When we came into the church we found a shiny brochure and a poster on every seat. The poster was the upcoming movie, "The Ordinary Radicals". The brochure was for the magazine being launched by the Simple Way called "Conspire!" I sat there, with these two glossy advertisement in the pew rack in front of me and considered them, carefully, as I listened to Shane and Chris talk about subverting the empire.

Subverting the empire: the movie. Subverting the empire: the magazine. Subverting the empire: the book tour.

I don't know what else to say.

There is no ritual to rescue me from the existential emptiness that yawns like a cavern in the middle of this night, no incantation, no prayer that will suffice. I am Jonah in the belly of the whale, Jeremiah weeping at the bottom of the well, Saul searching for a boy David to sing a lullaby. I am a valley of dry bones.

I know nothing. Absolutely nothing. There was a time when I had the answers. I could explain biblical doctrines of ridiculous complexity with clarity and ease. I knew what the questions were. I knew where in the bible to find the answers to those questions. I was saved. I could tell others how to get saved. We could say the prayer, together, you and I . Then you could be saved. The deal would then be done, the bargain struck, the contract signed, the ticket punched. Then all you had to do was go to a bible-believing church every Sunday, read your bible every day, pray every day, study to show yourself a workman approved, always be ready with an answer for your faith, not cause a brother to stumble, know your mission field, say "here am I, Lord, choose me."  Tonight? Now? In the compelling quiet of our little home, with the Resident Love Goddess sleeping so wonderfully and peacefully a few feet away? Well, let me tell you, I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing, I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about anymore. I've got nothing except that woman I love so much, and two red cats, and this broken old shoe and Jesus, somehow mixed up in it all. 

I think about the same things all the time now. I think about preaching. I think about starting a church. I think about God, and Jesus, and the Holiness of Spirit, and about the pains and hurts and loneliness and lies and busted up hearts and lives that are all around, every day, and about how I just want us to put one in the hand of the Others and see what happens. I've stopped telling people about this in real life because they inevitably insist that I am doing exactly that and,  while they're speaking, there's a voice in my head that wonders if it might not be better to just shoot myself in the foot with a nail gun, over and over again, rather than to try and explain what empty is, just one more time. The only thing I can do now with hurting people is talk pretty about Jesus, offering just enough information to suggest that maybe they ought to talk to him and not me, because I'm a truckload of destitute on the road to nowhere in particular. Sometimes folks here ask me to pray for them, and sometimes we pray together, an exercise in plumbing the depths of inner desolation that always ends with the same three words: God help me. Those with whom I bend the metaphorical knee seem grateful and comforted by this, and I have no explanation for that, either.

And so, here I am Lord. And it's 3 o'clock in the morning - again - and, well... damn.

Every Monday in June and July a group of teenagers from a local camp come to the shelter to do a service project. I usually begin with a tour of the facilities and then turn their eager hands loose on a project. One young lady who is one of the camp counselors said to me on the tour, “You can read a person’s life by that person’s bedside table.” I was intrigued by what she meant by that. She said that she could learn everything she really needed to know about her campers by looking at their bedside essentials. “It’s the last things you lay down at night and the first thing you grab in the morning. It’s what is important to you in the middle of the night when you are alone.”

After you read the rest of this funny, touching, wonderful post you'll probably do exactly what I did - go look at what's on your bedside table. On mine? A stack of books I'm reading, a bible, 3 journals, 2 water bottles, an alarm clock blinking 12:00, CPAP machine, a plastic bag, a couple of pens, a bottle of shampoo. What can I say? I am a cluttered soul. On the Resident Love Goddess's side of the bed? Well, her table is a picture of elegant simplicity: alarm clock, lamp, a library book, a daily devotional, a small teddy bear.

What's on your bedside table?

Then the Pastor preached the Abraham sermon. You know the one, where God tells him to kill his son and he says, "Okay". Doesn't argue, doesn't question, doesn't resist, doesn't ask if there might be another way, nothing. Packs up his son, packs up his knife, off they go. That's the Father's Day sermon - some guy heading off to kill his son because God told him to. Nice. The lesson? We should have such faith.

Oh. 

I've been hearing exactly the same sermon since I was a kid. Word for word. And you know, I could live with it if the lesson were about how willing we are to sacrifice our sons to the gods of our own making. I would be uncomfortable with this story no matter what, but perhaps less so if the message was that workaholics sacrifice their sons to their careers, that addicts sacrifice their sons to the god of the bottle or the syringe, that all those soccer moms and hockey dads bellowing and cursing at the referee - and the coach and their own kids - might well be sacrificing their kids to the gods of their own failed dreams, their own ambitions. I could live with that a bit easier than the shopworn goods I endured this morning, which boils down to we should have the same faith as Abraham, the guy who was willing to kill his child because God told him to. Of course, the story doesn't present us with any of the options I would prefer. No, the story forces us to confront a God who would ask a man to murder his own son, and the father who was all too willing to do it, but we don't want to talk about that, do we? Because somewhere in that conversation - as opposed to the monologue church is now - we'd have to acknowledge that not everyone comes from a perfect nuclear family, that some of us carry the weight of an almost unbearable emptiness that, given both our failings and those of our fathers, only God can fill. Of course, we'd then have to talk about exactly how God does that, which ought to be an interesting conversation; an enlightening conversation, one that may lead us to healing, freedom and wholeness even.

So tell me, seriously - Is it too much to ask for church to treat us like adults? Really too much to ask? That maybe we can handle the tough questions, that we might actually, you know, need to talk about the really difficult stuff, that it might be the very soil in which God wants to plant his new life within us, to nurture and grow his presence into our healing and our love for him and for one another, that this might be the very desert God wants to bring to bloom as we begin to minister to one another where and when and how and why it matters most.

Right. Never mind, then.

The mystery of the ascension is of course just that, a mystery. It demands that we think what is, to many today, almost unthinkable: that when the Bible speaks of heaven and earth it is not talking about two localities related to each other within the same space-time continuum or about a nonphysical world contrasted with a physical one but about two different kinds of what we call space, two different kinds of what we call matter, and so quite possibly (though this does not necessarily follow from the other two) two different kinds of what we call time. (From "Surprised by Hope, p. 115)

I don't think this is at all self-evident from the 'ascension' alone but it does neatly explain the surprising nature of Christ's post-resurrection appearances.

As if any explanation was, you know ...adequate.

Over the last couple of days, well, since what's come to be known as the Great Salmon Incident of 2008, I've been seeing evidence of his presence everywhere. Nothing spectacular - nothing even recognizable to anyone else - but each time I knew - absolutely knew - he was talking to me, just letting me know that he's here. It took me until tonight to figure it out and, although there's been these ordinary and yet incredible things happening all around me, it's been through the pages of scripture that he spoke - really spoke - to me. As I've been ruminating once again on the creation story, it seemed to me that the real message behind it all is that God is present. He's present in the very fabric of creation, present no matter where we are, no matter what we do, no matter what's going on. He's present. He's here. Now.

I know that's probably not such a big deal for you, but it's been huge for me. I'm old enough to remember the last time the Leafs won the Stanley Cup, and it's taken me this long to realize my Heavenly Fatheer isn't going to abandon me, isn't going to disappear, isn't going to just not show up one Saturday morning.

You have no idea what this means to me.

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.

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, 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.

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!"