you expect to see Nelson Mandela released from prison, apartheid abolished, and Mandela become President of South Africa?” “Never in a million years.” “Did you ever expect the two warring sides of Northern Ireland to sign a peace agreement on Good Friday?” “Never.” “If you can’t predict those things, don’t be so confident that there’s no hope! There’s always hope!”

Man, that is water to my soul. Furthermore, it made me revisit my own thoughts on protest movements, letter writings, public marches, all that stuff. Maybe all of those actions aren’t nearly as pointless as I concluded when I walked away from them in 2004. I must think some more about this… and maybe I’ll start joining a few more protests and trying to look at them with new eyes.
4. A New Kind of Christian: A Tale of Two Friends on a Spiritual Journey by Brian D. McLaren.
Many thanks to Mike from The Ooze for this review copy.
Well, it was high time I read some Brian McLaren, so I was very grateful to receive this review copy (and I look forward to receiving the next two books in this trilogy). To my own surprise, I enjoyed this book quite a lot (which, once again, goes to show that you can’t judge an author by his groupies — or at least by the groupies I personally ran into who totally put me off McLaren and a lot of the so-called ’emergent conversation’). So why did I like this book so much? Because it allows people to ask questions. It creates an environment that allows people to genuinely and deeply struggle with their faith. Alas, this is something that has been almost totally absent from the experience of a lot of McLaren’s target audience — those who grew up in American Evangelicalism. Therefore, it is no wonder that this book hit some many people like an oasis in the desert. McLaren lets people know that you can still be a Christian and question where you came from; you can still be a Christian and have unresolved doubts; you can still be a Christian and not be like the other Christians with whom you grew up. From my own experiences working with young people who are not allowed to ask questions, raise doubts, or be different, I can see the value in this book (after all, I almost got fired from a camp — where I was leading staff bible studies — because I was asking open questions, and honestly trying to struggle with tough issues of the faith; I mean, a concerned mother wrote into the camp and said that the devil was speaking through me because I stated that universalism could be a Christian alternative, and because I said there might be times when swearing doesn’t matter all that much!).
Of course, there are some issues I would want to raise with McLaren — his stereotyping of modernity as almost entirely negative (or ‘inappropriate’ as he would say), and of postmodernity as almost entirely positive (‘appropriate’) is pretty superficial. Even worse, he labels modernity the age of consumerism and states that postmodernity is, or will be, postconsumerist and I think that this is a very, very serious error. As those like Frederic Jameson have argued, postmodernity is not post-capitalist. It is, in fact, the cultural logic of late capitalism. This then suggests that McLaren might have a blindspot in this regard, and opens him to the criticism that much of the emergent church is precisely an expression of this consumer mentality.
However, there was one point where I thought I would disagree with McLaren… but I didn’t. You see, I expect him to present “a new kind of Christian” as a better kind of Christian. After all, this is the vibe I have gotten from a lot of emergent folk — that they are leaving the rest of the Church in their dust as they carve the Christian path into the future. However, McLaren is explicit that being “a new kind of Christian” is not a better way of being a Christian, nor is it a worse way. It is simply another way. As one of the characters in the book states: “We’re talking about a new kind of Christian, not the new kind or a better kind or the superior kind, just a new kind”. Excellent.
There are other areas that I think McLaren needs to fill out more carefully — in particular, I think he needs to fill out some of his thoughts (and maybe he has elsewhere?) on what it means to “be a Christian and yet be culturally Buddhist, Muslim, or Navajo”. I can agree with the examples he provides (Navajo Christians engaging in sweats, etc.) but I would want to hear more from him on this point. By an large, it seems like McLaren takes a largely positive view of the dominant culture within which one finds oneself, and this does strike me as a wee bit optimistic.
Another point that I think is a bit objectionable, is the way in which McLaren seems to repeat the idea that Christians do far more harmful things to each other than non-Christians. Now, granted, since McLaren has lived in a largely Christian milieu, it’s not surprising that he would have this personal experience, but the fact is that Christians and non-Christians alike do harmful things to each other, and it isn’t helpful to suggest that one group is worse than the other. Christians aren’t the only ones to shoot their wounded. Everybody shoots the wounded.
However, leaving these sort of objections aside, I was very happy to have read this book, and it is exactly the sort of book that I would love to work through with a group of Christian high-school, or college-age, students.
5. Jesus Wants to Save Christians: A Manifesto for the Church in Exile by Rob Bell and Don Golden (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2008).
Many thanks to Chris from Zondervan for this review copy.
In many ways, this book reminded me of Claiborne and Haw’s recent book. Like Jesus for President, this book engages in a theopolitical rereading of the biblical narrative in order to inform and inspire a Eucharistic socio-political vision of what it means to be and do Church today. Thus, the authors begin with the bondage of the Hebrew slaves in Egypt — which, they are correct to note, is the true starting point of of the biblical narrative (for more reasons than the one they mention) — and move through the exodus, to Sinai, to the corrupt kings of Israel, to exile, to Jesus, Pentecost, the Church, and America today. What we discover in the process is something of a cyclical pattern. We start in bondage in Egypt — a place of oppression and bondage — we move to Sinai — the anti-Egypt place of liberation and active care for others — we then come to Jerusalem where the oppressed forget their roots and become oppressors — thereby restoring a sort of Egypt — and this results in a new bondage — exile — which then leads to a new form of liberation — Jesus — and a new Sinai — the eucharistic community of faith — which has now lost it’s way in America — resulting in a new Egypt and a new exile — and requiring the recovery of one’s identity in order to bring about a new liberation (hmmm… is that a run-on sentence?).
Now this is all well and good, and I am very sympathetic with what Bell and Golden are doing in this book. I think that their criticisms of empires are pretty bang-on, and I think that they call they issue to contemporary Christians is equally bang-on. In fact, I would want to push them further down this road and argue that they are too generous to the American empire. For example, they argue that the American empire has been ‘blessed by God’ and should, therefore, share that blessing with others. However, when you get down to the material economic details of all this, you will find that America is actually wealthy because she is plundering less powerful people, both at home and around the world. I wouldn’t call that a divine ‘blessing’, I’d call that theft and murder. (Before people charge me with being anti-American, let me say that the same criticism is true of Canada.)
However, I would like to challenge the way in which the authors understand ‘exile’, one of their dominant motifs. According to the authors this is what exile is:

Exile is when you forget your story.
Exile isn’t just about location; exile is about the state of your soul.
Exile is when you fail to convert your blessings into blessings for others.
Exile is when you find yourself a stranger to the purposes of God.

Therefore, according to the authors, the solution is to remember your story, begin to care for others, begin to live back in line with God’s purposes, and in this way be liberated from exile. It is to begin to cry out to God, so that one’s life can be turned around. For (and this is perhaps the most repeated assertion in the book), the God of the Bible is the God who always hears and responds to the cry of the suffering (like those suffering under exilic conditions).
However, what this misses the true depth of the biblical understanding of exile. Exile, at its core, is the experience of godforsakenness. Exile is when God stops answering our cries… because our hands are covered in blood and because we are members of a people who are up to their necks in the blood of others. Hence, we hear the laments of the prophets in the Old Testament — the laments of Jeremiah, Isaiah, Ezekiel and others — aren’t just that Israel is being dragged out of the land. The primary cause of their lament is that God has abandoned them. All of them. Not just the corrupt arms-dealers and power-mongers. God had also abandoned his prophets and all the citizens of the nation (except, as 2 Kings 24 reminds us, the very poor, whom God remembers and permits to remain in the land). Therefore, if the authors think that we are living in a time that could be described as exilic, I think that they need to wrestle far more seriously with this core aspect of exile, instead of glossing over it with lines about how God always hears and responds to our cries and the cries of the oppressed. Both history and Scripture teach us otherwise.
I have two further objections to raise. I have already alluded to the first when I talked about how the authors refer to America’s wealth as a sign of God’s blessing. My objection here is that the authors, despite their ‘revolutionary’ stance, might be more complicit in the structures of empire than they imagine (since, after all, they see blood money as a sign of blessing). A further sign of this is when they talk about practicing Eucharistic forms of charity, and describe this practice in this way:

The Eucharist is not fair.
Giving to those who cannot give in return, that’s not fair.
Serving those who have no way to serve in return, that’s not fair.

Two things need to be said in response to this. First, when we give to the poor, we are restoring to them that which is rightfully theirs. Thus, the only thing ‘not fair’ about this is that we had what belonged to them in the first place. Second, what one discovers when one begins to give to, and serve, the poor is that one takes, receives, and ends up being served even more. This has been my own experience, and it has been the experience of many others — Vanier, Nouwen, Day, Maurin, Mother Teresa, Sobrino, etc. Again, this might not be ‘fair’ but it’s not fair because we don’t deserve such grace, not because we’re doing so much or whatever.
My second further objection to what the authors say, is the way they talk about guilt. They write:

Guilt is not helpful.
Honesty is helpful. Awareness is helpful. Knowledge is helpful.
Guilt isn’t.

Again later:

And when we listen and go, it will never be about guilt.
It will never come on the heels of “Well, I guess I’m supposed to.”

I’ve noticed this sort of thinking seems to be fairly common in counter-cultural Christian movements. Now, don’t get me wrong, I understand the motive. I understand that it is important to be operating out of grace, and I understand that movements premised upon guilt are usually unsustainable and short-lived. However, my concern is that we then take away the Spirit’s role of convicting us of our sins and spurring us to repentance. The truth is that there is a proper place for guilt (for example, it is appropriate to feel guilty after sinning against another person) and guilt might be precisely what we need to feel to start us onto a new path. Of course, guilt won’t sustain us on that path, but if we never feel guilty, we may never get on it.
So, all in all, I feel as though Bell and Golden have begun a good process and a good conversation, and I hope that they continue to follow it through and explore the depths of some of these things.
6. Sixteen Satires by Juvenal.
These satires, on a number of topics, offer a great glimpse into civic and social life at the end of first century/start of the second century CE. After spending the last year and a half reading about the Graeco-Roman world at that time, I found that these satires really came alive for me. In fact, I even found myself chuckling at parts, which I think means that I’ve crossed some sort of geek line of no return. Oh well. I regret nothing!
However, as with the satires of Petronius and Seneca, my impression is that these satires actually reinforce the values and interests of the elite and the powers-that-be. The particular objects of Juvenal’s scorn tend to be freedmen, the nouveau riches, hangers-on, and other would-be social climbers. Hence, although Juvenal may appear to be speaking quite critically of Roman society, he is actually criticising those who would change Roman society into something else (something less beneficial for Juvenal!).
7. The Gods Will Have Blood [Les Dieux Ont Soif] by Anatole France (not sure why the title was changed so much in translation…)
I’ve kind of been on French literature kick lately. Well, I’ve wanted to be on a French literature kick, but I haven’t had the time for it. Hooray, then, for my broken ankle!
Based on what I had read about this book, I came with fairly high expectations. However, much of what this book is praised for is the mastery France shows of the French language in which it was originally written… so maybe a lot was lost in translation.
That said, this is a story focused upon an idealistic young artist, Gamelin, who lived in Paris during the French Revolution. It demonstrates the ways in which a stringent allegiance to lofty ideals can lead to terribly inhuman actions (hence, Gamelin develops from a youth full of ideals into a Jacobin magistrate who sends some of his own family to the guillotine). In contrast to Gamelin, is the Epicurean Brotteaux — a former nobleman now reduced to humbly living in an attic and selling puppets in order to survive. Brotteaux offers the reader with a character who doesn’t place much confidence in ideals, or in those who hold them, and who much prefers to try and enjoy life without hurting others.
I won’t give away how all of this plays out in the end, but I was somewhat disappointed in the presentation of the characters. I did, however, find this window into the French revolution to be quite captivating, and it made me think I should go and read some history books.
8. Shouts From the Gutter by Chris Walter.
Chris Walter writes like somebody with a Grade 7 education. That’s because he only has a Grade 7 education. So, the fact that Chris Walter is a successful Vancouver author, and the founder of his own publishing company (Gofuckyerself Press), despite the fact that he was a gutter-punk, street-involved, drug-user (and whatever else) for so many years, makes him something of an underground punk icon around here. Of course, not everybody feels this way about Chris. When you read the blurbs on the back of this book, two stand out more than the others. “Quill & Quire” writes: “Chris Walter? Who the hell is Chris Walter?” and Margaret Atwood, one of Canada’s most famous authors, writes: “Chris Walter is a fucking asshole.”
This book is a collection of short stories, which blend real life experiences with fictional events and characters. As I implied above, given Walter’s background, you shouldn’t expect to find another Don DeLillo here. Instead, you can expect to find an insider’s perspective on street life. And that makes this book a real gem.

On Judging by Outward Appearances

One thing that has surprised me is the way in which people will pigeonhole me based upon my appearance. The fact that I wear a beard and have dreadlocks (and often wear old ratty clothes) will cause some people to automatically stereotype me.
Now, granted, I expect to experience some of this stereotyping in society, and for many years I have chosen to embrace that. Knowing how superficial our society is, I have chosen to dress myself in ways that identify me with street-involved people. I think there is some benefit in doing this, although I must constantly ensure that my efforts to achieve solidarity with the street-involved extended will beyond such superficial or symbolic acts.
However, it does sadden me when I experience this stereotyping in Christian circles and, in particular, in Christian academic circles where things like one’s outward appearance are said to be adiaphora. So, for example, one of my profs (who is also a friend of mine) reminded me, after my recent chapel talk, that my image, and form of delivery, would make some people think that I was trying to be “Dan the Dreadlocked Prophet” out to stick it to the man… when in actuality, I’m just Dan the privileged Regent student trying to figure out how the hell we can live as Christians in today’s world. Thus, when I objected to my professor-friend and told him I would be sorely disappointed if those who were dedicated to Christian discipleship, not to mention academic ‘objectivity’, would be so superficial in their judgment of me, he simply responded that people do, in fact, judge and respond to people based on these things and that I needed to keep that in mind.
This then got me thinking about how we all say that outward appearances don’t matter — say the colour of one’s skin, the type of clothes one wears, one’s degree of cleanliness, one’s physical abilities or the lack thereof, and so on — and the chances are that we believe ourselves when we say this. However, the only way of knowing if we are faithful to our own beliefs is by being confronted by those who do look quite different than us, and reflecting upon how we respond.
For example, I would have never imagined that I was rascist — I grew up in a family that was ‘colour blind’ and had friends from various ethnic backgrounds. However, the dominant culture in which I lived and moved — both in my family, in my church, and with my street-involved friends — was white. Therefore, when I first began working with street-involved youth in Toronto, I came to the realisation that I naturally gravitated towards the white, gutter-punk kids, and was much more intimidated by, and distant from, the black gang-bangers or the hard-edged First Nations youth. I was afraid of them and, as I came to this realisation, I noticed that I was afraid of them for largely superficial reasons — like the colour of their skin or their different ways of presenting themselves. Thus, while I would verbally affirm that one’s appearance doesn’t matter, and while I genuinely believed that we are all equal, my fear betrayed the fact that I was actually unfaithful to my own beliefs. So, what did I do? I deliberately started spending more time with the kids who had intimidated me. In this way, I learned to get over my (irrational and racist) fears, and now I think I can say that I actually live in accordance with what I believe (at least in this regard).
Now, this takes me back to what I said in my chapel address about the importance of having some people like Ross (a homeless man) at a place like Regent (a graduate school). The presence of a Ross confronts us with somebody who is genuinely different than us… at least in his appearance. Therefore, a person like Ross forces us to see if we are, in fact, faithful to our own convictions. Unfortunately, a place like Regent — as it is currently structured — makes it altogether too easy for us to think we are faithful to a good many beliefs, without ever having to put those beliefs on the line and see if we can act them out.
Thus, we may say that we are concerned about the poor, but how do we actually react to the poor people whom we meet? Or, we may say that we do not judge by outward appearances but when we are walking down the street at night would our reaction to running into a group of preppie white kids differ from our reaction to a group of thugged out black kids? Or, we say that we have faith that God will take care of us, but have we ever deliberately put ourselves in a situation when we had nothing and nobody to fall back on except God? I’ve done that — put myself in a situation where I was forced to rely concretely and financially on God — and I quickly learned that my faith was almost non-existent! Like Peter seeing Jesus on the water, I had enough faith to get out of the boat, take a few steps… and then I began to drown. Would I have known that my faith was so small if I had never gotten out of the boat? No.
We only truly come to know ourselves, and we only truly discover what we in fact believe (and not just what we tell ourselves we believe) as we enter into relationships with others, and especially with others who are different than ourselves.  Just as we are not who we appear to be, we are also not who we think we are.  Who we are is contained in what we do.