In Memory of Her

I saw Trinity one last time before I left the city.
“My pimp’s in jail, eh.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Yeah, another girl ran away again and this time when he caught her he cut off all her toes. He’s been put away for six years.”
“So you’re free from him?”
“Yeah, I’m working for the corporation now. Gone high-track. There’s a dress code.”
The only thing Trinity took from the clothing room was a beige jacket, I think it was actually made by Ralph Lauren or some big-name designer. It was a nice jacket. She left with it over her arm. I offered her another shirt and some nice shoes but she wouldn’t take them.
“You mean something less slutty?”
“No,” I really wasn’t saying that, “I was just thinking that it will be getting colder later tonight… At least take the shoes. Your feet look like they’re killing you.”
Trinity had come in wearing a bandanna as a top, a pair of stained white pants that looked painted on, and some pink high-heels that had sequin flowers on the strap. Her body was spilling out everywhere. Her hips, her breasts, her stomach, her calves. All this and more could be yours for the low, low price of… I spent a lot of time looking at those pink high-heels.
“No, I’ve got to wear these shoes, they’re part of the dress code.”
She kept up a constant dialogue while she was looking through the clothing room. Talking about finally being free of her pimp and admiring the clothes that are cute. Just briefly, and more to herself than to me she makes a comment, just one remark and then she’s off admiring another shirt.
“You know it’s not like I enjoy doing this. It’s not like I want to be this person.”
She’s still a slave. This time for a richer man who offers a better reward for a job well done. But chances are that his teeth are bigger. Low-track pimps are thugs, men who beat their girls with pipes, and put out cigarettes on their thighs… but they need to money every girl makes. High-track pimps are more organized. Not so desperate to take a girl back – more willing to make her disappear completely. That way the other girls are less likely to run away in the first place.
As we were walking back down the hall together we ran into a group of church leaders who were meeting with the shelter’s chaplain. I was slightly embarrassed. I had hesitated to take Trinity to the clothing room with me – it doesn’t look good to be alone on the second floor with an attractive (and hardly clothed) sex trader worker. Still, I figured it would be better than leaving her waiting at the front-desk where a constant stream of guys would be coming to look her up and down. Nobody tries to hide the fact that they’re checking her out and licking their chops… after all it’s not like she’s hiding much from their view.
As we passed the church group one of the men looked at her, then looked at me and gave me a wink and a knowing smile. I wanted to punch him in the teeth.

Exile Revisited

For a long time I've been struggling with the idea of exile – convinced that the corporate church in North America is in exile yet wondering if all genuine members of the people of God are also in exile. Can I possess the eschatological spirit and yet still be in exile? I thought of people like Joshua and Caleb who journeyed in the wilderness with a body of people rejected by God, I thought about Daniel, Shadrach and the gang, and wondered, is there a sense in which even the remnant is in exile?
There is a tragic moment in Ezekiel when the prophet watches the Shekinah depart from the temple. At that moment the destruction of Jerusalem and the temple is assured. Yet there is also the idea that God's Shekinah departs to go into exile with her people. So I wondered, is there a sense in which I am in exile yet God is suffering in exile with me? Is there a sense in which I can possess the Spirit of Jesus, interceding on my behalf as I am in exile?
I thought that the answer to those questions was yes. But now I'm coming to another conclusion.
If my body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, if I do possess the spirit of the eschaton, if I am Jesus to the world that I live in, then I cannot be in exile. Rather I am the Shekinah of God that journeys with a people who are still in exile. Therefore, I am no more in exile than Jesus was. Jesus journeyed with a people in exile yet he never was in exile. Rather he embodied the in-breaking kingdom. Even if he suffered some of the consequences of the people in exile he was not in exile. Rather he suffered those consequences to bring the people out of exile. Therefore, I am not in exile with God suffering alongside of me. Rather I embody the Spirit of God who journeys with a people in exile, sharing in their sufferings in order to bring them out.

Oppressive Potential

Her: “I'm fucked-up.”
Him: “No you're not.”
Her: “I've been shattered.”
Him: “No, you're whole.”
Her: “I'm ugly.”
Him: “No, you're beautiful.”
Her: “I'm damaged goods, I'm worthless.”
Him: “No, you're precious.”
Her: “I'm fucked-up.”
Him: “No you're not.”
Her: “Yes I am.”
Him: “No you're not.”
Her: “Yes I am.”
Him: “Okay… jeez… relax. What's your problem, anyway?”
You see, here's the thing. Loving people means allowing them to be fucked-up. That's why so often it is better to listen than it is to offer solutions. Even when people cry out for help, even when you're sure you have all the answers. Job's friends had all the answers and look what they did to him. The only time the demonstrated their wisdom was at the very beginning when they sat in silence with him. Once they started offering solutions everything goes downhill and Job's sufferings are made worse. You see, a person who has been shattered is only sure of one thing – that she is shattered. To say that they're not, means nothing to them and only leads them to conclude that you don't understand. It's what Rick Tobias calls “oppressive potential.” By always seeing what person can be, we never end up meeting them where they are. Instead of offering answers we need to be offering love. That conversation should run more like this:
Her: “I'm fucked-up.”
Him: “I love you.”
Her: “I've been shattered.”
Him: “I love you.”
Her: “I'm ugly.”
Him: “I love you.”
Her: “I'm damaged goods, I'm worthless.”
Him: “I love you.”
Her: “I'm fucked-up.”
Him: “I love you.”
Although she may be sure that she is shattered this love thing may be something new. It may start her thinking, “What is he talking about?” She may be sure of her brokenness, and worthlessness no matter how many times you tell her otherwise, but as you journey in love relationship with her, she will begin to realize, “Hold on a minute… this love thing is something that makes me whole. It's something that makes me beautiful and precious. It's something that makes me not fucked-up!”
Of course the genders could be just as easily reversed. I don't want to suggest that women are always the “victims” and men are always saving them (the idea that men must always save women is one that, ultimately, only further victimizes women).

Love

Here's the difference between the way in which Christians today define love and the way in which Jesus defined it not that long ago.
Love is in these days. Everybody talks about love, it seems like we are all in agreement that we just need to be more loving. Not that we're doing too bad of a job of it… we'd all like to believe we're pretty caring people. Even more interesting to those who pay a little closer attention, is the fact that Christians and those of other faiths seem to be talking about the same thing when they talk about love. It seems that love is demonstrated in a willingness to sacrifice should the need arise. It is a willingness to give to those who cross our paths. Walking down Queen Street I demonstrate love by stopping to buy lunch for the squeegie kids. Heck, I love my family so much that, should the need arise, I would even die for them., If someone were to fire a gun, I'd jump into the line of fire – that sort of thing.
Unfortunately for us Christians I think Jesus is talking about something very different when he spoke about love. This isn't lost on the authors of the New Testament. In “Romans” 5 Paul says this:
“But God demonstrates his own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”
A little later John writes in “1 John” 3:
We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us; and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren. But whoever has the world's goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him? Little children, let us not love with word or with tongue, but in deed and truth.”
The words sound familiar, the examples equally so, but something radically different is going on here. We have defined love by the willingness to make sacrifices as we cross paths with those in need. Yet this is not love as God has modeled it to us. It is not simply that humanity (and the rest of creation) was headed in one direction, God in another, our paths crossed, Jesus died, and we both keep going our separate ways. No. Fallen humanity was journeying away from God. Yet God demonstrated his love by deliberately placing himself in our path. God went and sought us out.
And that's where the difference lies. As Christians we are not called to give as the need arises. We are called to go out and discover that need – not simply address it as we stumble upon it. That's why we are called to lay down our lives. It is in our living that we pay the price. It is about living a sacrificial life, not simply dying a sacrificial death. The question is no longer, “What are you giving?” but rather, “What are you holding back?” Then the language Jesus used, the language about crosses, about sacrifice, about suffering, starts making sense in hard and practical ways. It's not simply flowery rhetoric, it's the cost of discipleship.
When Jesus tells the famous story of the “Good Samaritan” he concludes by asking, “Who was the neighbor of the robbed man?” The man who was questioning him (remember this takes place in context of the command to “love your neighbor as you love yourself”) responds by saying, “The one who showed mercy.” Jesus then says, “You have answered correctly. Go and do likewise.” Love is demonstrated by placing ourselves in the paths of those who have suffered, love is demonstrated in seeking out the wounded – not just waiting until we stumble upon them (which we hardly do. Mostly because we are untrustworthy and unsafe and so those around us never share their stories with us).

Her

Her body’s like a prison
that’s locked-up from the inside,
but always open to those
outside.
They choose to come, and then go –
but she still has no way out.
It’s a partner that she can
hardly recognize. Although
strangers never cease to look
at her,
as if they somehow know her –
like it`s inevitable.
Like they see the things she hides
from the image she reflects.
Like hot water over glass,
Or wind
that moves over still water –
Only the heat is stifling.
And the wind is biting.

Stigmata

In the crypt beneath Sacre Coeur there is a tiny chapel called, “The Chapel of Holy Piety”. Compared to the church above it’s exceedingly barren, a simple alter, one white marble sculpture of the Madonna holding the dead Christ, a few relics, two tombs with sculptures of archbishops, and, off to the side, a black onyx sculpture of Jesus. Jesus is laying on his back. He is dead, his body has yet to be cleaned, there is blood lingering around his wounds but his heart has stopped beating, his chest has stopped rising and falling, no breath escapes from his lips.
I was alone in that chapel for close to an hour. I spent a lot of time meditating on the sculpture. Sacre Coeur was a time of close communion, an intimate encounter with God.
I’ve never really told anybody but as I was praying and weeping and singing during my meditations one of the things I found myself praying for was that I, on my body, could bear the wounds of Christ. It was a strange prayer, I felt a little bit weird praying it, I’ve felt even more weird by the idea of telling anybody, but I prayed it nonetheless. There was something going on…
Anyway here I am six months later in Muskoka Ontario and I get into a conversation with a friend about what it means to journey with people who are suffering. What it means to take up a cross, what it means to grieve with those who grieve. As we are talking I also mention some of the dreams I’ve been having recently. She says she’s never had dreams like that. That night she dreamed this dream:
Her and I were walking into a party together. It was a mixed crowd, a large party, and there were people there we knew, and people we didn’t know. As we moved through the crowd I approached a girl sitting off to the side. Almost in slow-motion I reached out and touched this girl’s face.
“You have a cut here,” I said to her. Then I touched my own face. “I have the same cut on my face.”
Then in slow-motion I touched the girl’s back, touched a series of scars, of cuts, of marks all over her body and every mark she had on her body I had on mine.
The party progressed and I disappeared into the crowd. My friend found herself in a bedroom with the girl with the cut on her face. The girl was crying and asking my friend where she could find me.
“I don’t know, he comes and goes,” she said.
The girl was crying, and my friend was unsure what to say.
As she woke-up a voice in her head repeated, over and over again, “suffer with me. Suffer with me. Suffer with me.”
That was her dream. As I was thinking about it the other day I realized something. It is by entering into the suffering of the oppressed, the wounded, the abandoned that we begin to carry the wounds of Christ on our bodies. Just as Christ bore our griefs, carried our sorrows, was pierced for our transgressions and crushed for our iniquity, so we now carry the wounds, griefs, sorrows, transgressions, and iniquities of those around us. This is how we fulfill our vocation as the suffering servant. Yet, our wounds, like Christ’s, are redemptive. We are chastened for their well-being and by our scourging they are healed.

Surprised by Joy*

So Jude asks me, “Where is the joy in carrying our cross? Where is the joy that comes with dying? All this talk about grief and suffering, how does this idea of the joy of the Lord being within us fit into that picture?”
It's a tough question. One that I've struggled with a long time, and mostly ended up ignoring because I was never fully satisfied with the answers I could think of. Now I feel like I've started to discover an answer, it came through one of those, “can't see the forest for the trees” sort of moments.
As I told the guys at the shelter I was leaving, a lot of them made comments about how positive a presence I was, how I always had a ready smile, that sort of thing. One of my best friends there said to me, “Man, you're the happiest person I know.” I got to thinking about this and remembered how kids at the drop-in had said the same thing when I left there, “You've always got a smile for me… no matter how the day is going you're always happy to see us.” These people see me as a joyful person.
Which is funny because all my friends from Christian circles tend to see me as sad or critical or pessimistic. That's also the way I've always tended to see myself. I feel like I spend far more time “mourning with those who mourn” than “rejoicing with those who rejoice.”
And that's when it hit me. In my reflections on this I discovered the joy we have in the midst of carrying crosses. I feel like the cross I carry is often the suffering and grief of the homeless, abandoned and oppressed that I journey with. Yet these are people I love dearly. Of course I smile when I see them, it's a delight for me to see them. Of course I laugh with them, they're beautiful and brilliant. Therein lies the joy. I am journeying in love relationships. I love these men, these kids, these people, and – amazingly – they love me! How can the joy that brings me not be reflected in my relationships with them?
So there the paradox finds its resolution. On one hand there is a genuine cross and a deep suffering that comes with journeying with people who are broken at a level I will never experience. On the other hand there is genuine joy and delight that comes with journeying with beautiful and brilliant people that I love and that love me.
—
*Taken from the title of a C.S. Lewis book. He means it in a different way but, dang, it's such an appropriate quote for this situation.

Empathy

I was sitting talking on the porch with an LIT and she was asking about my work and began telling me how her and her friends would volunteer at Sanctuary. She was talking about her desire to love people, her desire to help but her feeling of inadequacy,
“I meet these people, I listen to your stories and I think, 'how can I offer these people anything? How can I empathize?' I've always had it really good. I've never gone through anything bad.”
I've often struggled with feeling that way. I've asked myself the same questions, I used to think that I needed to run away, lose myself in the streets, go through every type of hell, so that then I would be able to come alongside of people who were suffering. Then I would be able to say, “I understand,” then I would be able to say, “let's get through this together.” Then I would be able to at least offer companionship, and they would not be so alone.
Of course to even feel such things shows how little we understand suffering. Say such a thing to someone who has suffered deeply and they'll look at you like you're crazy.
“You don't know what you're saying. I never want anybody to go through anything close to what I've gone through.”
And then, talking with this LIT, I realized something. It was Jesus who surrendered everything to enter into our suffering and bring us out of it. It is Jesus who can truly empathize, who can truly offer companionship and comfort. And then I realized, it is Jesus in us, Jesus in me, that the people I work with recognize. It is because I have Christ in me that I can come alongside of those who are suffering and offer them something. I always want it to be me who makes the difference, me who is significant, but really, it's Jesus in me that these people recognize, it's Jesus who makes the difference.
And that's why I can still do the work I do. That's why I can still journey with the people that I love, and that love me – without having to go through the hell that they have experienced.

Hope and Salvation

Well, I usually try and stay away from this sort of debate but my brother asked me about my thoughts on the “once saved, always saved” debate and I ended up coming to a completely new (at least to me) conclusion. Usually I just point out that people focused on this question are completely missing the point of what it means to live as a member of the people of God, so I was talking about that with my brother when I had this idea.
I think that it is correct to say we are once saved, always saved. However (and this is the kicker), the question then follows, when does salvation occur? And here's the thing – salvation has not yet been fully enacted. Not for any of us. The completion of salvation occurs when Jesus returns and enacts judgment over the living and the dead. Therefore, when judgment results in grace, when we are not damned to the experience of God's wrath, THEN we are saved. Until then we only have the hope of salvation. So of course it is once saved always saved. Once God judges in our favor we are saved, and once we enter into the consummated kingdom we are always saved. But until then we only have the hope of salvation.
All this, of course, makes us rethink the popular Christian understanding of the moment you ask Jesus into your heart being the moment when you are saved. Actually it makes us rethink a lot of popular Christianity's ideas about what it means to be a Christian. Maybe, all of a sudden, we're starting to discover what the point really is. The question of how much can I get away with now that I'm saved, is transformed to the question of how I should live as a member of a people defined by hope.