Will the Circle Be Unbroken?

My horoscope tells me this will be year of profound change - of spiritual change, no less. This amuses me to no end, partly because I have no trust whatsoever in horoscopes, and partly because it echoes the very sentiment I've had for some time now. Such is the nature of faith in this world, I suppose, but here I am, midway through the promise of a momentous year, wondering when said promised moment - or momentum - is to begin.

Then, today, between the humble club sandwich at the diner 'round the corner and the vanity of a Starbuck's Doubleshot on ice, I found myself in the car, navigating lazy weekend traffic, thinking about what it takes to manufacture such a new reality in our life, about whether or not it's even possible to manufacture a 'spiritual' change in our being, about the creative process God employs, about creation. I'm glad the traffic was thin.

Where to begin with this promised new creation, it seemed to me, was with the creation story itself. This is the story that stays in the sub text of every story, of every one of our stories. Creation. The very word fills the mouth with both understanding and wonder, familiar as my mother's handwriting on the outside of an envelope, mysterious and inaccessible as Katmandu. The bible begins with the creation story, with God whispering into the infinite, chaotic, terrifying absence, the abyss, the deep. He breathes words that bring light and life and no little sense into what we now call the world, the universe.  We take that story, read it, consider it, interpret it not in view of the world God created but the one we have now, and then pronounce the story to be lacking, to be flawed, to be absent certain details we would rather have included, to not live up to our modern, western, scientific, rational and entirely suspect sensibilities. We then tell the bible what it really means to say, never suspecting we are as mad as Carollian hatters.

I don't suppose for a moment that the world was created in 7 literal, 24 hour days, though I'm quite comfortable with the notion that it was, in fact, created in 7 days. By way of explanation, I doubt that Moses, who penned those three immortal words 'in the beginning' had a watch. To Moses, tramping and trudging through the dust and gravel of a pre-ancient Palestine, the day began when the sun rose, and ended when the sun set; so was the morning and the evening of the day. His descendants would later reckon the day began when the sun set, as those first immortal words were spoken by God in the darkness; that each new creation, each new day, begins in the dark. The point is, Moses takes great pains to tell us there were morning and evenings involved, if for no other reason than to tell us that millions of years weren't a part of the story or, perhaps, to tell us that God creates in cycles, with sunlit mornings of light and the sweet, fresh dew scent on the air, industrious afternoons and the sang-froid of early evenings, followed by periods of dark, dream-world chaos and midnight uncertainties. Perhaps he wants to tell us that life and death are endlessly co-existent, that we cannot separate God's light and life and love from the abyss of unknowing and unbeing that awaits us all except - oh glorious thought! - he waits there for us, ever speaking into the eternal darkness, 'let there be light', as he walks us in the garden of his love and serenity.

Such a clumsy notion, this New Jerusalem, coming down from heaven, dangling on some kind of celestial crane, crunching the buildings, cars, cats and dogs, shops and people of the old Jerusalem underfoot with the new, improved, all pearls and emeralds Jerusalem. So hard to believe, this creation story at the end of the bible, preceded as it is by the chaotic thunder of trumpets, the pouring out of vials and bowls into the chaos and madness in the abyss of humanity's heart of darkness. This new created world - this new Jerusalem - seems so unlike, and yet is so similar to, the creation story at the beginning of the bible. We begin in a garden and end in a city. Yet one story has a tree of life, the other echoes the refrain with a tree of healing at its center, while both have flowing rivers that water the earth, God is at the center of everything, there is so much light. So hard also to grasp this story of Jesus, corralled in yet another garden, awaiting his death and subsequent life, that we might die and yet live, that we might be created anew, reborn. It's as if the story has come full circle on itself, as if the beginning has become the end has become the beginning, as if all of the world is a circle, trying to return to itself, as if God is in all and all is in God. We are so hard pressed to believe the story it tells, yet we hear that story in our bones, in the soles of our feet, in the scent of summer rain on a baby's skin, in the inexpressible sorrow of a love lost to the enternity in which we hang, suspended like a cloud, racing to the horizon.

And so, I'm amused as I read my horoscope. God is always creating, always restoring, always redeeming, always returning us, through him, to him. With each passing year there is less and less chaos, fear, anger and uncertainty in my life. No small amount of this spiritual growth is, without doubt, simply the realities of age and having traveled this road through a storm or two, yet experience offers no hedge against loss, pain, death. My life circles round itself again, and again as I realize anew that we must become like the child we once left behind in order to enter this kingdom of God, we must die to be born again, we must wait through the night before the dawn. I begin by wondering when my new creation is to unfold, borne into my soul by the very breath of God, and end by realizing he's  been here all along and in that I am truly - and at long last - content.

Jehovah Jireh

I wanted to make salmon loaf for dinner on Wednesday night. On Tuesday I cut all the bread so it could dry out overnight for the panade. We had only 12 cans of salmon in the store-room, which is not nearly enough, but I went ahead and cut the bread anyway. I had been fighting off a minor cold for a few days, and Wednesday morning I woke up with feeling like I'd been run over by a street-car. So I spent the day on the couch and gave considerable thought as to how I was going to make it the recipe work and, quite frankly, I wasn't sure how I was going to do it. This morning I came back to work and discovered three things. First, the bread was still waiting for me. Second, we still only had 12 cans of salmon. Third, a nearby grocery store donated a box of the salmon in packets pictured here - exactly the amount of I needed.

Honestly, there are days when I come into work and have no idea what I'm making for lunch, never mind dinner. It's frustrating. I was ranting about the injustices of the world the other day, and 'reesta quietly reminded me that somehow we always manage to have something to serve, don't we, and it was the last thing I wanted to hear. She is, of course, absolutely right - God always provides.

I just hope the salmon don't mind.

Jesus For President

Shane Claiborne is one of the founders of  "The Simple Way" - and a long-time partner in The Potter Street Community, an intentional community in Philadelphia that seeks to live in ways that are redemptive and beautiful. His burgeoning influence among North American Christians is largely the result of his ability to enunciate a growing sense that the gospel - as understood in contemporary American Christian culture - has been usurped by specialized interests, not the least of which is the church. His continuing articulation of that sense has resulted in a a collaboration with Chris Haw and Zondervan to produce the provocatively titled "Jesus for President".

Jesus for President, then, offers nothing less than a completely new interpretation of the scripture, from Genesis to Revelation; a re-interpretation so dramatically other than that of the rational, individual, me-centered gospel of our day that it is simply stunning. Drawing his understanding of the Kingdom of God from Narrative Theology, Claiborne divides the book into four sections offering a re-examination of the the Old Testament, the birth of Christ, the growth of the church and its eventual co-operation with (and absorption into) the Empire (Roman and American), and finally, stories of redemption living and acts of non-conformity intended to inspire and motivate change.

Claiborne and Haw's writing is alluring in many ways and  SharpSeven's graphic design is constantly intriguing - it has the look and feel of something home-made; a journal, scrapbook or zine, perhaps. The focus of their interpretation of scripture is consistently oriented towards community and justice; to live out the Kingdom of God is to engage in redemptive living, even if it means getting arrested so as to stand with the homeless. To Claiborne and Haw, Christ's re-iteration of Isaiah's call to preach the gospel to the poor, to set the captives free and proclaim the year of Jubilee is meant to be understood literally. The Kingdom of God, they tell us, is not merely different from the world but is diametrically opposed to the empire of materialism, commercialism, democracy and war. The authors show no hesitation in presenting America as a Neo-Roman empire, and understand the gospel as a message that subverts that empire and, if truly embraced by Christians now (as in the earliest days of the church) presents a clear and present danger to the empire's longevity.

As a non-American reader, however, I experienced no small amount of disconnect in reading Jesus for President.  It is, first and foremost, targeted quite specifically at American Christians. In Canada we have scant militaristic fervor and lack the history of imperial jingoism that has so brutally defined America to the world. Nor did everyone - as the opening pages ask us to recollect -  grew up in a nuclear family, attend childhood Sunday School or pledge allegiance to the flag (a uniquely American affectation). Perhaps the authors fail to grasp the fact that America may be the only nation in the world in which religious, patriotic and militaristic zeal are hopelessly confused, but the notable alternative - that they have written this book for American readers to the exclusion of all others inspires far less, though splitting hairs is not an unreasonable description of this particular concern. What does nag in the back of my mind, however, is that nowhere do the authors talk about the need for a deep and personally sustaining relationship with God. My experience at the Mission has been that one simply cannot give without possessing that which needs to be given; nothing less than the presence of Christ is the empowerment for serving others. Perhaps there is much to life in an intentional community that I don't understand, but the absence of any discussion related to an intimate and individual knowing of Christ is puzzling, if not alarming. The authors may assume their audience will read the text as if a personal, knowing experience of God is unstated but understood yet, barring that assumption (and the subsequent decoding of the text it requires), Christ appears to be reduced to a political, economic, and religious figurehead. As Claiborne and Haw recast the Advent story Christ's divinity is only obliquely mentioned - once: 

As Israel continued to break the covenant and failed to be distinctive, God came to show us in one person all that Isreael was meant to be. (Page 65)

That's it - the sum total aknowledgement of Christ's divinity. I have also read pages 107-108 a dozen times over and still don't understand what their re-interpretation of 'born again' means, much less how one becomes 'born again', a significant failing (perhaps on my part) when one considers an Evangelical Christian audience, for whom the term holds an almighty heft. The book's singular focus on community and social justice, particularly in this regard, seems sorely lacking in but one element; that being a divine, loving, personally active God who cares for the individual amidst the community and the community through the individual, to which the 'fruit of the Spirit' attest. Without this, Claiborne's social justice, community-based gospel may become yet another gospel subverted; a gospel wherein the pharisaical righteousness of legalism is replaced by the pharisaical righteousness of community: one program driven church being replaced by another. God's love can never be understood in light of God's desire for justice. God's love can only be understood through the experience of God's love, personally and individually. Without this we have nothing to offer our community, nothing to offer our world.

These concerns, however, are more of caution than alarm. What Jesus for President does offer is nothing less than a staggeringly vast re-interpretation of the bible, of the life of Christ and what all of it means for us. Claiborne and Haw give us a compelling vision for translating the life of Christ into the language of our every day activities, but the panoramic scope of it leaves me struggling to contain it's enormity. Yet by constantly returning to the values of community and the ability of individual actions to effect meaningful change, and by doing so in a tone that is consistently winsome, coy and playful, Claiborne and Haw give me a sense that I can make a difference - really and truly make a difference - in the world, right here, today, in my own neighbourhood. That's what I loved most about this book - and why I recommend it so highly to every Christ follower: Jesus for President gives me hope.

Dinner Bell's a'Ringin'

I sat down with one of our homeless guys at the meal program. He lives outdoors no matter what the climate and has skin tanned by the elements into a deep leathery brown. He is also eternally happy and optimistic. Wondering about this - his never ending happiness and politeness while having chosen such a difficult way of life - I asked him if he had any wisdom to share. 

I've done this before and sometimes it results in a really wonderful conversation that restores your faith in the 'goodness' inherent in everyone. At other times, however, you spend half an hour listening to talk of out of body experiences, trading experiences like playing cards in the afterlife and energy that radiates from everyone, energy from which the entire future of the universe can be ascertained. Trust me, you do not want to find yourself in one of those conversations without a plausible exit strategy.

In my case it was, "Oh - have to go! Got to get dinner on!"

Spacken Zee French?

 I think the family next door is reading my blog. They've erected a privacy screen to stand between their back porch and the Mission. The 'screen' is constructed of a wooden skid, an old mattress and an area rug.

No duct tape. None, zip, zilch, zero. Avec sans duct le tape.

I am in awe.

Zen

Henri Nouwen, via Len Hjalmarson at Resonate Soapbox:

“Someone who is filled with ideas, concepts, opinions and convictions cannot show hospitality. There is no inner space to listen, no openness to discover the gift of the other. It is not difficult to see that those who “know it all” can kill a conversation. Poverty of mind as a missional stance is a growing willingness to recognize the vast mystery of life.

“To prepare ourselves for mission we have to maintain an articulate not knowing, a docta ignorantia, a learned ignorance. This is very difficult to accept for people whose whole attitude is toward mastering and controlling the world. We all want to be educated so we can make things work according to our own need. But training for mission is training not to master God but to be formed by Him.”

I find myself cultivating an inner stillness lately when I'm with others - trying very hard to listen - not only to what is said but to what isn't said, to hear with my whole being.  I'm not sure how this came about but I think it's something that's been developing for a long time. Getting knocked on your butt a few times with the realization that you're not so smart after all - well, that certainly helps the process along.

It takes great effort to truly be in the moment - fully and completely and wholly immersed in this present experience and revelation of God. Once this practice is cultivated, and nurtured, and has become a way of life, however, it becomes very difficult to step outside of it, to break free from the clarity of this great peace and plunge headlong once more into the riotous and calamitous frenzy that is the world.

The Shack

Before he left for Africa (again), Mike Todd visited Ontario. The planets conspired to keep me from meeting with him as I had hoped. On his return to British Columbia, however, Mike mailed me a copy of The Shack by William P. Young. What an amazing gift.

From the back cover:

Mackenzie Allen Philips' youngest daughter, Missy, has been abducted druing a family vacation and evidence that she may have been brutally murdered is found in an abandoned shack deep in the Oregon wilderness. Four years later, in the midst of his Great Sadness, Mack receives a suspicous note, apparently from God, inviting him back to that shack for a weekend.

Mack does indeed return to the shack, and does indeed meet with God, who appears as a large African American woman named 'Papa' who loves to cook. Jesus is, understandably, a Middle-Eastern man with the look of a labourer, while the Holy Spirit appears as a shimmering, somewhat trasluscent Asian woman named Sarayu. What follows is a weekend-long conversation amongst these four in which Mack must confront his pain, his anger towards God and the inadequacies of his previous understanding of life, the universe and everything.

The Shack has taken some criticism for it's depiction of the Trinity, particularly in regards to a heresy known as modalism, wherein Father, Son and Holy Spirit are understood to be three manifestations of one being, existing consecutively but never concurrently. I'm certainly no theologian, but the criticism seems unfounded to me - unfounded to the extent that only a person who has never read the book could offer this criticism. (The pertinent explanation of the nature of the Trinity is found on pages 100-101; the simultaneous existence of the three persons of the Godhead occurs throughout Mack's engagement with them.) What I did struggle with is Young's writing. Vast swaths of the opening chapters are simply overwrought and the final chapter is an obvious attempt to tie up loose ends. Perhaps they speak a different language in the Pacific Northwest, but a canoe is propelled by a paddle, not an oar, and such simple but obvious mistakes interupt the reader. Throughout Mack's engagement with the Trinity there are whole chapters of nothing but dialogue and, frankly, much of it sounds contrived ("Let's use the example of friendship and how removing the element of life from a noun can drastically alter a relationship")

In the end, though, none of it mattered. I was simply swept up in the conversation and the events Mack is immersed in during his weekend with God. Though I had heard that this book presents a brilliant portrayal of the Trinity (and it does) that's not what The Shack is about. It is, instead, the story of one man reconciling his unimaginable pain with the concept of a loving, all-wise and all-powerful God. The Shack invites us into a conversation that speaks of the things we've all questioned without receiving satsifactory answers. Oh, we have - at our fingertips - all the information on the Trinity and human suffering we could ever imagine, all of it presented in the dry, clinical tones of academia and sermonic inadequacies. This is different. This examination of Mack's great pain - of all our pain - takes place in the context of a loving relationship between God and Mack. The relationship between the three persons of God is so loving, so close and so joyful that I found myself longing to be a part of it - I wanted to be drawn into the story, a quality of craft that far more talented writers aspire to with less effect. This book is flawed, imperfect and annoying but it is also engaging, energetic, brilliant and wise. I can't reccommend it highly enough.