Bunker or Trellis?

We have an addictions treatment program at our mission and there's a renewed vision it. Our men's centre manager and chaplains are embarking on a shift of direction. Not everything is in place or solidified of course but the early trajectory seems right.

In something less than a nutshell, my own nutshell at that, the new shift is about allowing the guys on the program to grow up. Instead of controlling the movements of men in recovery through regimentation and moderate to high structure, the idea here is to invest time and care into lives through creating an environment of supportive responsibility. So for example, as early as possible, a guy on the program will be given a set of tasks or inserted in an appropriate avenue of work within the mission. In other words, given responsibility earlier than later.

The program's structure, if you want to call it that–perhaps trellis is a better metaphor–is under girded by a component of tough-nosed mercy. What this means is that the lattice-work, the trellis, has open areas that allow for the possibility of failure. But these open areas are also spaces to breath, and so, space enough to learn from failure. If you'll allow me, "re-trusting" might indicate something of the direction here.

Overall, the shift is more fluid, and as such, risky. But the possibilities for real growth are exponentially elevated.

Think about it. If you where in a program, would you want a bunker or a trellis?

Knowing Jesus Through the Resurrection

The “return” of Christ as resurrected victim changed everything. Christ’s reentrance into the lives of the defecting disciples marked for them, and for us, a whole new view of death, of God, and of God’s forgiveness. This is because the resurrection is forgiveness at the deepest possible level. And it is our forgiveness, because Christ is the universal victim.

If I don’t catch a glimpse of this I will remain ignorant to my having taken part in Christ’s murder. I will continue to parrot the Pharisees’ protest: ‘If we had lived in the days of our ancestors, we would not have taken part with them in shedding the blood of the prophets.’

And this is exactly what I have thought. I assumed that if I was there, in the courtyard, I would not have called form the lynching of Jesus; at worst, I would have stood in the shadows, simply observing. Which is an indirect form of complicity in any case. But the fact is, I would have been part of the crowd, pumping the air, calling for crucifixion.

How do I known this? I know it because the veil is drawn back to the connection the resurrection makes with all the ways I habitually secure my life through the exclusion of others. I know it as well because of the influence the contagion of a crowd has on me. How I am caught up desiring the desire of the crowd.

It seems to me, knowing Jesus starts here; starts in what the resurrection reveals. In the light of the resurrection my eyes are drawn to the blood on my own hands and at the same time I am exposed to the love given me as enemy.

Do you see the difference between our admission of sins that had something to do with Jesus having to die, and the sin (singular) we are blind to–because it is too much a part of us–that compels us to ritual exclusions, murders, and securing our lives by doing away with others?

Anti-semitism, imperialism, and the perpetuation of every form of violence comes from our denial of complicity in the murder of Jesus.

I don’t know what it means to experience or know Jesus as a presence, in the same way I know the presence of my friends. Some people apparently do, but I have not had this experience. At the same time I know it’s not enough to say I’m carried along in my Christian life by my “memory” of Jesus. Knowing Jesus has to be more than either a conservative or liberal knowing.

I still have long way to go in “accepting Jesus”. I’m still waking up to what being in a relationship with Jesus means because I’m waking up to the many ways that I live life in competition with, and in comparison to, others. I see how I too closely identify with groups that have their own cohesion at the expense of other groups. I see in fact how tribal and sectarian I am. The extent to which I participate in any of these forms of exclusion is the extent to which I don’t know Jesus.

Knowing Jesus is a continual conversion, an ongoing renewal towards and by the gratuitous love modeled by Jesus, and a progressive undoing of the lie that life can be secured at the expense of others.

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Knowing Jesus

I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep. (John 11)

In 1984 I belonged to a group in a little Baptist church on the planet Mayorthorpe, called, perhaps too portentously, the Bridgebuilders.

At least once a month we would drive to Edmonton’s inner-city, be greeted by Herb and Henrietta Jamieson, and present a “gospel service” at the Hope Mission chapel. After the program, we would serve sandwiches and tea to the “street people”. Fresh faced and eager we would circulate among the men and women, occasionally young people, and, singling out those our intuition told us were most desperate and therefore most receptive to our question, we would sit down beside them and ask, “Do you have a relationship with Jesus?” or alternatively, “Do you know Jesus?”

There was a naïveté in the project, but our desire to see people “saved” and therefore helped in their life was genuine. Well, you may recognize yourself in some approximation of this scenario. And obviously my purpose is not at all to undermine any genuine desire to see people “redeemed”, or make light of evangelical gospel services.

What I want to do, if possible, is strive for greater authenticity in asking, “Do you know Jesus?” Let me turn that around, “Do I know Jesus?”

Why ask? Because I was confronted by the John 11 text. Confronted by Jesus’ words, “I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father.”

The words hooked me. I realized that Christian language has corroded this question for me. More to the point, I have allowed it’s corrosion. I have assumed that I knew exactly what, “Do you know Jesus?”, means. I have gotten lazy, taken the question for granted.

Now you may not be in this position at all. But I suspect there are those of us on the journey who need to reexamine the question. Not in any self-condemning way. Simply in open self-awareness.

It strikes me that unless this question reasserts itself, unless we can become reabsorbed, make the question, in a way, unfamiliar and challenging, we will lose something essential about our Christian faith.

So, how do I “know Jesus”? Outside of the gospels I don’t know how it would be possible. And outside of the resurrection, the gospels would not have come into our hands. So on a practical historical level, the resurrection is key to any knowing. But the resurrection is crucial for more than a historical record.

I’m already out of my depth in attempting a few thoughts that scores of theologians and authors have written scores of books about. nevertheless, let me try for a conclusion in tomorrow’s post.

Signed, Always biting off more than I can chew.

 

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Knowing Jesus and then some

I did a search in Amazon.ca. Punched in the book title “Knowing Jesus” and got back 49 books with Knowing Jesus as part of the title or as the title.

Amazon.com automatically broadens the search for you and you get 277 titles.

To be sure there’s a bit of interest, academic and otherwise, in what it means to know Jesus.