Miroslav Volf on economics, purpose and achieving systemic change in the face of the free market.

You’d be forgiven for thinking we’re crazy.

You’d be forgiven for wondering how a group of Vancouver residents think they’re going to develop their own neighbourhood according to their own specs. It’s a lot of work, and that’s why we have developers.

And yet, in the face of declining natural resources, sprawling cities and our increased reliance on oil, why would we not try to reduce our footprint? Why would we not attempt to reduce the amount of stuff we need to own? Why would we not try to create a gardened community with a stream running through it, a neighbourhood conducive to face-to-face interaction for a change?

In short, why wouldn’t we create a neighbourhood that makes sense for people, not simply a developer’s bottom line?

In recent years, a lot has been made about Ray Oldenburg’s “The Great Good Place” and the work of Jane Jacobs and James Howard Kunstler. They’ve pushed us to discuss the importance of creating “Third Places” in our communities and neighbourhoods with eyes on the street. We’ve begun to advocate for more gathering nodes within our communities to foster connection and relationship and neighbourliness.

We’ve come to recognise the need for a new urbanism.

Some folks in the church are pushing this further by reclaiming the notion of parish in their understanding of their mission. How do we become intentional about living in our place? Of respecting God’s creation? Of living amongst a diversity of people?

All of these things are important, and yet I’ve often felt that one part of the challenge is that so many of our neighbourhoods just don’t make sense. We’ve built anonymous streets and towers that prevent us from getting to know one another, when what we need is to return to a more walkable, livable, neighbourly way of being.

Decenter the car, and make way for the pedestrian.

And so, it only seemed right to start working on this problem. Together with a number of other Vancouver residents, Ericka and I have begun working towards building just such a neighbourhood. Over the past months, we’ve gathered together with an architect to suss out our community’s values, to dream up activities, and to create places for these activities to happen.

We’ve gathered to create a site plan that makes sense for the kind of interaction and values we hold. We’ve gathered to come to know one another, all future neighbours who desire to live more lightly on the earth, to share resources, and to explore new ways of developing for community in a city made so anonymous by numerous factors, including the 160 days of rain we receive each year.

This is a hopeful vision. The idea that we can work together with neighbours to nurture young families and make aging in place more possible is compelling. The idea that we can plan for and build a multigenerational community is a breath of fresh air.

The notion that in a hyper-individualistic culture there are 25 households committed to this vision is encouraging.

Are there people who think we’re crazy? Absolutely. Yet in the face of those questioning glances, I can’t imagine a better way to live.

For more information on our project, visit www.vancouvercohousing.com or check it out on facebook.

by Brian Walsh

It didn’t make any sense. What was a suburban 16-year-old doing in the downtown basement of a soup kitchen for Toronto’s poorest residents? The kid wasn’t looking for soup, and he certainly wasn’t cruising the main drag with the intent of meeting, let alone serving, homeless men and women.

The date was 1969 and the place was a coffeehouse in the dingy underbelly of Yonge Street Mission. I was the kid. I found myself in this setting drinking bad coffee and listening to some decent music. By the late 1960s, a mission that had been established to reach out to the poor and destitute of Toronto found itself in the middle of a youth culture gravitating toward the inner city, looking for sex, drugs, and rock and roll. So they decided to offer up coffee, Jesus, and folk music.

After a few months of hanging around this place I fell in love with all three, but not in that order. I am a follower of Jesus today with a love for good music and a distinct distaste for bad coffee (though I love the good stuff) because of the way in which God worked through that urban ministry in the core of Toronto.

When we think of “urban ministry” we tend to think of food banks, homeless shelters, after-school programs for kids who are disadvantaged, community development initiatives, and other ways to minister among our poorest neighbors in the city. All of these are essential. But Yonge Street Mission, way back in 1969, decided to throw a coffeehouse and music into the mix. This was not an initiative to reach out to the folks living on the street who were their primary clientele back then, but to reach another rising population in their neighborhood—wandering and lost suburban kids like me.

From Soup Kitchen to Youth Ministry and More

At first the music was likely just an attraction—something to get kids into the space so that more decidedly evangelistic conversations could take place. But the music became more and more important. Sure, it was Peter, Paul, and Mary stuff with a Christian twist, but there was a quality and an integrity to what those Christian musicians were doing on that little stage. Eventually, as this ministry grew, other arts and other musical styles became important. Street festivals began to feature some straight-up rock and roll. The mission made art supplies available, and kids would start to paint, draw, and do sculpture.

And so a soup kitchen ministry evolved into a youth ministry (more and more characterized by street youth, not just kids hanging out downtown on the weekends), and then an arts ministry. Pretty soon they were training kids in the culinary arts and doing catering as well. Since then, this particular urban ministry has branched out into housing, social enterprises, a church, financial services, health clinics, computer training, and many other ways to seek the welfare of the city and the redemption of broken lives.

Looking for Home

That’s the way it goes in urban ministry: one thing leads to another. And it is the city itself that sets the agenda. Changing demographics, different social and economic needs, and cultural change call forth different dimensions of what it means to be the body of Christ in the city.

Without the body of Christ taking the city seriously, indeed, without the body of Christ loving the city and committing itself to seeking the peace of the city, I don’t know if I would be a follower of Jesus today. So my debt to urban ministry is, quite literally, eternal.

Truth be known, I wasn’t downtown looking for sex, drugs, or even rock and roll. Something else was going on. For me, the boring sameness of high school in the suburbs met the vibrant cultural scene of the inner city and didn’t stand a chance. The city sparked my imagination. There was a vitality downtown—not unrelated to a burgeoning countercultural movement—that seemed to catch the spirit of the times.

But there was something even deeper behind this cultural attraction. When it comes right down to it, I was looking for meaning, for a sense of identity and purpose. At the deepest level I was looking for a place to call home. And I found my way home in the basement of a soup kitchen in the inner city of Toronto. You see, Jesus was serving the coffee, playing the guitar, and hanging out with the kids who came in. And the more I looked, the more it became clear to me that Jesus was also to be found in the men who were homeless and the struggling moms on welfare who came to this place every day of the week. In their company, I came home to Jesus. And my discipleship over these years has never strayed too far from urban ministry.

Jesus Is There

Almost all the people I know who are deeply involved in urban ministry tell me that they came into this ministry to bring Jesus to the city—but once they deeply entered into the city, they found out that he was already there. Jesus was already there in the alleyways with crack addicts; he was under the bridges with people who are homeless; he was walking the streets with workers in the sex trade. He was already there.

But he’s also there in other ways. The architect who designs houses for folks who are homeless and people with severe disabilities looks like Jesus. The playwright who produces a powerful story of pain and redemption—there’s Jesus again. The local gardener developing community gardens in the city—well, Jesus has been confused with a gardener before. The lawyer defending the rights of refugees and illegal migrants—wasn’t Jesus a refugee once, the child of migrant laborers? The politician who seeks to transform the city into a place of hospitality and justice—isn’t that a vision not far from the kingdom of God? The community activists or church members who step into the breach when tensions run high and things get violent—kind of looks like bearing a cross, doesn’t it? The local church as a place of refuge, celebration, and spiritual identity—there’s the body of Christ.

Wherever Jesus is in the city, there is urban ministry. And it seems to me that such ministry has at least five areas of focus. Let’s call them ministries of justice, imagination, restoration, reconciliation, and renewal.

Ministries of justice. Urban ministry has no grounding unless it is a ministry of justice that reaches out to the poorest of the poor. That’s where it all begins. That dingy little coffeehouse back in 1969 had its deepest integrity because that Christian community first served the needs of men and women who were homeless. Those folks had priority, and I understood that if I were to throw in my lot with Jesus, then I was signing on to a ministry to neighbors who I had quite decidedly ignored so far in my life. If there is no such street-level dimension to urban ministry, then it is likely a ministry to the urban rich that unwittingly legitimizes gentrification and the continued marginalization of people who are poor.

Any ministry rooted in the Nazareth Manifesto of Jesus in Luke 4 is a ministry of good news for people in poverty. Such good news in urban ministry includes political advocacy, food ministry, community development, housing, shelters, social and economic enterprises, harm reduction, aboriginal ministry, addiction rehabilitation, and much more. Blessed are the poor, Jesus said, for theirs is the kingdom of God. Urban ministry is a ministry of justice.

Ministries of imagination. That coffeehouse had music. And before long, the young people who frequented the place were creating art together. Not surprising, really. Many of us were looking for cultural vitality, something to spark our starved imaginations.

Culture is rooted in the imagination, and cities are at the heart of the shaping of cultural imagination—whether in fashion, architecture, advertising, culinary arts, fine arts, film, drama, dance, or music. Vibrant urban ministry recognizes the importance of the imagination and is committed to both engaging in imaginative expressions of the city and shaping a Christian imagination.

Maybe that is why ministries of justice always seem to end up with an arts dimension. One urban ministry spawns a theatre group, another runs an arts ministry among street-involved youth, another invites men and women who are homeless to paint or to write out of their experiences of pain and their deepest longings and hopes.

The church also wants to enjoy, celebrate, and engage the diverse expressions of imagination at the heart of urban life through film festivals, concerts, drama, dance, and the fine arts. And so urban ministry finds itself producing public forums on faith and film during the local film festival, sponsoring various kinds of arts events, and encouraging local arts initiatives. Urban ministry is a ministry of imagination.

Ministries of restoration. There isn’t much point to urban ministry if the city is ecologically unsustainable. Insofar as the restoration of all of creation is at the heart of the biblical story, so also does “seeking the peace of the city” require a ministry of ecological restoration. Urban ministry is a ministry of urban homemaking, and therefore it strives to make the city a place of sustainable habitation for both rich and poor. Such a ministry includes encouraging green churches, local urban gardening (including on church property), and advocacy for political policy and economic practices that foster sustainable and accessible transportation systems, waste management, green spaces, and much more. Urban ministry finds itself an ally with local initiatives for building sustainable cities. It is a ministry of restoration.

Ministries of reconciliation. In biblical faith, the city is to be a place of safety and refuge, but invariably it ends up being a site of threat and exclusion. In contrast to the vision of the New Jerusalem, where all are welcome and the gates are always open, there is Babylon, where there is nothing but violence and oppression. The prophets name the violence of economic structures that leave most people living in poverty while the few enjoy the opulence of large homes and rich foods. And violence begets violence.

From the “not in my backyard” discrimination against those who are poor and vulnerable, to assaults on the kinds of social, ecological, transportation, and educational programs that make our cities vibrant, to the violence of our city streets, the city cries out for the church to engage in ministries of reconciliation that bring communities together and seek the peace of the city. Through processes of restorative justice, advocacy, and community development, urban ministry is a ministry of reconciliation.

Ministries of renewal. The body of Christ in the city—that’s what urban ministry is all about. But if the church is absent, disconnected, or preoccupied with its own survival rather than its call to mission, then there can be no vibrant urban ministry. An identity as kingdom communities is foundational to revitalizing the church in the city through church planting, church “reboots,” intentional communities, and parish renewal ministries.

Ministries of justice, imagination, restoration, and reconciliation flow out of the life of renewed parishes in particular neighborhoods and are also instrumental in the renewal of those very parishes. It goes both ways. We need renewed urban churches to spawn and sustain a comprehensive vision of urban ministry, but struggling churches that enter into ministries of justice, imagination, restoration and reconciliation will experience new vibrancy. You don’t just sit and wait for the Spirit to renew your church. Rather, you start living as a Spirit-led church in the midst of the city, and in so doing, you find that the Spirit is renewing your church.

I have a plaque on my wall. It reads: “Yonge Street Mission celebrates with Brian Walsh Forty Years of Christian Discipleship.” It is a gift that I prize very highly. You see, I came to the city looking for home. And I found it.

God loves the city. The Word took on flesh and moved into the neighborhood. And when Jesus is in the neighborhood, people get to come home.

My friend Brian Walsh will be doing a presentation drawing on his recent book on the singer-songwriter, rock guitarist and road warrior Bruce Cockburn at the renowned Calvin College Festival of Faith and Writing this week.  Later, Mr. Cockburn will be performing, preceded by an interview with Walsh.  In honor of this remarkable bit of interaction and collaboration, and with a big hat tip to all involved at Calvin College, I offer this long rumination on the music of Bruce Cockburn, the writing of Brian Walsh, and this new book that explores how Cockburn’s work can inspire a more fruitful, faithful Christian imagination.  It’s a great book and means a lot to me, as you will see.

When Kicking at the Darkness: Bruce Cockburn and the Christian Imagination by Brian J. Walsh (Brazos; $18.99) hit the bookstore shelves in late fall I did a brief review, suggesting it was a book I adored, had read (in an early manuscript version) and that I would write about more thoroughly.

When we were doing our Hearts & Minds Best Books of 2011 announcements, we awarded it as one of the year’s best.

In fact, I said it was one of the year’s books that made me the happiest.  I had hoped others might find that intriguing, and that BookNotes readers would order it.  Some did, but others, I’m afraid, didn’t realize just how important this remarkable book really is.  I’m not alone, though, in insisting that this is a book that is well worth your hard-earned coin.  I smile in agreement when Brian McLaren says “I savored every page of this book.”   And I agree with Marva Dawn’s enthusiastic assertion: “You need to read this book!”

Here is my heart-felt two part longer review of Kicking at the Darkness by Brian Walsh.  The first essay is a rambling bit of my own story, why I found Cockburn so important decades ago, and how Walsh has been a writer whose Biblical insights about worldview and the prophetic imagination have influenced me greatly.  Granted, my remarks are a bit impressionistic and, insofar as it is just a little bit of my little story, it may not be that interesting to you.

Still, I hope you give it a read—you may better understand why I write about many of the themes we pursue here, the sorts of books we commend, the authors we most appreciate.  The confluence of evangelical faith, a reformational worldview, how Christian discipleship demands cultural engagement, our interest in the arts, and the really important influence of pop music form the backdrop as I tell about Bruce Cockburn.  I’ve said for decades that Cockburn is in my top two or three all-time favorite recording artists, so I hope you’ll read my odd little overview.

Part Two is a bit more focused, describing the structure and themes of the book.  In my first essay, actually, I end with three reasons why you should read Kicking at the Darkness.  If this intrigues you, or you are willing to trust me, order it from us asap.  If you want a bit more explanation of where Walsh goes with all this, read my summary in Part Two.  I am (relatively) brief, there, and it is no substitute for taking in Walsh’s insight, good writing, powerful Bible lessons, and his seriously imaginative take on Cockburn’s seriously imaginative artistic vision.  Enjoy.

Click here to read the full review

(We’ve sat in Easter Saturday for three weeks now. Not a bad thing to do considering how quickly we want to get past the horror of Good Friday. Maybe it is time for us to now proclaim the resurrection. Because without the resurrection, there is no remixing of the empire. This is my Wine Before Breakfast meditation on the Road to Emmaus story in Luke 24.13-35)

It wasn’t surprising that they had decided to leave the city.
Jerusalem had again failed to live up to its name.

Bloodshed, not peace, had been raining in this city for years,
and the last couple of days had been just more of the same.

Another round of arrests,
more beatings and corrupt trials,
another group of crucifixions,
more violence in the police state,
yet another repression of anything that could be a threat to the city
and its religious, political and economic elite.

This city that had held their hopes and dreams,
this city that had been the bearer of the promises,
this city where they had hoped to see the redemption of Israel,
this city where they had longed to see streets for dwelling,
justice in the gates,
jubilee in the land,
the protection of orphans, widows and strangers,
refuge for the vulnerable;
this city that they had hoped would be the capitol for the Kingdom of God,
… this city had failed them again.

So they made their way out of the city in order to go to a village.
Any hope for urban renewal had been dashed.

They left the city because the one in whom they had put their hope,
the one who had come into this city with such fanfare just a week earlier,
the one who had proclaimed a vision that resonated so deeply with the promises,
the one who had said that Jubilee was at hand,
the one who had come to clean house
and to establish nothing less than the Kingdom of God …
that one, had been left hanging on a cross on Friday.

And now the women were telling stories of a missing body.

No wonder they left town.
There was nothing to keep them there.
It was all too much.
Disappointment, shattered dreams, and now the indignity of a stolen body.
Time to get the hell out of Jerusalem,
maybe to try to get the hell of Jerusalem out of their systems.

Jerusalem had become Babylon and Babylon it would remain.
It was just another round in the losing fight,
out along the great divide tonight.

They drank their fill and still thirst for more,
asking if there’s no kingdom, what is this hunger for?

They had lifted up their prayers against the odds
and  now fear that the silence is the voice of God.

But it was into that silence that the voice spoke.

“What are you talking about?”

They stopped dead in their tracks.
The question itself had dumbfounded them,
froze them to the spot on the road where it was asked.

“What are we talking about?
Are you the only stranger around Jerusalem who hasn’t heard the news?”

“What news?” the stranger asked.

“The news of Jesus of Nazareth,
the news of this prophet of mighty power and liberating teachings,
the news of how the chief priests handed him over to the Romans
- to the Romans! -
and they crucified him.
And we had hoped that he would be the one to redeem Israel,
we had hoped that the promises would have come to pass,
we had hoped that Jerusalem would be restored.
And to make it worse, the body is now gone.”

“You really don’t get it do you?” the stranger replied.
“You don’t understand that it was necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory.”
Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets he interpreted to them the things about himself in the scriptures.

Beginning with Moses and the prophets he interpreted to them the things about himself in the scriptures.

That would have been the Bible study of all Bible studies.

Their hopes have been demolished because the story
has not turned out the way that they thought it would.

So he retells the story to help them to see
that this is exactly where this story had been going for a very, very long time.

It was necessary that this story would go to a cross,
it was necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things,
because this is what this story has always been about.

From the very beginning when God made covenant with a violent partner,
this was going to be a story of suffering – divine suffering.

By entering into covenant,
God made the choice to suffer because of the violence of humanity,
indeed, to suffer from the very violence that has been at the foundation
of human city-building.

By entering into covenant,
God made the choice to suffer with his people
when they were subjected to the violence the city-building projects
of Egypt, Assyria, Babylon and even Israel’s own kings.

By entering into covenant,
God made the choice to suffer for his people
as a servant who defeats the violence of evil by bearing it,
allowing the fury and violence of the city to expend itself on his very body.

The dream for the city might be one of shalom,
but the reality continues to be one of violence.
And what the cross tells us is that the evil of violence
cannot be defeated on its own terms.

The city of God will not be achieved
through a battle of strength against strength,
enmity against enmity,
power against power.
Any city erected on such strength, enmity and power
will just repeat the sad story of Jerusalem/Babylon all over again.

No, the New Jerusalem,
that better city that we seek,
that city of refuge,
that city of safety and hospitality,
that city of justice and restoration,
that restored city of shalom,
that city where God will dwell,
is a city built on the foundations of suffering love,
or it is not built at all.

Something like this, I think, is the story
that Jesus told those disciples on the road to Emmaus.
It is this story that makes sense out of the devastating events of the last couple of days.
It is this story that makes sense out of a Messiah hanging on a cross.

But it is not what opened the eyes of these two dejected and disappointed disciples.

The retelling of the story was essential,
because only in hearing the story anew as a story of suffering,
could the story be opened up again and hope could be reborn.

But it took more than a story,
it took more than a good sermon,
to open their eyes to the reality of resurrection in their very midst.

For that, they needed to break bread with Jesus.

The city that we long for is not a city of mere words.
The city that we long for is rooted in a story,
but that story must be enacted if it is to be true.

And so Jesus took bread, blessed it and broke it, and gave it to them.
Then, and only then, were their eyes opened.
And that is all that was needed.
A resurrection appearance in which there is a telling of the story
and the breaking of bread.
Word and sacrament.
That’s all that was needed.

So Jesus slips away.

And recognizing that it was Jesus who had been with them,
confessing that their hearts had been burning when he
retold the story to them on the road,
these two dejected, defeated and disappointed disciples,
take to the road again …
back to the city.

Back to the city of death with news of life,
back to the city of disappointment with hope,
back to the city of bloodshed with news of shalom,
back to the city of crucifixion with the reality of resurrection.

My beloved sisters and brothers,
every week we have gathered in this chapel
to tell this story and to break the bread.
Every week we have gathered around the word,
and often enough, our hearts have burned inside us.
Every week we have enacted this story with bread and wine,
and often enough we have recognized the risen one in this sacrament.

We have spent a year together reflecting deeply on a biblical understanding of the city,
a biblical urban imagination,
a vision for an urban ministry that encompasses us all.

This is our story, this is our song.

And because of Easter,
because the stone was rolled away,
because the tomb was empty,
because evil had done its worse but could not hold Jesus down,
because of the resurrection,
the risen one is in our midst,
hope has broken through despair,
life has conquered death,
and the New Jerusalem, that restored and renewed city of shalom,
is a sure hope, and a present reality.

Welcome home. Welcome to the City of God.

Alleluia! Christ is risen.

Practice resurrection.

by Andrew Stephens-Rennie

We hate them.

You know, those people who deny the resurrection. Those people who see the story of Jesus’ rising as mere metaphor, who refuse to accept that Jesus, that word made flesh, that god-man, could rise from the dead if he wanted to.

If God is God, we say, then you’d be crazy not to have faith in God’s power to raise the dead.

But let’s step back. Not too far, just a couple of days. Let’s step back to that Horrid Good Friday – you know, the one we gloss over because we think we know the end to the story. We know how it all turns out, so we don’t need to really think about how awful that day, those intervening days were. We don’t have to think about them, because we’ve read the final chapter, and we’ve got a good sense of the epilogue.

I hate it.

I hate that for so long I denied the death of Jesus. In the way I acted, in the way I wished everyone a Happy Easter when it was not, in fact Easter. Jesus was still on his march to the scaffold, on his way towards Calvary, and I was having none of it.

It’s funny that we get so bent-out-of-shape when it comes to folks who have a hard time with a literal resurrection. All the more ridiculous for those of us who deny, or at least underplay the pain, the devastation the terror of that Horrid Good Friday and Holy Saturday.

It’s two, maybe three days of the year, and we can’t even live in the tension between death and resurrection.

Such a denial is surely its own infidelity.

Perhaps, as a way to make up for lost time, I’ve lived the past few years of my life stuck in the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Perhaps it’s God telling me something, asking me something, demanding to know whether I will remain faithful even in the midst of the uncertain. Even without the promise of resurrection, will I remain faithful?

I want to say that the answer is yes. I want to say that the answer is that I will follow Jesus as much in his death as I would in his life. I don’t want to turn like Peter. I don’t want to be one of the ones who gave up.

Not to get too far ahead of myself, but I also want to say that I would follow Jesus as much in his death as in his life and resurrection.

But the life of the disciples, their reaction, their inability to keep watch on Saturday, the doomed, depressed, shrinking group of friends whose hopes were smeared, crushed, obliterated by the events of Good Friday. I get that. I get them. I get that it would be easy to look at Jesus’ death from the perspective of Friday or Saturday and give up. I get that without the promise of a triumphal victory and a rising from the grave, such things would be hard.

And I want, I want desperately to live into Easter. I’m just not sure if my season of Easter Saturday is over yet. I’m not sure if I’ve wrestled enough with my own motivations for following Jesus. I’m not yet sure if I would remain faithful on that Saturday wedged between death and resurrection.

And what about you? Stuck in the events of Friday, and the unknowing of Saturday, how would you respond?

There were no conclusions to jump to back then, except that it was over. There were some who remained steadfast and others who drifted away. Who am I in this story, and who are you?

(On March 31 I spoke to the Southwestern Ontario regional conference of StreetLevel. I took the opportunity to lead these wonderful frontline street ministers into Holy Week from the perspective of someone who was there. Someone who was passionate for his city. I think that maybe this can function well as a reflection for Holy Saturday. This day of disappointment. This day of such profound loss.)

I was passionate about my city.
I so longed that it would live up to its name,
that Jerusalem would indeed be a place
where shalom rained down like a Spring shower.

In this city, however, what we knew more violence than shalom.
Instead of the rains of peace, our streets knew more about the flow of blood.

Whether it was the forced labour to build this city under Solomon of old,
the oppression of the poor by the rich under one regime after another,
the child sacrifice during those times of idolatry,
the violent cruelty of the Babylonian invasion,
the bloody machinations of Herod the Great,
the hard boot and sharp swords of Roman occupiers,
or the Temple hierarchy with its sacrifices and extortionist taxation,
the result was the same.

Bloodshed, oppression, and a city of violence that begets violence.

But that’s not what a city named shalom is supposed to look like.

And I so longed that the promises for my city would be fulfilled.

I so longed for streets of safety
where there would no longer be the sound of weeping,
or the cry of distress;
where infant mortality would be unheard of
and old folks would live full and rich lives;
where folks would build houses
and inhabit them;
they would plant gardens
and have community feasts;
where people would have fulfilling labour
and child protection agencies would be irrelevant.

I so longed for a restored city of shalom,
where there would be no homeless neighbours,
where people would no longer need to numb themselves
with cheap wine,
where the vulnerable and broken would be held in love
and find their refuge in a community of justice.

This was my hope for my city.

And I worked with all of my heart to realize that hope.
But sometimes I just needed to get out of town,
and have some time alone to pray and rest.
So it had become something of an annual ritual for me.
On the first day of the week of Passover, I would get up dark and early,
pack a lunch with a good amount of wine to sustain me for the day,
and walk through the Temple precincts, out the Golden Gate,
down into the Kidron Valley,
and start the climb up the paths on the side of the Mount of Olives.

And, as usual, the guards by the gate would give me a bit of a look over,
but I always knew that it wasn’t folks leaving Jerusalem
that concerned them so much,
as it was folks entering later in the day.

You know there was never really just one reason
why I took this annual hike up the Mount of Olives
at the beginning of Passover week.

On the face of it,
I just wanted to get out of the hustle, bustle
and dust of the city for a day.
Smell the moist soil;
enjoy a little green instead of the drab browns and grays of the city.
Listen to the birds sing.
And just be quiet for a while.

Maybe that is it.
I wanted to be quiet.

It was Passover week, and I wanted to prepare myself.

As I climbed I would sing one of the great psalms of our people,

“O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;
his steadfast love endures forever!”

And I believed Psalm 118 as I sang,
even though most of the evidence all around me
brought into question whether it was true.
It’s hard to believe in God’s steadfast love
when everywhere you look you see imperial hatred and cruelty.
Somehow I’ve always had a hard time putting together God’s steadfast love
with Roman rule over the holy city.

Of course this tension was especially heightened for me,
and for all of my people, during Passover.

And that is why Passover was a dangerous time in Jerusalem.

Here we celebrated a feast of liberating memories
in the face of an oppressive reality.

In the face of Roman imperial rule we remembered
our earliest memories of imperial brutality, our first experience of slavery.

And we remembered our God
who confounded and destroyed our oppressors.

We remembered our exodus, the blood on our doorposts,
the Passover lamb.

So Passover was a dangerous time.

These kinds of memories only served to deepen our disappointment and pain,
and make more acute our longing for liberation.

It’s quite the thing to remember God setting you free
from one house of bondage
when you are living in another house of bondage.

And the Romans knew that Passover was a time ripe for revolution,
so the tensions in the city were high.

Perhaps so high that I just needed to get away,
climb the Mount of Olives
and calm myself for the week ahead.

But as I climbed and sang my psalm,
I remembered that there was always another good reason
to be up here at the beginning of Passover week.

From the top of the Mount of Olives I could not only see the holy city,
I could look down the road to my left and see the pilgrims
come up the Jericho road to the city and the Temple for Passover.

They would be singing the same psalm that I was singing,
and encouraged by their procession,
maybe I could believe that refrain about God’s steadfast love a little longer.

This particular morning, however, was different.

I was at the top of the mountain shortly after the sun had risen
and the Jericho road was still deserted.

But off in the distance to the west,
down the road that came in from the coast,
I could see a cloud of dust off in the distance.

And my heart began to beat with anxiety.
I stopped singing my psalm and stared down that road
trying to catch a glimpse of what was coming.

As the procession came closer and closer
it was becoming clear what it meant.

But then I began to hear noises coming from the other side,
sounds echoing up the valley from the Jericho road.

Familiar sounds of singing.

The pilgrims were coming to Jerusalem.

I looked down to my left for a few minutes,
straining to hear snippets of the same psalm,

“O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;
his steadfast love endures forever!”

Joy was beginning to overcome my anxiety,
but then I turned and looked again to my right,
down the road from the West, and there they were.

A fresh regiment of Roman troops marching down the road to Jerusalem.
A little show of force to remind the locals about who was in control around here.

A strong arm to keep an oppressed people down
and to confront their memories and hopes
with the hard reality of Roman boots, swords,
and … if necessary … crosses.

The Romans knew what week it was,
and they knew that Jerusalem posed a security threat
to the empire during Passover,
so they reinforced the security personnel in the city.

But the noise from my left was getting louder.

Joy and despair on a collision course.
Hope and repression about to meet again.

I looked back down the Jericho road
and listened again for the song of the pilgrims.

And then I first heard, and then saw something
that could only mean trouble this week.

What I heard was the crowd singing the end Psalm 118,

“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord,”

but it seemed like they were singing,

“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord.”

That in itself was a dangerous thing to sing
in a land that already had a puppet king in the north, Herod,
and a Roman appointed governor here in the south, Pilate.

But what made this crowd recklessly seditious and a threat to us all,
was that it appeared that they actually had someone
who they were heralding as a king!

There in the middle of the crowd sat a man on a young colt,
or perhaps a donkey (I couldn’t tell from that distance),
and the crowd was shouting to him as the arriving king!

Laying down their cloaks and palm branches on the road
in order to keep the dust out of this king’s eyes,
they kept singing,

“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!
Peace in heaven and glory in the highest heaven!”

And all I could think was,
thank God there is this mountain
between those crazy pilgrims and the soldiers
coming down the road from the other side of the city.

Because if there was one thing that was clear to me that morning,
it was that the pilgrims’ enthusiasm notwithstanding,
if this so-called king was going to bring peace in heaven,
it sure wasn’t too likely that any peace was going to come
from this display of civil disobedience along the Jericho road.

And my hunch was that this week would not see any heavenly peace in Jerusalem,
rather, all hell was about to break loose!

Rains of peace, you say?
Not too likely.

My city of violence was about to erupt again.

The same old shit,
the same violence,
the same repression,
the same blood stains on the streets.

I’m sorry, I know that I’m sounding cynical and jaded.
I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking, if it is Passover,
and if God is the God who sets his people free from the oppression of empire,
then why not embrace this display of revolutionary piety
down the Jericho road as a sign of God’s coming liberation?

Why not take this bit of street theatre as an encouragement
for my own hopes for the restoration of my city,
my own hopes for a renewal of Jerusalem?

Well, I have two reasons for my cynicism.

First, I’ve been there and done that.

You see, this wasn’t the first rabbi to show up out of the wilderness
proclaiming the day of the Lord.

He wasn’t the first to walk into Jerusalem with some divinely sanctioned
vision for urban renewal.

These guys are a dime a dozen,
and I’ve actually embraced a few of them myself,
only to be disappointed time and again.

No, that is not a path I am willing to go down again.
Not one of them has made my city into the promised city of shalom.

Not one!

But there is another reason why I am so jaded.

You see, I lived in Jerusalem during that week and I know what happened.

In the first place, when I got back to the city it didn’t take too much effort
to find the band of messiah-welcoming pilgrims that I had seen.

I wanted to get to them and try to talk some sense into them,
tell them how dangerous this little display was.

But I first saw one of my Pharisee friends
and he told me that he and other Pharisees were out on the road that morning
to welcome the pilgrims.
And they actually had tried to get this rabbi to cool it|
and tell his supporters to quiet down.

You know what he said in reply?

“I tell you, if these people were silent, the stones on the side of the road would shout out!”

The stones on the side of the road? Right!

This guy thinks that all of creation will somehow recognize
that he is the returning king!

Ludicrous.

The crazy ravings of a back woods rabbi, however, weren’t my biggest worry.

I was worried about the Romans
and about this guy trying to pull off an insurrection,
that would spell disaster for everyone.

Blood would be flowing in the streets.

And, as I’ve said, there is no shalom in blood stained streets.

Finally I caught up to the crowd following him.

And where do you think he was going?

You got it, straight to the Temple.

Why?

Was he going to rally the people for action?
Was he seeking priestly sanction for his revolution?
Was he intending to collect the weapons that had been hidden there?
Or maybe pray that God would bless this revolution and drive out
the Romans as he had vanquished the Egyptians so long ago?

No. He did none of these things.

Rather, he walked into the Temple,
looked around at the daily business
of selling animals for sacrifice
and exchanging Roman currency for Temple money,
and went berserk!

He started yelling and screaming about his Father’s house
becoming a den of insurrectionists
and proceeds to kick over tables and drive people out!

If the little bit of street theatre on the road from Jericho
was provocative in the face of the empire,
then this outrageous behaviour in the Temple
could only be designed to incense and anger the leaders of the covenant people.

Well, it worked.

I don’t need to rehearse the story, it is fairly well known.

As the week progressed,
this rabbi had the people spellbound by his teaching|
and managed to alienate just about everyone

– Sadducees, Pharisees, the emperor, the scribes, the chief priests.

And, worse of all, he demonstrated nothing but contempt for the Temple

– even said that it would be destroyed.

Well, the leaders didn’t really need any more than that, did they?

I mean, if anyone had any lingering hope that this might actually be the Messiah,
then that hope was now dashed.

How could the Messiah of the God of Israel,
the God who dwells in the Temple,
ever believe that the restoration of Israel could be established
without that God and his Temple?

How could the City of David be restored,
how could this city be filled with the blessings of God,
how could the word go forth from Zion,
if Solomon’s Temple was not also restored?
Pernicious nonsense!

By Thursday, things had pretty much come to a head.

I don’t know all the details,
but I hear that it happened at night,
there was a betrayal from within the rabbi’s own group of disciples,
the civic and religious authorities somehow got into collusion
and, well, then the crosses came out on Friday.

That’s how the Romans keep peace you know, by using crosses.

The peace of the cross, they called it.

I heard that the high priest had said something
about it being better that one man should die
than a whole people should perish.

He was a wise man that high priest.

So the rabbi died and they put a sign above his head on the cross that said,
“King of the Jews.”

The irony was a bit much, eh?
A king hanging on a cross.
As if the kingdom could ever come that way.

Well that was about a year ago now.

There are some folks who believe that this rabbi rose from the dead,
and now they are saying that the kingdom is actually here.

Yea, and so are the Romans.

Children are still born for calamity,
the homeless are still on the street,
weeping and the cry of distress fills the air,
blood stains the alleys,
the security forces keep a lid on things,
and Jerusalem still doesn’t live up to its name.

I’m not sure that it ever will.

I was passionate about my city.

Now I’m just numb.

I longed for a city where shalom
rained down like a Spring shower.

Now I’m just not so sure.

There have been too many damn crosses.

I don’t sing Psalm 118 anymore.

And I think I’ll take a pass on my annual hike up the Mount of Olives this year.

Originally published in The Banner – the official magazine of the Christian Reformed Church

Was it because of the chief priests and the officers of the temple police and the elders? They were the ones who came out with swords into the dark of the garden. They were the ones who provided the thirty pieces of silver, who plotted day by day as Jesus spoke in the temple. They were full of fear: fear of a revolt by the people, fear of losing their own privileged positions in the Jerusalem hierarchy, fear of God’s kingdom of righteousness and justice and peace breaking in. Did Jesus die because of their fear and jealousy and ambition?

Why did Jesus die?

Was it because of Judas, the keeper of the money, who had followed Jesus almost from the beginning? Judas had heard him teach, seen him bring healing and hope, and watched forgiveness flow from his fingertips. Judas had been full of hopes for Jesus, keyed up on the walk to Jerusalem, waiting for the revolution to come. Was he disappointed that Jesus did not start gathering an army? Was he disappointed that this great leader was ignoring the only sure path to power? Is that why he slipped away in the night to whisper Jesus’ whereabouts to the officers of the temple for 30 pieces of silver? Is that why he betrayed his master with a kiss? Did Jesus die because of Judas’s disappointed hopes?

Why did Jesus die?

Was it because of the soldiers who were in charge of him overnight? They blindfolded him and beat him, saying, “Prophesy! Tell us who hit you!” Was it their glee in having someone new to torture that carried Jesus through the night? When he arrived before the assembly of elders in the morning, he was no longer the Jewish teacher from Nazareth but a prisoner—bruised and bloody, beaten up and tortured. Did Jesus die because of the soldiers’ joy in violence?

Why did Jesus die?

Was it because of Herod? Herod had wanted to meet Jesus for a long time. Herod had hoped to see a miracle or two, perhaps even be forgiven. Herod, whose father had murdered all the boys Jesus’s age in Bethlehem, now hoped that the one who got away would entertain him. Herod, who had beheaded John the Baptist for the sake of a dance, now wished for John’s cousin to perform for him. But Jesus did nothing. Said nothing. Is that why Herod’s soldiers put the robe on him, punched him a few more times, shouted their insults in his face? Did they hope to provoke him to some sign, some wonder? Did Jesus die because he would not do signs and wonders for the king?

Why did Jesus die?

Was it because of Pilate? Pilate had ruled the Jews for a few years. He knew that at the feast of Passover, rebellious feelings ran high as Jerusalem filled with Jews from far and wide hoping for a new exodus and a new Moses.

Though Pilate could find no grounds for Jesus’ death, he became increasingly afraid of the violent crowd. Pilate had all the power and control—and no power and control. And so he had Jesus beaten and handed him over. Did Jesus die because Pilate was afraid of a revolt?

Why did Jesus die?

Was it because of the assembly of elders, both chief priest and scribes, who tried him that morning? Was it because they didn’t believe he was the Son of Man? Was it because they didn’t believe he was the Son of God? Did they think that when he said he was the Son of God that he was claiming to be the king? Or the Messiah? Or both?

They were the ones who brought him before Pilate and accused him of treason, of refusing to pay taxes to Rome. They were the ones who said that Jesus had called himself a king and who insisted that they had no king but Caesar. They were the ones who demanded that Jesus be crucified, no matter how many times Pilate tried to release him. Did Jesus die because of the hatred of the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes?

Why did Jesus die?

Did Jesus die because we shouted “Crucify him, crucify him!”? Did Jesus die because of us?

Was it because of the crowds? The people he had healed, the people he had forgiven? The people he had freed from demons, the people he had fed? The ones who had listened to his stories, the ones with whom he had eaten? The people who wanted to make Jesus king waved palms as he approached Jerusalem. Had they drawn too much attention to him at the start?

Later, when they saw him, beaten up and tortured, it was the crowd who shouted, “Crucify him, crucify him!” It was the crowd who called for the release of Barabbas. Who cared if he had murdered someone? At least he knew how to resist the Romans! Did Jesus die because the crowd wanted him to be a different kind of king?

Why did Jesus die?

Was it because of us? Was it because of the way we share in this story? Was it because we share the fear and jealousy and ambition of the chief priests and the officers of the temple police? Was it because we share the disappointed hopes of Judas when it comes to the plan of God? Was it because we take joy in the violence the soldiers demonstrated? Did Jesus die because, like Herod, we favor entertainment over justice? Or did he die because, like Pilate, we prefer to keep the peace rather than do what we know to be right? Did Jesus die because of our hatred? Because we too want a different kind of king to rule over this world? Did Jesus die because we shouted “Crucify him, crucify him!”? Did Jesus die because of us?

Why did Jesus die?

Was it because of God? God, who made a covenant with a sinful and broken world. God, who promised that someday blessing would come to all people through the offspring of Abraham. God, who refused to give up on people, coming in love again and again to woo them back to himself. God, whose heart had broken over the sin and brokenness and despair that filled the creation.

God knew there was no way his wayward people could ever bring about healing and wholeness on their own. He knew there was no way they could get rid of the evil in their midst; he knew there was just one way: to offer himself up in love. Did Jesus die because of the love of God?

Why did Jesus die?

Maybe Jesus died because of it all: the hatred, the jealousy, the disappointment, the fear, the love of violence and entertainment. Because of us all: soldiers, rulers, elders, disciples, followers, mothers, fathers, children—sinners all.

But most of all, Jesus died because of God’s deep, deep love for the world—a love so deep that he gave his life to bring peace to us and to all creation.

Why did Jesus die?

Because of love. Because of love.

by Brian Walsh

The pilgrims on the Jericho road always sang the same song as they made their way to Jerusalem on the first day of Passover Week.

They always sang Psalm 118.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good, his steadfast love endures forever.”

And when they got to the end of the Psalm they would sing,
“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”

And they would add in “Hosanna, Hosanna” “Save us, come and save.”

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord – to save!

And these were, of course, revolutionary words in the context of the Roman empire, especially at the beginning of Passover Week.

“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord, to save” means “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord to release us from imperial bondage, to set us free from the repression of the empire.”

And it was clear from the singing of this psalm precisely what kind of salvation these folks had in mind.

Earlier in the psalm the pilgrims would have sung:

All nations surrounded me:
in the name of the Lord I cut them off.
They surrounded me, surrounded me on every side;
in the name of the Lord I cut them off.
They surrounded me like bees;
they blazed like a fire of thorns;
in the name of the Lord I cut them off.

And so when they sang “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord” it is clear that they are singing “Blessed is the one who cuts off the nations, defeats the nations, destroys the nations in the name of the Lord.”

And they sang this song to the one riding on the foal of a donkey because they saw in him the coming of the kingdom of David, coming, indeed, into the City of David, to reclaim Jerusalem, the City of Peace, as the City of God.

Jerusalem had never lived up to its name. This city had never been a “Rain of Peace.”
Rather, the streets of Jerusalem knew more of the flowing of blood than the gentle rains of shalom.

For these pilgrims it was time for Jerusalem to live up to its name, but there would need to be some more blood before that could happen.

If the kingdom was at hand for this city, then it would have to be bought with the price of blood – the blood of our oppressors, the blood of the nations who do not know God!

That’s what those folks were singing on that Sunday afternoon coming down the Jericho road.

And Jesus takes their hopes and longings,
he takes their kingdom enthusiasm
and vision of a liberated Jerusalem,
and turns it all on its head.

If Jerusalem is to be the City of God, the City of the Great King,
then both the king and God need to move in.

But when Jesus, this recently heralded king walks into the temple,
he kicks over the furniture and exclaims,
“My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations,
but you have made it into a den of robbers.”

And by bringing together Jeremiah’s sermon against the temple with Isaiah’s vision of a house of prayer for all the nations, Jesus undermined precisely the vision of violent destruction of the nations hoped for in Psalm 118.

Jerusalem will not be the City of God because God will no longer live in a Temple of exclusion and privilege.

And then when the religious elite ask him, “by what authority do you do these things?” he tells them the parable of the vineyard.

By what authority do I do these things?
By the authority of the son of the vineyard owner,
by the authority of the one who is killed by the tenants of the vineyard.

And then he quotes from the very Psalm that the pilgrims had been singing, but he quotes a line in the psalm that in fact subverts the very meaning that they had invested in this psalm.

Instead of saying, “I do these things as the one who comes in the name of the Lord,” he says, “Have you not read this scripture,

‘The stones the builders rejected has become the cornerstone’?”

By what authority do I do these things?
By the authority of the cornerstone that is rejected.
I am the rejected one.

There is a city to be built
– a city of shalom,
and there is a Temple to be constructed
– a place of divine presence and forgiveness, a house of prayer for all nations,
and it will be built upon the foundation that you have rejected.

So they plot to kill him.

This man is a threat to the peace of the city.

He is a threat to the peace of a city that has never known peace.

Jerusalem is the city of the great king,
and so it is that the pilgrims were also reported to have sung,
“blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David,”
indeed, “blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord.”

If Jerusalem is to be restored as the city of the great king, then the king must return to claim his throne.

And so it is that the trial hangs on whether Jesus claims to be the king or not.

Are you the Messiah, the Son of the Blessed One?
Are you the King of the Jews?
What do you want me to do with the man you call “king of the Jews?”

Crucify him!!

And so on the cross they put a sign above his head that read,
“King of the Jews.”

The irony is bitter.

A king hanging on a cross.

A crucified king.

Jerusalem can for a time experience the peace evoked by its name,
a peace assured by its Roman overlords,
the peace of the cross,
as an other trouble maker is dispatched to his death,
hanging on a cross outside of the city.

If there is to be a king who will restore this city,
then he will be installed on the Temple mount,
he will be installed on Mount Zion.

Jesus, however, is enthroned outside of the city,
on another hill,
not Zion but Golgotha, the place of the skull.

But there is a clue in the story as to what all of this might mean.

There is a clue in the story that indicates the kind of king that this crucified one is,
and the kind of kingdom, the kind of city, that he might bring in his wake.

While Jesus was dismissive of most of the religious leaders who argued with him during Holy Week, there was one scribe who asked a question and got a straight answer.

“Teacher,” the scribe asked, “Which commandment is first of all?”

And Jesus recognized an honesty in this question, rather than a trick, so he answered the same way that any child would have answered:

Hear O Israel;
the Lord our God,
the Lord is one;
you shall love the Lord  your God
with all your heart,
and with all your mind,
and with all your strength.

And though the scribe only asked for the commandment that is first of all, Jesus went on and added,

And the second is this: “You shall love your neighbour as yourself.”

And then, rather than debating with Jesus, the scribe agreed with him and added that such love is much more important than all burnt offerings and sacrifices.

For Jesus, love trumps all. Love wins.

And this scribe understands the truth of this and also understands that if love wins, then all other religious observances and practices are secondary to such love.

So Jesus says, “You are not far from the Kingdom of God.”

The pilgrims on  palm Sunday had an enthusiasm for the kingdom of David, but they were far from the Kingdom of God.

They had a vision for the violent establishment of a liberated Jerusalem, but they were far from the City of God that Jesus brings.

After the U2 album “How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb” was released, an inteviewer asked Bono, “how do you dismantle and atomic bomb?” And Bono replied, “with love, with love.”

How do you dismantle the city of violence, dethrone principalities and powers, disarm the empire and usher in a Jerusalem that will live up to its name? With love, my dear friends. With love.

The love of a king enthroned on a cross.

No wonder the centurian said, “Truly, this man was God’s son.”

I like you. Like a lot. I don’t know what it is, but so many of the things you write resonate with me. It’s almost as if you’ve channelled the voice inside me, the one that is crying out for a better church, a more robust church, a more humble church – one that’s justice-oriented and passionate about its worship, and is willing to ask deep questions about why we do what we do.

I’m just wondering, but are you somehow channelling me? Am I somehow channelling you when I talk about the church? It just seems – to me at least – as though we’re on the same wavelength. Which is scary.

Here’s the thing, your most recent post – you know that one about the Mainline and Me? I could have written that. In fact, in various times and places over the past four years I’ve said very similar things, and predominantly to folks within mainline traditions. I find it a bit eerie. But maybe we’re onto something.

The thing is, I worked within the Anglican Church of Canada for four years. Over those four years as Missioner for Youth Formation and Vocation in our nation’s capital, I spoke numerous times around the diocese about these very same things. I reflected on Kinnaman and Barna. I challenged congregations to think about why it is they do what they do.

And when congregations would come to me and say “we only need contemporary music to bring in the kids,” I often shot back: “actually, what you need to do is live out what you say you believe. You need to live lives of deep faithfulness and integrity. You need to be able to articulate the way in which your story and God’s story intersect.”

Contemporary music is fine. Personally, I prefer a blend of old and new, with a little bit of that so-called secular music thrown in, not for the sake of relevance, but the sake of resonance. I’m more likely to hear that Coldplay song during my week than a Dave Crowder tune or Fanny Crosby number. Bring me back to Sunday. Help me carry the liturgy into my week.

If liturgy is meant to form us, then by-God, allow it to form me. Make it impossible for me to let it go. Have it wash over me again and again, and let it resonate with the world I live in, even as it calls me into a new and different future. Even as it calls me to live into the Kingdom of God. Even as it calls me to look towards a world that is now, and somehow not yet.

Rachel, here’s the thing. I’ve preached to so many congregations and groups of people about this stuff, and I know that many of them get it. I know that many people understand what it is we’re talking about. I’m just not sure how change is going to be affected. I don’t know how we’re going to make that great leap that would entice someone like me – an evangelical on the Canterbury trail myself – to engage in a deep and meaningful way.

I was having this conversation with a senior cleric in my new hometown a few weeks ago who talked about the difference between our educational models in the mainline and evangelical contexts. We talked precisely about how evangelical churches challenge us, demand something of us – time, money and learning – whereas much of the mainline church warms pews on the Sundays, and is somehow unchallenged in how to connect faith and real life.

Perhaps I’m oversimplifying things here, but, I dunno, I guess I just don’t understand. Thing is, I want to be part of a church that’s liturgically creative, whose community demands something of me, even as I ask something of it. I want to be challenged in my faith, and I want a place to rest.

I want worship that is compelling, resonant, and feels as though someone’s not only put some thought into it, but that there’s a sense of purpose and meaning and intimacy to it. Liturgy that acknowledges the beauty and the pain of life.

And if there aren’t hymn writers who can go deep enough into the pain and torment of Holy Week, maybe we start to draw on the great works of James Hetfield, and sing “Nothing Else Matters.” I don’t know. It’s worth a shot.

I guess what I’m saying, Rachel, is that I miss so many of the things you say you do too:

I miss that evangelical fire-in-the-belly that makes people talk about their faith with passion and conviction.

I miss the familiarity with scripture and the intensive Bible studies.

I miss the emphasis on cultivating a personal spirituality.

I miss sermons that step on a few toes.

In all truth, I feel a bit church homeless. Anglicanism has felt much like home for the past four years, but that also involved the planting of a church that really takes some of these things into account. Now, in a new town, I feel at a loss. Are there no others out there who feel this way? Is there nobody in Vancouver who thinks the way I do? I don’t know, Rachel. They’re probably out there. And like me, they’re probably fitting restlessly into some other church’s pews waiting for something new to come along.

I just wonder who has the guts and the vision to pull it off.

In Hope.

Andrew.