“You see that's when I realised… we don't just love even though we know others will disappoint us. We love knowing that we will disappoint others.”
– JS
“Do I believe in universalism? Do you want my honest answer or my sugar-coated answer? …Okay, well, I think God fucks us over so much in this life that we better all be getting something good after it all ends. I mean look at what's going on is Asia. 150,000 people just died… because of a fucking wave. And really that's just the latest in a string of rather atrocious events that have occurred on this planet. And I want to believe in universalism but I can't make it match with the Bible. I'm trying hard to reconcile the God of the Bible, the God of history, with the God I see in Jesus. I like the God that is revealed in Jesus but he doesn't seem to align with the rest of the Bible – or with experience. Experience seems to align with a God who doesn't mind indulging in a good ol' kill-fest every now and again. I don't know… I sort of feel like I'm in a battle for my life and I hope to win but I don't know if I will.”
– MT
“You are different though. Your faith actually does dictate everything about your life. And that does make you different than most Christians who think it determines their live but keep on living like everybody else. Your relationship with Jesus determines your school. It determines what the career you're looking for. Even when it comes to loving people, you love them through Jesus.”
– TT
Vive La Revolucion
On December 27, 2004 TIME Magazine declared the recently re-elected President of the United States of America to be 2004's Person of the Year. The subtitle of the December 27th issue stated, “George W. Bush – American Revolutionary”. Bush Jr. has joined the ranks of such all American heroes as George Washington. As Time notes, “Eagles rather than doves nestle in the Oval Office”. Apparently Bush Jr. is not simply a hawk, he is the personification of American splendour. As Nancy Gibbs and John F. Dickerson write:
For sharpening the debate until the choices bled, for reframing reality to match his design, for gambling his fortunes – and America's – on his faith in the power of leadership, George W. Bush is TIME's 2004 Person of the Year…In his pursuit of a second term, Bush was just as radical as he was in his conduct of a pre-emptive war. As a politician, he showed the same discipline, secrecy and never he demonstrated in his conduct as President. So he emerges with his faith only deepened in the transformational power of clear leadership. Whether or not the election actually yielded a mandate for his policies, he is sure to claim one for his style, because he stuck to it against all odds, much advice and the lessons of history. And on that choice, at least, the results are in.
Now whether those results are actually in as genuine reflection of the American public or whether the Republicans “stole another election” is the topic of a more serious debate than Gibbs and Dickerson suggest(See Lewis H. Lapham's article, “True Blue” in HARPER'S, January 2005). Regardless, it is clear that the major media pundits are rejoicing in Bush Jr.'s re-election and portraying him as a bold, clear-eyed visionary who has triumphed because he is both strong and good.
TIME's portrayal of George W. Bush as a leader first and foremost is appropriately flushed out be Andrew Sullivan's essay on the final page entitled “Year of the Insurgents”. Drawing from the American Heritage Dictionary Sullivan defines “insurgency” as “a condition of revolt against a recognised government that does not reach the proportions of an organized revolutionary government and is not recognised as belligerency” (Sullivan does not include the italicised words, presumably because the fuller definition does not fit the profile of insurgents he is seeking to present). Thus, Sullivan concludes that insurgents are about sniping, not governing. Given the chance to exercise true leadership they prefer to stay on the margins. Besides, he says, they don't really expect victory. They engage in “a war that is not a real war, a halfway inconclusive revolt without end, a battle of attrition that polarizes as it goes essentially nowhere.” Thus, while insurgents from Mel Gibson, to Iraqi “rebels” in Fallujah, to Jon Stewart engage in infectious but ineffective revolts George W. Bush – that blessed American revolutionary and visionary – is the only true winner. And, TIME Magazine seems to suggest, we should be quite thankful for that.
Unfortunately Sullivan does not create an accurate portrait of insurgents (not that he seems concerned to do so) but only achieves a caricature. Looking at other definitions of insurgency (“an organised rebellion aimed at overthrowing a constituted government through the usage of subversion and armed conflict” – Merriam-Webster; “active revolt” – Oxford) one realises the the key to the definition of insurgents is not their aversion to government or leadership but their active resistance to the government as it currently exists. The American Heritage dictionary adds the clause about insurgents lacking organised government points to the fact that insurgencies are grass-roots movements that are still in the process of gathering numbers and organising themselves under structures of leadership. It does not mean that they are essentially going nowhere, it means that they have only just started going somewhere. Naturally Sullivan finds it much more convenient to warp the definition of insurgency in order to have his audience accept his mostly hyperbolic critique of those who oppose the mainstream media, George W., and American foreign policy.
It's hard to miss the doublespeak here. When those like Gibbs and Dickerson call George W. Bush a revolutionary one begins to wonder how much meaning is left in that word. Others who speak and act out against the injustices they perceive within the present order are not called revolutionary – they are insurgents, and insurgents as Sullivan defines them. TIME is careful to reserve the powerful language and symbolism of revolution (thanks to a culture and education system that presents the American Revolution as the pivotal turning point of history. Odd for a nation that is regarded as Christian – for Christianity affirms that the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus was the pivotal turning point of history) for its allies, while also refusing to apply such language and symbolism to its opponents, regardless of how closely either sit fits the terms of usage.
Perhaps t-shirts with pictures of Che Guevara captioned, “Vive la Revolucion” will one day be replaced with t-shirts sporting George W. Bush proclaiming, “Long live the Revolution”. And kids will sit around in Starbucks reminiscing about the glory days of his reign and wonder how they too can continue the war of freedom that he fought so well.
John Bunyan Meets The Brothers' Grimm
Purity was raped, not by Passion but by something nameless.
For Passion too was beaten and tied up in the basement.
Revelry was blinded just as Faith began to see
That Innocence had died and Hope was made an orphan.
But Assurance adopted Hope who grew to untie Passion.
Passion became the lead in a dance with Revelry.
And Revelry? Well, Revelry introduced Purity to Transformation.
Together they sought Power but all they found was Love.
Who dubbed the nameless 'Impotence'.
Toronto: A Eulogy for Becky
A city full of ghosts and shadows stained grey.
Catching glimpses of the skin of children wrapped in cardboard.
Born of angels
Who fell a long, long time ago
And forgot that they could fly.
“She’s still a trigger and I’m still reliving
The trauma caused by beauty and searching for a stronger muse.
But I only find
Her voice in parking lots
And her reflection in the windows of this train.”
Holiday Family Gatherings
Ivan is clean. His last binge lasted nine days, and he’s been clean ever since. That was five months ago. He’s waiting for me at the door. There’s a light in his eyes, his smile breaking out all over his face and he can’t stop laughing at everything, at everyone, at every word. Not mockingly – joyfully. There’s muscles all over his body where before there were only bones. He’s got a place to stay, and just finished school for a fork-lift driver’s license.
The girl in his lap looks up sneering, “What? Your friend shows up and all of a sudden you’re giggling like a little girl?”
I hadn’t seen Ivan since I took him away with my brothers. Not since he laughed and talked and slept and played and drank with us. He’s family now. We both know it. We are each others family. I’d stayed in touch through a friend, wept when I heard of his heart attack, and prayed desperately when I heard that he had started to clean up.
Ivan, my friend, it is good to see you. You are my Christmas present.
~
Visiting the drop-in was bitter sweet. Scribbles came up to me delighted, pulling me into a bear-hug, laughing and talking too fast. He’s clean too, he’s got a place, he’s gone legit, he’s a father now and he’s taking care of his baby. Scribbles looks like he’s made it. Nikita too, she’s doing well. Eric isn’t nearly as angry as he used to be he smiles and cracks jokes when I point at his long hair and beard and call him Jesus.
“All I know is that if people start deciding I’m some sort of icon to follow then the world is going to get really fucked-up really fast.”
That’s the good news. And then there are the others. Shaun was clean for eight months. He appeared in Toronto about three weeks ago and has started binging again. I talk with him but he’s sketched out. He’s a paranoid schizophrenic and when you couple that with a crack addiction it can be hard to have a coherent conversation. I was hoping he had gone away for good leaving this city and its demons behind. But he’s crashing and burning once again. Lexus buried her baby three weeks ago. She’s older now too, a little more open to being sorrowful instead of angry. I hold her for a moment and she kisses my cheek before she goes. And then there’s Becky. She was doing well. She was clean, looking for work, pursuing her dreams. Then, three days ago, she jumped in front of the subway train. Nobody really knows why. She was in a battle for her life… I guess she lost right at the very end.
In a way, I wish there weren’t so many kids that were thrilled to see me. In a way I wish I had come back to discover a place full of unfamiliar faces. I wanted to dream that the kids I knew had moved on, had healed, had been made whole, but a lot of them are still here, still fighting, still chasing highs and lows. And it’s sad but that’s life. So we just love each other, we delight it one another’s company until we part ways again. For one more day we know that we are beloved and then we say goodbye.
Yes, this is where I wanted to be for Christmas. God bless us, everyone.
A Response
We rejoice.
We have glimpsed victory and have the assurance of the reconciliation of all things.
And so we dance. But as we move across the floor the tears of others are drawn to us and wrap around us like a blanket. Until all things are made new our dance reveals a world full of hurt and dying. Without missing a beat we find ourselves weeping. Our joy and sorrow weave together as the music swells and fades.
One day we will dance freely. Free in a way we cannot completely understand right now. One day we will know laughter that has fully triumphed over sorrow. Laughter that is pure, that is sure, laughter that is whole. Beauty untouched by brokenness. Or rather, beauty that runs deeper than brokenness, beauty that is victorious. Then the dance will truly begin. The crowd will shift, a space will open, and you will see her there. Uninhibited, joyful and whole.
Then we all will echo the words of Martin Luther King, Jr. “Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.”
Maranatha. Come quickly, Lord Jesus, come quickly.
Hands
And the friends that he has are all bleeding.
They’re addicts, and perverts, and thieves.
The story of beauty once broken,
The lonely that nobody grieves.
But in sharing a smile on the corner,
In comparing holes in their shoes,
He’s wishing the best for the other,
Even if the rest of them lose.
Though the room he returns to is empty
And the bedsheets are always cold,
He’s still singing songs in the shower,
A witness to weakness made bold.
He is treating his friends like his lovers
And smiling when no one can see.
His hands jumping out of his pockets,
Now touching, now telling, now free.
Disclaimer
He said:
Hey man, can you help me, I can't reach it.
Pointed at the camera in the ceiling.
I climbed up, blocked it so they could not see.
Turned to find you out of bed and kneeling.
Before the nurses came, took you away,
I stood there on a chair and watched you pray.
– The Weakerthans
This is a journal.
That means I'm struggling with the things I write about – not claiming to have discovered absolute truth.
Please do not go and base your life or faith solely on anything written here (or on your interpretation of anything written here).
~
Naturally, if you speak to enough people about enough subjects, particularly subjects that are deeply personal or deeply controversial, misunderstandings will inevitably result. So let me clarify a few things:
When I write about remembering suffering at Christmas I'm writing to comfortable middle-class Christians, not those who have suffered. I'm writing to Christians who have made emotional happiness and instant pleasure the be-all-end-all of their Christian existence instead of responding to the call and example of Jesus.
When I write about universalism I'm not claiming that all religions (or lacks thereof) lead to the same God. I'm not surrendering terms that the Bible dictates nor am I adopting a laissez-faire approach.
And I'd like to think that when I write angrily I'm not writing (too) arrogantly.
And that, my friends, is my disclaimer. Read critically.
Celebrating Torture?
It's coming on christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
– Joni Mitchell, River
You know, more and more, I have trouble viewing Christmas as a celebratory time of year. I mean, apart from all the Christian ranting about how this time of year has been co-opted by contemporary cultural paganism (“Jesus is the reason for the season!”), I'm not convinced that a Christian approach to Christmas – that of remembering the birth of Jesus – should be a cause of so much frivolous joy.
Certainly there is a joyous element to it. Jesus' birth signals God becoming human, God entering into our world, coming alongside of us to redeem us. God with a face. God we can know and love and hold and be held by. That surely inspires awe and celebration.
And yet how can we unrestrainedly celebrate that event when we know what it leads to? The birth of Jesus was just the first step of a journey of humiliation and suffering. God humbled. God made vulnerable. God as a child. A child destined for abandonment, torture, shame and death. Surely a cause of awe, that God should love us so dearly as to endure such things for us, but not so much a cause of frivolous joy. Christmas is the first step to a journey that culminates in the cross.
I wonder how much those who celebrate Christmas really understand suffering. I wonder how much those who sing the words, “Thank you for the cross” really understand what it entails. Saying thank you for the cross is like saying thank you for the rape of a loved one. Celebrating Christmas so lavishly and thoughtlessly is like celebrating the first step that leads to that loved one's rape.
~
Only in light of the resurrection can we thank God for the cross. And even then it is a thank you that we whisper, that we speak with tears on our cheeks. It is not a thank you for forms of torture but rather a thank you for a love so deep that it was willing to be tortured, and by being tortured set us free.
That's why I think Easter Sunday is the truly celebratory moment of the Christian calendar. New creation bursts into the old. Life is brought out of death and hope out of hopelessness. Humanity is reconciled to God and God is shown to triumph over even the most brutal forms of forsakenness.
This Christmas season, while the world celebrates and feasts, I think Christians would do well to step back and remember a child held by a breathless mother in a barn in Bethlehem. Awed by the miracle of birth, his tiny fingers clutching her thumb. Christians would do well to remember how that same mother would come to see her son beaten beyond recognition and hung naked before a crowd that mocked him as he died. His weathered hands outstretched and pierced. Christians would do well to remember that while the world celebrates we are called to mourn, and while the world feasts we are called to fast. During Christmas we need to remember the God who identified so deeply with those who are oppressed and forsaken that he entered into their forsakenness with them. This Christmas season let us remember that we are called to do the same.
Dinner for Sixty
For the first time since moving out here I felt like I was home. Home in the way that usually only those who have been homeless can understand it. Yes, this is where I belong. I felt like I was with family. These are my people. These are my kids. I was glowing. Those who know me well would have recognised the look in my eyes, “Uh-oh… Dan’s in love.”
And I am. I love these kids. These gutter-punks, thugs, queers, loners, trannies, junkies, prostitutes, and crack-heads. I love ’em. They burst through the door decked out in chains and trench-coats, bandannas and diamond earrings. A flash of leather and teeth, steel and skin. Bruises, pock-marks, scars and unwashed hair. I think to myself, “how can so much beauty fit into this room? God, these kids are beautiful.”
So I wait on them, I bring food to their tables and clean their dirty dishes. I laugh at their jokes, not politely but like a lover – it doesn’t seem to matter how funny the joke is, it’s just a delight to be in the presence of your beloved and any excuse to laugh will do. It’s good to laugh with these kids. God knows they’ve spent enough time crying.
You know, when all is said and done, I think that love is all that I have to give. I used to read stories from the Bible about all sorts of miracles. I used to long see those things happen in my own life, you know, some dynamic in-breaking of God’s power to heal the sick, to restore the down-trodden. I’m not really looking for the miraculous anymore. I’m just looking to journey in love relationships with the down-trodden. I am content to only have my love to offer, as imperfect as it is.
The funny thing is that, in the end, it is through love that the truly miraculous occurs. It’s this strange paradox of surrendering to powerlessness and, in doing so, discovering the power that truly transforms the world. It’s a hard line to walk and an even harder line to describe to others. To embrace love as the only thing I have to offer is to recognise weakness. It highlights all sorts of limitations. Yet, at the same time, I am convinced that love will triumph over all else. It’s victory, but not in the way we are accustomed to thinking of it. It is the victory we discover in the character of the God who loves us deeply enough to come alongside of us. The God who embraces weakness and suffers with us… so that we will be set free.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
– Paul, 1 Corinthians 13.13