A framework for a biblical theology of wealth and poverty

Andrew Perriman

The covenant with Moses was intended to establish the basis on which the people of Israel would successfully inhabit a naturally bountiful land. A simple rule applied: if the people kept the law of God, they would enjoy the prosperity that would accrue to them from the land:

And because you listen to these rules and keep and do them, the LORD your God will keep with you the covenant and the steadfast love that he swore to your fathers. He will love you, bless you, and multiply you. He will also bless the fruit of your womb and the fruit of your ground, your grain and your wine and your oil, the increase of your herds and the young of your flock, in the land that he swore to your fathers to give you. You shall be blessed above all peoples. (Deut. 7:12-14)

The language both here and at several points in the patriarchal narratives (eg. Gen. 16:10; 17:2, 5-6; 22:17; 28:3; 35:11-12; 48:4) suggests that the presence of the people in the land is conceived as a restarting of the story of humanity. The command to Adam to be fruitful and multiply and fill the land becomes a promise to Abraham to make him fruitful and to multiply his descendants in the land which God would give him. Prosperity, therefore, must be understood not only in material but also in relational or familial terms: it is a measure of the general well-being and productiveness of a community, it is shalom.

Failure to observe the terms of the covenant, however, would result in hardship and suffering in the form of the loss of the prosperity of the land – through disease, famine, military conquest – and ultimately in the form of the loss of the land itself through exile (cf. Deut. 28:15-68). The analogy with the creation narrative continues: just as humanity had originally lost the prosperity and security of the garden as a consequence of disobedience, so disobedient Israel would forfeit the material prosperity of the land that had been promised to Abraham.

Prosperity, poverty and the law

Prosperity for Israel is conceived primarily in national terms. The law required giving in various forms and active concern for the plight of the poor, but it did not enforce economic equality or the redistribution of wealth within the community. In view of this, there were bound to be persistent disparities of wealth within the nation: as Jesus said, the poor would always be with them (Mark 14:7). The problem was to be addressed, however, at two levels. On the one hand, Israel’s rulers were expected to defend the interests of the poor and helpless. On the other, individuals within the community could enter into a virtuous circle of giving and receiving. Acts of righteousness, prominent among which was generosity towards the poor, would lead to prosperity, which would spill over into further acts of righteousness (cf. Ps. 37:25-26).

There is no systematic bias towards the poor. Private property was protected by the law; theft and covetousness were prohibited in the decalogue; both the poor and the rich were entitled to judicial impartiality (Ex. 23:2-3). There are, however, various constraints imposed upon the possession of wealth. Property rights were not absolute: the people in the last analysis were only ‘aliens and tenants’ in a land leased to them by God (Lev. 25:23; cf. Ex. 19:5). The law of Jubilee, the sabbath year, and the sabbath itself had a moderating effect on the acquisition of wealth and built into the economic system a requirement of trust in God as provider. A significant proportion of personal wealth was taken in taxation.

The failure of prosperity

Perhaps inevitably, Israel failed to maintain the standards of economic justice required by the law. The theological response to this failure comes in various forms. There are general warnings in the Wisdom literature about the moral and spiritual dangers of wealth. A more substantial critique emerges from the prophetic writings. After idolatry the refusal to deal justly and compassionately with the plight of the poor is the most significant factor in the judgment that comes upon Israel and Judah (cf. Is. 1:21-25; Amos 2:6-7).

Although at an individual level poverty may be attributed to laziness, at a social level it is seen as a consequence of the failure of the rich to act justly and provide for those in need. The unrighteous wealthy will suffer eschatological judgment on a ‘day of punishment’:

Woe to those who decree iniquitous decrees, and the writers who keep writing oppression, to turn aside the needy from justice and to rob the poor of my people of their right, that widows may be their spoil, and that they may make the fatherless their prey! What will you do on the day of punishment, in the ruin that will come from afar? To whom will you flee for help, and where will you leave your wealth? (Is. 10:1-3)

Under these circumstances the helpless poor, victims of abuse and neglect, will receive divine favour: He is ‘a stronghold to the poor, a stronghold to the needy in his distress’ (Is. 25:4). In some respects, therefore, the poor are closer to God than the wealthy: they are more likely to look to the Lord for help (Ps. 9:9-10; 69:32-33), they are more likely to be found in the company of the righteous (Ps. 14:5-6). There is the beginning here of an inversion of the covenantal association between righteousness and prosperity which will become more sharply evident in the Gospels.

Poverty and crisis

As we approach the Gospels we need to keep in mind the fact that Israel is in just that state of eschatological crisis that was foreseen by the Old Testament prophets, and that this state of crisis has implications for how wealth and poverty are assessed theologically.

First, because of economic injustice, at both a personal and a systemic level, we are in a situation in which the righteous are much more likely to be poor. This obviously brings into question the covenantal link between torah observance and prosperity, but the issue here is not that the formula no longer applies but that Israel has failed in torah observance and therefore has brought judgment upon itself, the imminent loss of well-being. Failure at the national religious level has resulted in a fundamental distortion of the covenantal framework: the whole theology of prosperity has broken down. The accumulation of wealth had become a substitute for trust in YHWH. At a time when Israel needed to be saved from its sins, and from the consequences of its sins, the nation was serving mammon rather than God (Matt. 6:24), was storing up grain in its barn not realizing that destruction was imminent (Luke 12:21), was feasting at its table to the neglect of the poor but within a generation would suffer the punishment of gehenna (Luke 16:19-31). Wealth offered no prospect of escape from this national disaster.

Secondly, Jesus’ critique of the possession of wealth and his preference for the poor and marginalized cannot be detached from the context of the judgment and salvation of Israel. The preference arises because, by and large, it is those on the margins who are willing to receive healing and forgiveness and who will form the community of renewed Israel gathered around Jesus. It is on the margins that new life begins to break through.

Thirdly, personal wealth would be of little value for those who were called to share in the sufferings of Christ for the sake of the kingdom of God, who faced ostracism, the confiscation of property, imprisonment, expulsion and possibly death. It would be hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven (Matt. 19:23-24). The rich young ruler could not bring his abundant possessions with him along the difficult and dangerous road of discipleship (Matt. 19:21-22). None of them could: ‘whoever of you does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple’ (Luke 14:33). The disciples who had left their homes and their livelihoods were promised the abundant blessings of a new community centred around Jesus – this was the only form of prosperity that would sustain them during a period of persecution (Mark 10:29-30).

Poverty and wealth in the New Testament church

The same basic eschatological framework must be taken into account when we consider the teaching and praxis of the early church. Jesus’ insistence that his followers, the core of renewed Israel, should sell their possessions is directly implemented in the communal life of the early church. Land and property were sold and the money distributed to those in the community of believers who had need (Acts 2:44-45; 4:32-35). It appears, though, that this was done only when the need arose: it was not a requirement of discipleship that personal wealth should be automatically abandoned. Ananias and Sapphira were given the option of keeping part of the proceeds from their land (Acts 5:3); the description of Tabitha as a woman ‘devoted to good works and acts of charity’ seems to imply that she acted independently, giving from her own resources (Acts 9:36); Mnason was an ‘early disciple’ who had his own house in Jerusalem (Acts 21:16).

It seems likely that there were contextual social reasons that at least encouraged this practice, in addition to a strong recollection of Jesus’ example and teaching: the openness of the poorest in Jerusalem to the gospel, the large numbers of diaspora pilgrims who converted on the day of Pentecost, the possibility that the earliest followers of a discredited messiah were barred from the usual sources of public charity. There is no evidence that churches outside Palestine adopted the same radical model of economic communalism. One easily imagines that there was a high level of mutual support within the communities, but nothing suggests a systematic renunciation of personal wealth. Churches met in the homes of wealthy patrons, believers continued to hold public office (Acts 13:6-12; Rom. 16:23) or run businesses (Acts 16:14; 18:2-3).

The sharp criticism of the rich that we find in James’ letter to the ‘twelve tribes in the Dispersion’ (James 1:1) cannot be detached from the later warnings about an imminent day of judgment (5:1, 8-9). John warns his readers not to love the things that are in the world – ‘the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and pride in possessions’ – because ‘the world is passing away along with its desires’ (1 John 2:15-17). Material possessions will be of no value in a time of eschatological crisis. In general terms, though, wealth is seen as damaging to the spiritual integrity of believing communities.

But those who desire to be rich fall into temptation, into a snare, into many senseless and harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction. 10 For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils. It is through this craving that some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pangs. (1 Tim. 6:9-10)

Paul invokes the Old Testament principle of charitable giving when he urges those who are ‘rich in this present age’ to ‘do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share’ (1 Tim. 6:17-18). What differentiates giving within the New Testament from Old Testament practice is the connection with grace: giving is not simply a mark of righteousness under the law but a gift of grace, a charism (Rom. 12:8; cf. the emphasis on ‘grace’ in 2 Cor. 8:4, 6, 7, 19; 9:14). We do not, however, entirely lose the Old Testament connection between giving and receiving, between doing what is ‘right’ and prospering in the fullest sense of the term. The Corinthians can expect to reap what they sow (2 Cor. 9:6; cf. Prov. 3:9-10; Mal. 3:9-11; Luke 6:38; Gal. 6:7-8). The ‘sufficiency’ (autarkeia) with which God will bless them will provide the material basis for them to ‘abound in every good work’ (2 Cor. 9:8). The quotation of Psalm 112 in the next verse invokes the conventional paradigm of the righteous man who acts justly (5), gives freely to the poor (9), and in whose house are ‘wealth and riches’ (3).

Some conclusions…

1. As a general matter of biblical interpretation questions relating to wealth and poverty, justice and injustice, etc., need to be investigated primarily not as abstract ethical issues but as problems posed within a narrative and essentially eschatological framework. Critically, this connects our thinking with the calling and experience of the people and establishes a distinctly missional orientation.

2. If we are right to understand the renewal of the people of God in Christ as a ‘new creation’, a new humanity, the question arises – a question posed to us not least by prosperity theology – whether we should not also take seriously the material dimension of that renewal. Although we must remain awake to the treacherous nature of wealth, its power to corrupt and deceive, we also need to accept that as the people of God we are not always in a state of eschatological crisis. If the church is in a position to be fruitful, multiply, labour and be prosperous, this must be understood under the rubric of ‘new creation’.

3. From a missional point of view, perhaps one of the key questions to ask as we think about where we locate ourselves socially and economically is: Where does the renewal of creation, both as prophetic sign and as proleptic reality, show up best? Where does new life become apparent? This question must be carefully demarcated from two traditional vocations: on the one side, the evangelization of individuals, and on the other, social-humanitarian assistance.

This essay is based largely on material found in A.C. Perriman (ed.), Faith, Health and Prosperity, Paternoster 2003 (a report for the Evangelical Alliance).

Being Young, Sleeping Rough

Wesley White

(Scottish Universities Theological Forum, November, 2005)

The Homelessness Partnership of the city of Glasgow, Scotland, reports that it has received between five and six thousand requests for housing assistance from people who are determined to be “qualified homeless,” for one reason or another, in the first half of 2005. That number will have doubled by the end of the year when the books are closed, if records for preceding years are a reliable indication.

I wanted to find out what Glasgow night life was like for rough sleepers. I am a teacher of theology and a committed participant in a Christian community. Can active faith bring these varied worlds together?

During the same time period, there will be approximately 500 rough sleepers who have managed as best they can in various locations across the city. Rough sleepers refers to those who have run out of resources of any kind, their family and friends are no longer able or willing to help, and they have not sought public assistance for whatever reason. They literally spend their days and their nights on the streets.

I wanted to find out what Glasgow night life was like for rough sleepers. I am a teacher of theology and a committed participant in a Christian community. Can active faith bring these varied worlds together? Should it? After amassing all the information I could find, and after many inquiries, I was invited to tag along with one of the two Street Teams that tries to offer public help to rough sleepers.

What follows is a descriptive and accurate account of what I saw and heard and felt in three nights on the streets as experienced by the young who sleep rough.

Tuesday, 25 October

It is a wet and windy night, but not too cold. I take the 44 bus into city centre, arriving at the Barnardos Street Team van, parked in an alley way just off Union Street, at 8:35 p.m. The van is equipped with a simple kitchen unit that doubles as an office for note taking and record keeping. Every night it is parked in a judicious place so that rough sleepers can easily be invited in for a hot or cold drink and maybe a bit of food.

I knock on the side door of the van and am introduced to Terry Gallagher and Fiona McLeod. I will be teaming up with them. Terry is in his mid-forties. He is married and has two children. His head is shaved and he wears an earring. An infectious smile dominates his face. He is a trained social worker and has been on this Street Team for two years. Over the course of the next three nights, I will witness his way of quickly earning the trust of people on the streets.

Fiona is twenty-seven, with shoulder-length auburn hair, pulled back into a pony tail. She is a bit shy with me, but much less so with what she and Terry call “streeters.” She grew up in Oban, but has lived in Glasgow since attending university. Fiona has worked with the Street Team for almost four years.

Later in the night, when there is a bit of a lull, we will grab a cup of coffee from a pub that Terry and Fiona usually visit at least once during their nightly “wander.” We stand in a corner outside the pub where they can keep their eyes open for “streeter types.” We do our best to stay out of the wind and rain, sipping our coffees. They tell me a bit of their stories. They are varied and interesting, but I want to know why they do this difficult work for inadequate pay.

“It is rewarding,” they say, “to know that you are making some bit of difference in the world.”

“You have to know what to look for to pick out the streeters,” says Fiona. “There are telltale signs.”

“We watch out for what kind of clothing someone is wearing,” says Terry. “We can also see it in the movement and look in their eyes. Of course, we also note if they are hanging around in one place for a long time.”

“I guess it’s mainly body language,” he says.

Right now, however, I squeeze into the van for a debrief with the Street Team of the night before. The space is crowded and stuffy with seven of us.

The Monday night team encourages Terry and Fiona to try to make a second contact with seventeen-year-old Alli (Allison) who was out the previous night in the semi-sheltered area between Queen Street Station and the Buchanan Street subway entrance. They report that she is “incoming” in order to get the money to support her boyfriend’s drug habit, for food and to pay for a shower at one of the sleazy city hotels that advertises “pay per use.”

I soon discover that “incoming” is Glasgow street language for prostitution. It crudely depicts the ‘exchange of money’ for sex and the act of a male “coming in”. It usually nets 20-30 pounds per customer for a girl of her age. All of the street team workers agree that the drug habit Alli is supporting is not only that of her boyfriend.

The Street Team hopes to gain her confidence so that they can determine whether she is “solo” (truly on her own) or if she is a runaway. If she is a runaway they must report her to the police. If she is solo, they will do all they can to convince her to take their offer of appropriate housing (there are numerous options) and their offer of help so that she need not resort to "incoming".

The Monday night team also tells us that the public toilets off Buchanan Street were unusually busy the previous night.

And so Terry, Fiona and I head out. It is now almost 9:30. We head first to the public toilets. Fiona descends the steps into the female side and quickly returns to tell us there are probably three female streeters loitering near the cubicles, one of whom she has had contact with before. Terry and I then descend the steps to the male side.

At the bottom of the steps, sitting comfortably in the corner, still partially outside, is an elderly man that Terry tells me is obviously a streeter. We do not talk to him. The Barnardos teams focus only on the young streeters, 16-25 year olds. A separate team from the Simon Community tries to connect with those who are over 25.

At the far end of the urinals are two young boys who show signs of being streeters. Terry motions to me to use the urinal. I surmise that I should simulate relieving myself, even though I have no need. Terry does the same. Whether he is faking it as well, I do not know, or care.

Terry then approaches the two boys, with me at his side. He shows them his Barnardos Street Team identity card. It is around his neck and laminated and under his photo it has Terry’s name and says “Barnardos Street Team… People Who Care.”

Terry asks them if they are trying to keep dry.

One of them shrugs his shoulders and says, "Aye, sure.”

Terry invites them to join us on the steps to talk for minute. Later on, he will tell me that it was too early in the night to try to talk there by the urinals. There are too many people in and out, and streeters will not engage in those situations.

At first the two teenagers are reluctant, but with a bit of coaxing they follow us.

We climb the steps and three-quarters of the way up Fiona joins us. Later in the night the toilets will be inhabited by both genders, but right now it is better for Fiona to keep some distance.

The five of us sit on the steps, keeping enough room on one side for men to get in and out of the toilets. Terry mysteriously produces two pre-packaged muffins and a bottle of fruit juice from the inner pockets of his jacket. The two boys do not hesitate to accept the muffins and the drink.

After a few minutes of friendly small talk, we discover their names, Graham and Brod. The full name is Broderick, but he strongly forbids its use. They are dressed in layers of clothes that are not grossly dirty, but neither could they be described as clean. Brod has a wool cap that is pulled down almost covering his eyes. Graham’s head is bare, his long and stringy brown hair showing the effect of a windy day and a rainy night.

After eating his muffin, Brod rises and begins to amble up the rest of the steps. He reminds Graham that they “have things to do,” but Graham makes it clear that he intends to stay.

Just before he mounts the final step, Brod turns and thanks Terry for the muffin, and he is gone.

Fiona gently questions Graham about his situation. He claims that he is almost 18, but later in the conversation it comes out that he has only just recently turned 16. He has had one night on the benches in Central Station and two nights in these public toilets. He’s not “poppin” (drug use), he claims. A strong odour of alcohol, however, wafts from him every time he opens his mouth or leans in my direction.

Fiona asks him how he comes by any money at all.

“Offering,” he says.

"Offering", it turns out , is another example of Glasgow street lingo. It is the term for male prostitution that usually involves teenage boys and middle-aged men, brokered by a "kink", a local manager of sexual liaisons. Some kinks also manage the exchange of drugs along with kinky sex.

“It can’t be good,” says Fiona. Graham does not reply, but simply stares at his soggy Reeboks.

I ask Terry if I can ask Graham a question. Terry nods.

“What’s it like sleeping in the toilets?”

“At least it’s dry,” Graham replies, “and it is warmer than anywhere above ground. The police usually ignore the place, unless there’s a fight. You have to wake up fuckin’ early because of job people. You wake up stiff all over. But you had a night.”

Terry reaches within the folds of his jacket once more and retrieves another unopened bottle, orange juice this time, which he offers to Graham. As Graham gulps it down, another half hour slips by with friendly banter about life in Glasgow and the various denizens of city centre.

We discover that Graham is from Edinburgh, but has not lived at home for over a year. He has no desire, he says, to return to what he calls the “violent shit” of a mother who is almost always drunk. His father is long gone.

Fiona asks Graham if he wants to come with us to the Barnardos van where we can sit around a comfortable table and have something hot to drink. Terry and Fiona look pleased when he rather quickly agrees.

We make our way toward the van, Graham tossing furtive glances here and there as though he is afraid of seeing someone he knows or as though he might bolt away without a moment’s notice. We are soon there, however, and once seated, he appears much more relaxed.

Terry heats up cups of water, one by one, in the microwave built into the back wall of the van, adds spoonfuls of hot chocolate mix, and sets them before us all.

Meanwhile, Fiona has already begun asking Graham about his mate, Brod. As though ignoring her question, Graham asks if he can smoke. Fiona reaches for an ashtray and Graham retrieves a crumpled box of cigarettes from the side pocket of his baggy trousers.

Finally, as a cloud of smoke envelopes us all, Graham simply says, “About Brod.”

Brod, it turns out, is a “floater,” suggesting that no one, least of all Graham, actually knows why he’s on the streets. He appears here and there, comes up with money as though by magic, but invariably spends his nights either in the public toilets, or at Central Station, or at various places on the south-side where his face is recognised.

Fiona wonders why he left so abruptly.

“He don’t like nobody,” says Graham.

Terry broaches the subject of alternative housing arrangements.

“What would it mean?” Graham asks.

“Rules,” says Terry, “curfews, sharing a room. You’d be put out if you kept on offering.”

“Food?” Graham asks.

“Cold milk and cereal in the morning, nothing more,” replies Terry.

“Ok then,” says Graham.

Some simple paper work is produced. Graham signs a form, as does Terry before he walks around to the driver’s seat and manoeuvres us out of the alley. Soon we are headed toward the south-side and Glengowan House.

The paper work is exchanged with the nightshift worker and we escort Graham to a room.

“This is good,” says Fiona, as we huddle around the open doorway. So far, he has the room to himself.

“What do I do?” asks Graham.

“Do what they tell you in the morning,” says Terry. “We’ll call you tomorrow to see how you’re getting on.”

With a sigh, Graham says thanks and shuts the door.

It is 11:20 p.m. as we drive away. Fiona and Terry are delighted. This has been unusually successful. Often is takes two or three contacts before someone like Graham will receive help of any kind. We make our way back to the same alley off Union Street where Terry and Fiona fill out reports on what transpired with Graham. I record notes of my own.

After a cup of coffee, Terry and Fiona will take another wander that will keep them occupied until 2:00 a.m. But I’ve had enough for my induction night.

“I’m exhausted,” I announce. “I must get home.”

Terry puts a hand on my shoulder as I gather my notes and assorted belongings.

“Do you want to do the most important thing?” he asks me.

“What’s that?” I reply.

“Call Graham tomorrow and see what might come of it. Someone like him needs some support, some friends.”

Terry walks me part way down the street toward the bus stop.

“Didn’t you tell me you have five kids?” he asks.

“Yes,” I respond.

He reaches into yet another pocket of his bulky jacket and thrusts a handful of condoms at me.

“Maybe you need to make more use of these,” he says.

With a wide grin, he turns and heads back toward the van.

Wednesday, 26 October

As I retrace my route of last night into the city centre, I am wondering whether Fiona and Terry had been able to make that second contact with Alli we had hoped for. Rather than going directly to the van, we are meeting at the Barnardos Street Team offices on Mitchell Street, just a few minutes from the pedestrian area of city centre.

We will have a debrief of our own. The Street Teams do shifts of two nights in a row, anticipating that they might make second or third contacts with streeters of the previous nights. It’s all about genuine relationships, as they have told me numerous times already.

As I climb the steps to the first floor offices, I am feeling at least a little less of a novice. I know it’s naive, but it gives me some measure of solace and even some pleasure. This is doable and effective. These people matter, I think to myself. These people matter a lot.

“Were you able to call Graham?” asks Terry as soon as we are seated in the comfortable couches in the office lobby.

“Yes,” I reply. “We had a good chat. Seems like he wants to meet up again. Maybe in the next day or two. He may see us on the streets tonight.”

Fiona has joined us and we wonder together if the possibility of running into Graham is a good or bad thing. His housing arrangement at Glengowan House extends for two weeks minimally. Hopefully, he will stick with it until he can get some more in-depth help.

Tonight we will walk over to the Queen Street Station area. Terry and Fiona had not been able to find Alli after I left them last night. Maybe she will be there tonight. If not her, others. Terry stuffs his pockets with all the paraphernalia that had been systematically revealed to me last night. It has been raining hard throughout most of the day, but now it is dry, though humid and very warm.

“The streeters,” says Fiona, “will be out and happy.”

I am glad that I dressed somewhat more lightly. Even now, I am sweating as we walk.

It is going on 9:20 p.m. as we approach the outer area of the station. It is early enough that there are still good numbers of people coming from and going to the trains. In spite of the crowds, Fiona and Terry easily spy out a youthful group who, to them, are obvious streeters, huddled around the stairway leading up to Cathedral Street.

“It’s mainly in the eyes,” Terry reminds me. “Look at how that observe all the passers-by, maybe with apprehension, maybe as potential customers for what they have to offer.”

We stand to one side and observe them ourselves. On the outer fringes of the group is a girl who matches our descriptions of Alli.

She is shorter than the others and dressed in tattered jeans that seem inordinately tight for her. She is wearing trainers that must have been red at some point, but now look almost black. Her heavy pullover sweatshirt is also red, with a hood that is pulled over her head. Across the front, the sweatshirt reads, “Leeds.” Beneath the hood is a mass of thick blond hair. With the warmth and humidity, her face is moist. We can see it even from our distance.

Fiona leads the way as we amble toward them.

“We met some new friends of yours,” she says, popping her identity card and quickly replacing it beneath the zipper of her jacket. “Want to talk some more?”

Alli seems at ease and moves a few steps away from her group of friends.

“You are Alli?” Fiona asks. Alli nods and asks about the others that she met the previous night.

“They’re not out tonight,” replies Fiona. “It’s our turn for some fun.”

Terry invites her to come with us into the station where we can sit down. She tells her friends she will be right back, and joins us.

There are plenty of empty tables around the Costa coffee shop, and we each pull up a chair.

“I suppose we really ought to order a coffee,” says Terry. I offer to go, and as I make my way to the counter, Terry shouts to me, “Make it one large. We’ll share.”

By the time I return, Terry has already visited his pockets and a large chocolate bar is open on the table in front of us. I have not missed much of the conversation.

“Our friends tell us you’re incoming,” says Fiona.

“Sure,” says Alli.

“Why?”

“Why not?” she replies. “Gotta eat. Try’in to keep clean. The cinema once in a while.”

“Any income tonight?” says Fiona.

“Naw.” “Danny, that’s my boyfriend, says it’s ok. Gotta be.”

“How’s he helping?” says Terry.

“Nothin’,” she says.

“He poppin’?” asks Fiona.

“Here and there.” “But not me. I been clean a while now.”

Fiona looks doubtful. “It would be better to get off the streets,” she says. “We can help. There’s plenty of places.”

“Nope,” says Alli. “Don’t work for me.” “Met shit people in them places.” “Everything’s a fuckin’ issue.”

Terry and Fiona offer her numerous alternatives, but Alli won’t budge.

“I’m fine,” she says, “I’m good.”

I wince inside at the irony. Alli stands to leave. Terry reaches into his pockets and puts five or six condoms in her hand.

“Make sure they use those,” he says, “all the time.”

“Anything else to eat…for my friends?” she says.

“They wanna talk?” says Terry. Alli smiles wryly.

“Can we keep lookin’ out for you?” asks Fiona.

“Yeah,” says Alli, “why not?”

A moment later, she is gone, and the three of us look at each other and shake our heads.

“You can’t help ‘em if they don’t want it,” says Terry.

We walk back over to the team offices to get the van and head over to Anderston.

The Anderston area in and around the train station is notorious in Glasgow as the place where many and easy "incoming" deals are transacted. It is curious, however, that "offering" arrangements rarely transpire there. We will be specifically wanting to have conversations with young girls who are incoming out of streeter necessity.

Fiona forewarns me that they will be shockingly young. “Most people would never guess,” she says.

Dim lights are glowing from the stairwell that leads to the trains below. There are maybe twenty people loitering around, some in groups, some singly. There is no reason not to suppose that they are waiting for a train or perhaps a taxi. Undoubtedly, some are.

Terry instructs us to sit down on the pavement with our backs against the wall of the train building. “Let’s just see what we see,” he says.

As the minutes tick by, the scene takes on more clarity. There are three or four older young women obviously going nowhere. A few people have come and gone. There are two solitary men who have been there since we arrived. There are two girls, clearly too young to be standing around idly at 11:30 on a Wednesday night, in the shadows of the building across the street.

“It is almost certain,” says Fiona, “that one of those men is a kink.”

Nearly thirty minutes elapse before we stretch our stiff legs and backs and cross the street toward the two girls. One of the two solitary men left a good twenty minutes earlier. The other had left as well, but now has returned.

Again, Fiona takes the lead. She is right. I am shocked when I see how young these girls are as their faces come into focus up close. Both Fiona and Terry show their identity cards right away.

“You girls ok?” asks Fiona.

“We’re fine,” says one of them.

“Waiting?” says Fiona.

“Yeah, just waitin’.”

“He with you?” Terry nods toward the man across the street.

Both girls look down at their feet.

“We’re fine,” states the spokesgirl once more.

Terry offers them a muffin or a chocolate bar. Neither of them is hungry.

“Who knows you’re out here?” asks Fiona.

“We’re on our own. We’re fine.”

“You don’t have to stay here,” says Terry. “We can get you a place for tonight and longer. We can get you help, right now. We have a van and we’ll drive you ourselves.”

“Naw,” says the same girl, who seems to do all the talking. “We’re just waitin’.”

We talk for another ten minutes, asking about parents or relatives or guardians. We ask about school. We ask about friends who might be available. But all the answers are vague, avoiding eye contact.

The conversation ends with the inevitable handful of condoms and instructions to make sure they are used.

We cross the street in the opposite direction, our hands in our pockets, and return to our post by the wall. There is not much to say. The solitary man has changed positions a few times, but he is still there.

Fiona and Terry will stay and see what happens. They will be there until 2:00 a.m. But my emotional stamina has run out once again. I say my good-byes, assuring them that I will join them again on Friday night. They will be off on Thursday.

I walk eight or nine blocks before hailing one of the few taxis that happens by. I need the distance. As I settle into the cushioned seat of the taxi, I realise that I am already back in a very different world, a world that feels even more remote as we turn onto the quiet streets of the West End where I live.

Friday, 28 October

Tonight we are meeting at the van parked near Central Station. When I arrive for the debrief, I soon realise that our team for the night will be four in number rather than three. Catherine Jameison is joining us for the evening and Fiona and Terry are very pleased.

She is well-known as the head of the Homelessness Partnership, a joint effort of Glasgow City Council, Greater Glasgow NHS, the Scottish Executive and voluntary organisations like Barnardos that are part of the Glasgow Homelessness Network. Catherine wants to keep in touch with grass-root efforts and so periodically comes along for a night with one of the two street teams. She is a middle-aged woman whose stern demeanour has more to do with her passionate concern for the needs of the homeless than it does with anger.

Terry and Fiona begin by telling us about what happened in the final hours of the Wednesday night shift, after I had left them. They had returned to sitting on the pavement, backs against the wall. After some time, the solitary man had crossed the street and had some sort of verbal interchange with the two girls. And then all three of them simply left.

Who knows what became of them? Was a rendezvous moved to a different location? Were the girls in jeopardy? Were their plans foiled by our presence?

“Who knows?” says Fiona.

There is also good news. A second contact with Graham had been made by the Thursday night team. He was heading back to Glengowan House when they met him at 11:10 p.m. I will phone him again and see if we can meet up either over the weekend or sometime next week.

After the debrief, the four of us leave the van and head into Central Station. We climb the stairs to Bonaparte’s bar and cafe and order four coffees to take away. Then we go back to the main waiting area and sit down to wait ourselves, and watch.

It is early enough that people are still moving at a fairly hectic pace. Terry and Fiona have their eyes on various groupings of the youthful, but it all appears rather routine to me. I am glad that I end up sitting beside Catherine Jameison. I can use the time to ask her some questions.

“I think faith communities could provide long-term support through friendship. Homeless people have a very elusive and even, you might say, a fickle type of community.”

She tells me that outside of London, Glasgow has the most widespread and severe problems with homelessness of all the major urban areas in the United Kingdom, far beyond Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool and Edinburgh. On the other hand, she is sure that Glasgow’s efforts to address the issues are better co-ordinated than anywhere else, including London. Glasgow is unique in promoting partnerships that freely combine the best contributions of both government agencies and voluntary charitable organisations.

“What about religious groups or faith-based organisations?” I ask.

She is startled by the question. “Largely, they are not there,” she replies after a moment’s hesitation. She has learned, I discover later, that I have what she calls “theological leanings.”

“In fact,” she continues, “in my opinion, religious groups are suspect of exacerbating problems with their tendency to default to free handouts which only continue cycles of dependancy.”

“What,” I ask, “do you think faith communities could do? What do you wish they would do?”

Catherine sips her coffee and considers my question.

“I think they could provide long-term support through friendship. Homeless people have a very elusive and even, you might say, a fickle type of community.”

“Faith groups,” she says further, “could also help them find satisfactory and meaningful occupation. They just need relationships that are constant . They need to be reminded, a lot, that they can take a job and stick with it.

“And I think,” she concludes, “they could contribute a lot in addressing the educational needs of people caught in the endless cycle of homelessness. They need basic skills that will allow them to find and maintain jobs. They need anything that will enhance their sense of dignity.”

Now it is my turn to be startled. If churches cannot provide these things, I think to myself, who can?

I am glad that Terry and Fiona interrupt us. It is now past 10:00 p.m. They have seen what they certainly believe to be streeters, but they are concerned that the four of us together will be too intimidating. We must divide into pairs. I will split off with Fiona, as will Catherine with Terry.

Fiona and I make our way toward a young man and woman seated against the wall at the far side of the station. They appear to be a couple. The man has his arms draped across his propped-up knees, and his head has drooped down onto his chest. He appears to be trying to sleep, but is roused with a jerk every time an arm or a knee collapses under the onslaught of semi-relaxation.

The woman, however, is wide awake, smoking a cigarette and looking this way and that, as though she is expecting someone or protecting something. Between them is a bundle which must be the collection of their few belongings.

Fiona shows her identity card to the woman, extends her right hand in which is an unopened bottle of orange juice, and says that we have a bit of food if they are hungry.

“What you got?” says the woman.

She has a blanket of sorts spread across her legs. She appears to be twenty-one or twenty-two years old. She takes a final draw on her cigarette and snubs it out on the floor beside her.

We squat in front of them, and Fiona produces a muffin and a couple of pre-packaged sandwiches. The woman’s name is Jane, and she is, in fact, married to the drowsy man beside her. He slowly comes to life and, as he helps himself to a sandwich and some slurps of her orange juice, we learn that his name is Colin.

Suddenly, a muffled cry arises from the bundle between them, and we discover that it is makeshift bed for a four-month old infant. It lies in a holdall bag, surrounded by and on top of their various articles of clothing. The sleeve of a heavy tartan shirt has been draped across its face to shield its eyes from the glare of the station lights. Jane lifts the baby to her breast and begins to nurse it.

Their story, according to Fiona, is not uncommon. Although they have been married for a number of years, he is not the father of the baby.

“Don’t matter,” says Jane. “He’s tryin’ to be a good Dad anywise.”

They have made their way north from London, trying to break away from alcohol and drugs, trying to make a life. They survive on a benefits check that comes to a friend’s address in London. The only way they can access it, however, is for Colin to travel all the way back to London to retrieve it. By the time Colin is reunited with Jane, the money is invariably all but gone on train fare, drink and drugs.

While this conversation unfolds, Colin keeps nodding his head and saying, “I mean to do better.”

He takes jobs here and there when he can find them, but they never last. Binge drinking causes him to miss work for days on end. He and Jane have not lived in regular housing since the baby was born.

In spite of their dire circumstances, they are not easily convinced to take the help we can offer. They are afraid of the police and the record that trails them for too long whenever they enter “the system,” as they call it.

“More trouble than it’s worth,” says Jane. But Fiona argues for what is best for the baby.

“Some place safe,” says Fiona. “Some place warm.”

Finally they comply, although as if resigned to a precarious fate. They are reluctant customers at best. Later on, Fiona will tell me she doubts they will stick with it very long.

“They will back on the streets, somewhere, within the month if the pattern holds true,” she says.

We head to the van and drive Colin and Jane and baby to the Hamish Allen Centre that is available only for homeless people who qualify under family status. It is almost 1:00 a.m. by the time we arrive. Fiona and I stand aside as Jane and Colin investigate the sparse, one-bedroom flat in this building complex that used to be a fire station for the south-side of Glasgow.

The walls are beige and bare, but everything is clean. The tiny kitchen is equipped with a bare minimum of utensils, plates, glasses and cutlery. The bathroom, too, is very small, but sufficient with sink and toilet and shower. There are fresh sheets and blankets, pillows and pillowcases for the two single beds in the bedroom.

Jane quickly arranges a bed of blankets on the floor for the baby.

Tomorrow, they will be interviewed by the staff at the centre to determine how their long-term needs might be addressed. But right now we are all bleary-eyed. It is time to leave them and let them get some sleep.

Taking Fiona aside, I ask, “Can I give them a phone number?”

“Sure,” she says. “They’ll need all the help they can get.”

It is 1:40 a.m. by the time we return to Central Station. We scout around for Terry and Catherine, but they are no where to be seen. We hope it bodes something good. Fiona will find out at the debrief on Sunday night.

We decide to call it a night. Once again, I will find a comfortable taxi to take me home. Fiona will return to the van to write up her notes before she makes her way to the flat she shares just off Argyll Street.

“It’s been an unusual week,” she says, as we exchange good-byes. “Two successful placings in three nights.”

“Must be me,” I offer. “Everyone tells me I have an extraordinarily trustworthy smile.”

“No, it’s your accent,” she says, smiling herself. “Thoroughly American camouflaged by a curious Scottish lilt.”

“Will your friends from your church visit?” she asks.

“Who?” I reply, not certain what she means. “Visit who?”

“Jane and Colin,” she says.

I wish I did not have to hesitate. “I think so,” I reply after a moment. “I hope so.”

I think about Fiona’s question throughout the duration of my taxi ride home. Would my friends easily welcome them? Would they be able to embrace them as they embrace others? Would they welcome them at all? Would my friends make the effort to connect with the likes of Colin and Jane?

It is 2:10 when I climb the steps to my flat. I am too wound-up to sleep, even though I’m exhausted. I turn on the television and watch the final minutes of a repeat of "The West Wing". It strikes me as another strange irony. Does the epicentre of political and military power in the world have anything to do with the lives of Jane and Colin, Graham, Alli, and two very underage girls who turn to incoming to survive?

It is 3:00 a.m. when I crawl into bed beside my wife, who will have been asleep for three or four hours. I peer around in the dark at my own bedroom, books and clothing strewn here and there. My five children are sleeping soundly in nearby rooms. The television is still warm from my viewing. It is a far distant place from where I have been these last few nights.

As I drift off to sleep, I wonder what Colin and Jane will awaken to tomorrow morning. What will become of them? What will become of their four-month old baby? Will we visit?

Epilogue

In the days since my last night on the streets with the Barnardos team, I have been studying the words of the Prophet Isaiah. He seems to be urging me toward a higher level of spiritual fervour.

“Is this not the fast which I choose?” God asks. (58:6-7)

Fasting, I think to myself, is a discipline that is surely indicative of some sort of aggressive spirituality. But what is this fast that God clearly prefers? I do not have to read far in the text to get the answer.

Is this not the fast which I choose,
To loosen the bonds of wickedness,
To undo the bands of the yoke,
And let the oppressed go free
And break every yoke?

Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry
And bring the homeless poor into the house;
When you see the naked, to cover him;
And not to hide yourself from your own flesh?

Isaiah, further, does not hesitate to predict the impact of spirituality of this type, demonstrated in the midst of the world as it is. (58:8-12)

Then your light will break out like the dawn…
The glory of the Lord will be your rear guard…
And you will be called the repairer of the breach,
The restorer of the streets in which to dwell.

I cannot help but think to myself whether these words of Isaiah have any bearing on what happens in the streets of Glasgow? If they do not, what on earth is the good of spiritual devotion? If not, why on earth am I committed to spiritual health?

My mobile phone rang this afternoon just as I was about to step into a university seminar room. It was Colin and Jane.

“Are you coming by?” they ask.

We arrange a time for the day after tomorrow.

“Would you know anyone getting rid of any baby clothes?”

I am sure that I can bring some along. I will also bring some bags of food.

It occurs to me that Fiona and I never got the name of the baby on the previous Friday night.

“Her name is Rachel,” they tell me when I ask, “named after the Jennifer Aniston character in Friends.”

Everyone is desperate for real friends, I think to myself as I switch off the phone. Even these who are so young, but sleep rough.

And so we will visit after all. And what will come of it? Perhaps a bit of light will break out. Perhaps the glory of the Lord will shimmer, even if ever so slightly. I think so. I hope so. I believe so.

Hermeneutical and Exegetical Reflections on Isaiah 58:1-12

Wesley White

(Scottish Universities Theological Forum, November, 2005)

The Grounding of Interpretative Ideals

Working toward justice must be grounded in the virtue of hope if it is to bear up under the scrutiny of Christian theology. Otherwise, it gives way to the fickle designs of simple optimism that cannot be sustained within historically situated conditions that give every appearance of immutability. The plausibility of change is too far out of reach. Christian hope, on the other hand, is not susceptible to this kind of limitation. Biblical hope, in fact, is capable of re-imagining the world to such a degree that action is inspired and enacted.

Aquinas rightly analyses hope as a special form of desire that is purposefully focused on the good that is within reach. Its ultimate object is God and as such qualifies as an explicitly theological virtue, in company with faith and charity. Justice in these terms is advancing the good that does, indeed, appear impossible, but is not, under the proviso that God himself is intimately concerned and involved in the cause. Where the good one is due is denied, biblically defined justice demands acts of alteration that refuse to succumb to the immutability of historically based conditions and circumstances.

So far, so good. However, I want to suggest that Aquinas falls short in limiting the good to a theological construct of consummation which aims only at an eventual supernatural mode of union with God. For example, Aquinas contends that “Such a good is eternal life, which consists in the enjoyment of God Himself…Therefore the proper and principle object of hope is eternal happiness.” Limited as such, it advances a notion of eudaimonia (blessedness) that has little, if any relation to the struggle for justice within history. The results of this type of limited hermeneutic are still with us today, witnessed by the fact that we are compelled to justify justice-seeking at all.

I agree with Wolterstorff when he renders it a “theological mistake” to “see hope for consummation as the only legitimate form of Christian hope.” The narrative dimension of Scripture itself argues against it. The numinous episode of the burning bush in Exodus 3 is a vivid example in this story line. After identifying himself, God goes further to declare that he has seen the affliction of his people, heard their cry of despair, and has come down to deliver them. The song of Zechariah in Luke 1 is yet another part of the story. Eulogy is the mode because God has remembered his holy covenant to “grant us that we, being delivered from the hands of our enemies, might serve him without fear.” In either episode, the narrative evokes the promise of deliverance as the reason hope is intoned, not consummation.

Each of these examples (and many others) highlight the credence that is properly given to linguistic function in healthy readings of the biblical narrative. It is meant to expose reality to those who would otherwise continue in the self-deception that the world is well-ordered and as it should be. Further, it assumes the power of language to form and reform experience as it encourages the unthinkable, the unutterable and specifically the unimaginable. In so doing, readings of this kind reveal how untenable is the modern fallacy that ugliness, fear, hurt and darkness can be eliminated as greater knowledge and power are attained.

This does not infer, however, that the language of biblical narrative does not invoke political ideals. To the contrary, the story is riddled with kingdom terminology which unceasingly confronts any locus of power (political, military, economic or otherwise) with the purposes of God as determined by his ruling activity. As Bauckham and Hart suggest, the kingdom of God is, in fact, a political image with reference to the whole of creation. It is assuredly an image that promotes an eschatological vision, but only in so far as that is properly understood as demanding localised anticipation, demonstrated particularly in the advent of God before the ultimate redemption. The purpose of the kingdom, no less, is to break into history in such a way that it results in what Moltmann describes as “unbounded astonishment” at its transforming effect on people.

It is clear, then, that the parameters of justice-seeking, when defined by the biblical criteria of hope, are not limited to a beatific vision that is always in the coming. Nor can they be thwarted by contemporary critics who decry what they think to be utopian aspirations that are all but impossible to achieve. John Caputo, for example, disparages hope itself as a limiting concept that is nothing more than a projection of our unduly optimistic desire for something that never can or will come to be. Movement toward justice in the Bible is hopeful precisely because it rests upon the character of God whose promise of deliverance can be relied upon in the present world and in the future toward which the world is even now moving.

Brueggemann rightly distinguishes it as “God-justice” that does not shy away from a materialist reading of both text and experience. It is grounded upon Yahweh himself, and so “cannot be separated from the actual experience of justice in the social process because Yahweh’s presence in Israel is known through and against the social process. Gorringe suggests that it is missional justice founded on a “re-imagining of the world,” seeking a “built environment” that includes social relations, emotional well-being, spiritual vitality and even in literal architecture that promotes equality in ways that are thoroughly and theologically credible.

Missional justice, for example, ought to raise questions about the fact that New York City annually consumes as much electrical energy as the whole continent of Africa in the same time period. Statistics like this, of course, can be explained in numerous and legitimate ways, but they nonetheless rightly call Christian theology to account and underscore the need for justice that is missionally inspired. As Kuno Fussel correctly surmises, “Such an approach to theology means an end of theology as conceptual representation; it is farewell to spectator theologians.”

Living the Word of Isaiah

Theology as a spectator activity is directly challenged by the prophecy of Isaiah, particularly in texts like chapter 58, verses 1-12. In a passage like this, the ramifications of hermeneutical integrity become readily apparent, demonstrable in the spirituality of the people of God and the way it is expressed in historical contexts. Isaiah’s words are a compelling example of what Gossai means when he refers to “the prophet’s critique of the corrupting influence of affluence and luxury,” in contrast with a spirituality defined by focused attention on the needs of the poor and victims of injustice of any kind. Blomberg rightly recognises how this passage combines with Ezekiel 18:5-9, both of which clearly inform Jesus’ rendering of the sheep and the goats in Matthew 25:31-46.

The text of Isaiah 58:1-12 is ultimately concerned with the aftermath of various approaches to spirituality; that is, what is left in their wake? Is it socially constructive or destructive? Does it detract from the glory of God rather than extol it? The text, in fact, dramatically portends the potential aftermath of that manner of spirituality that leads to unbounded astonishment, as referenced by Moltmann above.

A type of spirituality (dare we even say a level of spirituality) is suggested in the way the text gives such deliberate attention to the matter of fasting, reiterated twice in verse 3, twice again in verse 4, once in verse 5, and once again in verse 6. It is the Hebrew word tsom, literally “to press, tie up or constrain.” It was carried over into the rabbinic teaching of the New Testament era where it continued to be understood as an indication of spiritual fervour. The actual practice of tsom inferred spiritual fervour displayed in so great a desire to know and experience God that one would go without food as a reminder to crave God above all else.

False Spirituality

The text commences by describing what might legitimately be assessed as superficial or disingenuous spiritual fervour in verses 3-5:

Why have we fasted and You do not see, they say, and why have we humbled our souls and You do not know? Behold the day of your fasting, you still find pleasure and all your workers you exploit. Behold your fasting results in strife and contention and in striking each other with wicked fists. You cannot fast as you do today expecting your voice to be heard on high. Shall this be the fast which I choose, a day for a man to afflict himself? Is it for bowing your head like a bulrush and for laying out sackcloth and ashes? Is this what you call a fast, a day which gains approval before God?”

The indicators of superficial ardency are numerous in these three verses. The people are complaining, in verse 3, that their seemingly fervent religious observance is going unnoticed by God. “Why have we fasted and You do not see? Why have we humbled our souls and You do not know?”

The Hebrew text significantly alters the tense between these two sentences so as to highlight the depth of consternation. “All of our past devotion is of no account, and even now this God has no knowledge of the sacrifices we have endured in order to please him.” They are more concerned that God take notice than in the discipline itself or their heart attitude behind it. It bespeaks an underlying pride revealed in the perverse notion that they can impress God.

The text goes further in verse 3. “Behold in the day of your fasting, you still find pleasure, and all your workers you exploit.” It is describing the parody of convenient religion, suggested by the fact that though they fast, it is never allowed to interfere with a pleasure-seeking lifestyle. In fact, they do not let their spirituality encroach upon their business profitability. Rather, they work their employees all the harder so as to make up for any loss their religious duty may have cost them. The term translated “exploit” is the simple qal form of the Hebrew nagas, and it means “to press hard.” The text contends that they are exploiting their labour force, pressing them hard for more capital output so that their religious obligations won’t deter or discourage profit. Religious fervour is well and good as long as it is likewise convenient.

Verse 5, finally, expresses God’s disdain for self-righteous religiosity. “Shall this be the fast which I choose, a day for a man to afflict himself? Is it for bowing your head like a bulrush and for laying out sackcloth and ashes? Is this what you call a fast, a day which gains approval before God?”

The text is obviously referring to that type of public righteousness which is bent on drawing attention to itself. This person fasts in such a manner that it makes public how afflicted he is because of his religious devotion. He bows his head like a bulrush broken in a storm. He changes his wardrobe to sackcloth and douses himself in ashes.

Of course, it was precisely this type of spiritual showing off Jesus expressly decried in his historic mountainside sermon. “Whenever you fast, do not put on a gloomy face as the hypocrites do, for they neglect their appearance so that they will be noticed by men when they are fasting. Truly I say to you, they have their reward in full.” (Mt. 6:16)

In Isaiah, the same is depicted as the height of self-righteous religiosity, the summary statement of disingenuous, superficial spirituality, depicted in the pride of trying to impress God, the fallacy of convenient religion and the obnoxious display of oxymoronic religious superiority.

In the midst of it all, verse 4 turns attention back to the prevailing concern for the aftermath of this brand of spirituality. What follows in its wake? “Behold your fasting results in strife and contention and in striking each other with wicked fists.” Strife, contention and infighting. False spirituality of this sort breeds nothing less than relational violence.

True Spirituality

Fortunately, the text does not end there, but goes on to explicate God’s understanding of real and authentic spirituality, in verses 6 and 7:

“Is this not the fast I have chosen: to make loose the chains of injustice, to untie the cords of the yoke and to set free the oppressed and to tear apart every yoke? Is it not to share equally your bread with the hungry and the homeless poor to provide a home? When you see the naked to clothe him, and not to hide yourself from your flesh and blood?”

According to the text, the definitive point that distinguishes this type of spirituality is that it is of God’s own choosing. “Is this not this the fast I have chosen?” (vs.6) Over against that show of spirituality which is humanly devised, concerned with rules, rituals, form, fashion and profit interest, true spirituality makes itself public in accordance with God’s preference.

The Hebrew grammar spells this out in its repetitive use of the infinitive, one of the strongest verbal forms linguistically available: “to make loose;” “to untie;” “to set free;” “to tear apart;” “to share equally;” “to provide;” “to clothe.” It is a grammatical call “to do” something, “to take action.” In fact, this long list of infinitives is in the Hebrew piel form, adding significant intensity and requiring the taking of action in a very deliberate fashion.

It suggests that real spirituality is not displayed in what we think, feel, say, or even believe. Nor is it relayed in a particular style of worship or the mastery of various liturgical forms. Neither is it necessarily portrayed in surrender to drastic ascetic disciplines. True spirituality is manifested in what we do, in whether or not we deliberately (in a premeditative way) take action.

More broadly, verses 6 and 7 suggest how deliberate action is to be taken on behalf of people in two general areas of need.

Verse 6, first of all, calls for action on behalf of those in civil need. The language of deliverance is couched in metaphors of civil restraint: “chains of injustice;” “cords of the yoke;” and freedom for the “oppressed.” Each one speaks of the singular reality of structural wickedness under which victims suffer the hampering of and tampering with their civil rights. Thus, Isaiah pictures them as legally encumbered, bound up in slave-like ways, and socially and economically downtrodden.

Verse 7, then, compels action on behalf of those in physical need. The grammatical emphasis is on the first infinitive: “to share equally.” Equality is at the heart of spirituality of this sort and is made visible in the provision of food for the hungry, shelter for the homeless and clothing for the naked. It does not allow adherents to hide from the stark needs of flesh and blood humanity. The Hebrew is literally “to conceal,” suggesting a refusal to participate in the active injustice of covering up social wrongs, rather than simply avoiding the passive behaviour of ignoring human need.

With verse 8, the text broaches the question of ultimate concern: what is the aftermath of this sort of authentic spirituality? What follows in its wake? “Then your light shall break forth like the dawn and your recovery shall spring forth quickly and your righteousness shall walk ahead of you. The glory of the Lord shall gather up behind you.”

The text is speaking of the wake that follows in the path of those who observe this fast which God chooses. It includes the infusion of light into dark places, the speedy advent of social recovery and the advance of communal righteousness. But ultimately, the aftermath of this brand of true spirituality is nothing less than the glory of the Lord. The many-sided Hebraic idea of glory (cabod) incorporates that which reveals the beauty of God. It is an ontological affirmation, referencing the beauty that proceeds out of the very being of God and manifests itself throughout the created order, but especially in that aspect of creation that bears God’s image, human beings. When humanity exhibits true spirituality, such as the previous verses have described, the beauty of God is made visible.

Furthermore, Isaiah contends that socially-active spirituality leads to potency in prayer (vs.9) and the replacement of gloom with bright hope (vs.10). It also portends the ongoing guidance of God and that quality of nourishment that only comes from him (vs.11). So supernaturally directed and enabled, the people of God can take on the task of rebuilding that which has been devastated by social ruin and repairing the breach left in the wake of social decay (vs.12). They make cities inhabitable once again (vs.12).

Eschatology in Time and Space

Isaiah 58:1-12 thus depends on hermeneutical integrity for its fulfilment in terms of eschatological anticipation. It promotes a vision that, in fact, cannot be realised if it is restrained by a limiting focus on consummation. To be sure, it is a vision that un-apologetically moves toward consummation, but in nonetheless concrete terms that seek deliverance in contemporary time and space. The cause of justice is grounded in the theological virtue of hope that is hopeful precisely because it emerges out of a revitalised spirituality that is authentic and true. It advances the plot of a biblical story that is full of promise.

Justice, therefore, that accords with the words of Isaiah cannot be conceived of apart from the adoption of transcultural values that Christopher Wright helpfully refers to as “redeemed economics.” Assumed in a value orientation of this kind is unequivocal impartiality (see Leviticus 19:15 and Exodus 23:3) that rejects the temptation to elevate the disadvantaged and marginalised to special status, even as it requires the advantaged to pursue just distribution. At the same time, it refuses to condone the perpetual social advance of the advantaged at the expense of the marginalised who are due not only compassion, but justice.

One of the implications of anticipated eschatology, however, that does justice to passages like Isaiah 58:1-12, is the need for a radical inversion of the criteria of honour and shame. Jesus is plainly informed by the vision of Isaiah (see Luke 4:14-30) in the kingdom agenda he pursues throughout the gospels, some of which is undoubtedly worked out in his deliberate example of inversion when it comes to both the sinful and the disadvantaged. As Evelyn Thibeaux has admirably argued, Jesus clearly “incarnated inversion” by honouring the wisdom of the simple, preferring the company of the ostracised, proclaiming a gospel for the poor and being disadvantaged himself. At the same time, he delivered lengthy diatribes aimed at shaming the general and overt hypocrisy of the advantaged. In the midst of it, Jesus might be legitimately warned as to the outcome of such dangerous honesty, but he could not be accused of partiality.

Radical inversion must take its cue from a story line that gives due attention to both the eighth-century prophets and to Jesus of the gospels. It must also be practically located within a communal context whereby incarnational inversion is given material content by the church as the body of Christ. For me, all of this urgently suggests that new and existing communities of faith must seriously entertain various callings and approaches to downward rather than upward mobility. If nothing else, it behoves us to ask the relevant questions. How do we demonstrate Christ in this way? How do incarnational models inform our living and lifestyle choices? Who in our midst has special vocations in this regard? Where and for whom do we plant new churches? How can the rich best adopt the practises of downward mobility? How can the rich best be utilised in communal commitments to downward mobility?

As this happens, perhaps the vision of Isaiah and the agenda of Jesus will take shape and emerge more fully in the world. Missional passion will not be lessened, but only broadened and instilled with greater integrity. If Isaiah can be trusted, light will break out, recovery will spring forth and righteousness will advance. And the beauty of God (the glory of the Lord) shall be revealed.

Serving Others: An Evolution of Motivation

Carlton Deal

1888

Thousands of people fill the streets of the city. The mood is festive, the scene chaotic. Music and laughter mingle with animated conversation and the cries of children to create the cacophony that is contemporary society.

Suddenly, Jesus enters the city, riding a donkey. And no one cares.

There are no shouts of “Hosanna,” no waving of palm branches, no hopes that the Messiah has come. No one cares because the setting is not Jerusalem in the first century, but Brussels, in the 1888 masterpiece, “Christ’s Entry Into Brussels in 1889” by Anglo-Belgian artist James Ensor.¹

For a long time, that’s all I saw in the painting. A left-wing politician dressed in bishop’s garb leads the procession of thousands away from a miniscule Jesus whose entrance into the city goes unnoticed by all but a handful. The town mayor seems to oversee the proceedings, but the birds-eye view is given to a smug Voltaire, nodding his assent to Ensor’s critique of late 19^th century European church-state relationships. The grandiose banner “Vive la Sociale” waves over the painting and catches the eye long before the tiny one, bottom right, that captures my heart: “Vive Jesus, Roi de Bruxelles.”

But now I’m seeing something different. I’m drawn to Jesus on the donkey: a humble Jesus, a serving Jesus, a Jesus who is known by his unconditional love for those in need. The Creator-Sustainer of all that lives entered time not to be served but to serve. If Christ were to enter Brussels in 2006, would he do so in the same way he entered Jerusalem centuries before? What if this was the Jesus presented by his body to the Europe of today?

2005

Brussels is the capitol of a continent, home to 30,000 Eurocrats responsible for drafting the future of its 25-nation confederacy. By some estimates, almost 10% of Brussels claims a Christian faith, but subtracting non-European cultures reduces the number to the 1% consistent with the rest of the country and much of Europe. Surely, the church cannot sit idly by while the best and brightest of a generation pens new chapters of European history. There must be more that we can do besides sing louder or to better graphics.

The Well, a new Christian Associates church in Brussels, has decided to serve others. This was evidenced most dramatically in a July 2005 project called “Serve the City” – a phrase we hope in time better describes our way of life than a single event. Serve the City brought together a group of nearly 100 visiting and local volunteers for ten days to show God’s love in practical ways to people in need. We partnered with organizations, some faith-based and some not, who were already working with the homeless, refugees, orphans, elderly, and others in need. Each day our serving team spread all over the city to serve food, cut hair, teach English, provide clothing, paint, play with children, and demonstrate kindness. We said when we started that we wanted to know by name the people we know only by their needs. By the last evening, we shared a holy moment of lifting up in prayer hundreds of people by name whom we would never have met had we not served them.

Although the Serve the City project was a new concept for all of us, and a formidable challenge for a number of reasons, it felt like an unquenchable passion from the heart of God. That much I knew with certainty. But I didn’t know why. Was it to be a demonstration of God’s heart for the poor to be served or of God’s heart for his Church to serve? Was it to be a prophetic pronouncement of the kingdom of God “on earth as it is in heaven” or the best introduction of the Gospel I could think of to the secular Europeans we are hoping to reach? Before, during, and after the project I could hardly speak of these things because my heart was so full of feelings, passion, enthusiasm, pain, and a desperate need to mobilize everyone within my reach. I feel better able to reflect on it now and the remainder of this paper will be devoted to what I am learning through an evolution of motivations I can now see as I look back on God’s work in my life and ministry regarding the priority of serving others.

1995

I was in my fourth year of leading an evangelistic international community youth ministry in Geneva, Switzerland. My objective was to lead a team to share the Gospel with as many non-Christian teenagers as possible. Our primary methods were relationships and weekly youth groups.

In these days, I understood “sharing the Gospel” to mean a conversation or a presentation during which I conveyed information about the main tenets of Christian faith, potentially expressed in two minutes or less like this:

God created you and loves you, but your sin has separated you from him. He sent his son Jesus to die in your place, paying the penalty for your sin, and will forgive you if you believe in him and ask him to.

Unfortunately, it was hard to find people who wanted to hear that. That’s when I stumbled upon Conspiracy of Kindness by Steve Sjogren,² a Vineyard pastor in Cincinnati, Ohio. His book told stories of remarkable evangelistic effectiveness through surprising acts of kindness. The appendix was replete with suggestions, such as free car washes (no donations accepted), free holiday gift wrap, and Sjogren’s personal favorite, toilet cleanings for local businesses. Whether serving spontaneously or in a project organized by his church, conspirators of kindness were encouraged to answer the “why?” questions with this simple phrase: “to show God’s love in a practical way.”

I was pretty sure this was the best thing since sliced bread. We tried a number of Servant Evangelism projects in Geneva and experienced some success. My motivation for serving at this stage was simple: it was the most effective way I knew to initiate a contact with someone that might turn into a conversation about the Gospel.

1996

I felt like I had tried it all: “The World’s Largest Banana Split,” “Battle of the Sexes,” even “Chocolate Pudding Wrestling.” Attract teenagers with fun and then find a way somehow to tell them that they needed Jesus. Camps, trips, and retreats worked the best, but it’s hard to impress international teenagers whose families live in Switzerland, own a chalet in the French Alps, and vacation in the Canary Islands. Even if we succeeded, the atmosphere and activities were far from an ideal backdrop for my two-minute message.

And then one day it struck me: instead of offering teenagers an opportunity for recreation, what if we offered them an opportunity to serve? Missions trips had been impacting Christian teens for years. What about a service project for non-Christian kids? Rather than sharing the Gospel with the community we were serving, we would do so with those in our group. I found some inspiration for this idea from Pulitzer Prize winner Ernst Becker who wrote, “Youth was not intended for pleasure but for heroism.”³

And what heroes they turned out to be! Scores of teenagers I had never met gave me hundreds of euros to travel 24 hours by coach for two weeks over the Easter break to Poland to rebuild houses destroyed by a flood, to Romania to construct an orphanage, to Croatia to renovate a building for reconciliation efforts in the Balkans, to Hungary to assist a ministry that was rescuing homeless from the streets of Budapest. From the first project of 50 people has grown three separate projects, drawing more than 400 students each spring.

This phenomenon also manifested itself locally. Catching on to the desire we were observing in international teens to make a difference in the world around them, we changed our programming and began offering service clubs. While their parents traveled the globe for the High Commission on Refugees, World Health Organization, and World Trade Organization, not-yet-believing teens at home in Geneva served at soup kitchens, played basketball with mentally handicapped athletes, and befriended the elderly. Accompany this activity was a proportionate interest in the Jesus who served and calls us to do likewise.

I couldn’t put words to what we saw working until I stumbled across a book called Churches with Roots by Johan Lukasse,⁴ retired director of the Belgian Evangelical Mission. On my way to lead a church planting team in Brussels, I was fascinated to read the advice of an experienced pastor who had toiled long years on Belgian soil.

In discussing strategies he considered effective in reaching secular Europeans for Christ, Lukasse referenced Lifestyle Evangelism by Joseph Aldrich,⁵ a book I had read long before I was really interested in its content. But now he had my full attention.

Aldrich sketched the well-known triangle of Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs (below).⁶ First proposed in Maslow’s 1943 paper A Theory of Motivation,⁷ the theory contends that people only experience more advanced needs as their basic needs are met. The pyramid is divided into two halves, “deficiency needs” such as food, shelter, affection, and self-esteem and “being needs,” such as self-actualization and transcendence.

The application to church planting, according to Aldrich, revolves around communicating the Gospel in a way that meets people at their point of need. For people who are living in the lower half of the triangle, the implication is obvious: meet their practical needs and trust that spiritual opportunities will present themselves.

But what about people whose basic needs are already met? They may be less inclined to sense spiritual need as well. This describes much of the international teen culture I was seeking to impact in Geneva as well as Europeans we encounter in Brussels.

Aldrich’s answer is this: in order to reach people living at the top half of the triangle, involve them in meeting the needs of others.

And that’s how I came to want to lead a project like Serve the City. The primary motivation was not for those we would serve, but for those who would serve with us.

2006

But I can feel that a different motivation is beginning to take hold. It’s the idea that serving others isn’t a strategy; it’s the Kingdom of God. Maybe serving is what Jesus did. Maybe serving is how we are supposed to live. Maybe serving doesn’t just give an opportunity to communicate the Gospel, maybe it is the Gospel – or at least contains it in a way I had not previously understood. Maybe one can “share the Gospel” as effectively by serving a cup of hot soup as by drawing the Bridge on a napkin in a crowded McDonalds. Maybe better.

I am starting to believe that the act of serving others speaks prophetically to the world around us. Serving says that in God’s Kingdom, people without legs are just as important as fashion models. It says that in God’s Kingdom, even the smallest needs are met. It says that in God’s Kingdom, people aren’t lonely and isolated and taken advantage of. Serving brings heaven to earth, maybe just for a moment, so we can see Jesus. As the cup of cold water is extended, the Kingdom grows beneath the feet of the servant surprised by his selflessness, and the recipient, warmed by the thought that someone cares. Both feel drawn to the Kingdom and long for it to last. Whether or not it does in that space and time, the Kingdom was there, witnessed by at least two.

I’m starting to think about the kind of serving we’re doing as a community. So far, most of our serving is in simple and small ways and very safe. Perhaps it could be thought of as recreational serving. We’re not meeting any real long-term needs. We’re putting a smile on the faces of the forgotten. In many cases, we’re serving through an existing association, when we want, for as long as we want. We walk away and don’t have to think about whether the practical needs of the sick or hungry or desperate will overtake our lives. They don’t even know where we live. Is that wrong?

It would seem that to be a people who truly “act justly and love mercy” (Micah 6:8), more is required than the provision of food and clothing. There are policy issues to be fought, governments to be opposed, prejudices to be silenced. But the kindnesses shown to “the least of these” (Matthew 25:40) that grants eternal life to the “sheep” were simple acts: water for the thirsty, food for the hungry, visits for the prisoners. I’m left with the feeling that serving is something Jesus wants us to feel like we can do, not something that is a waste of time for anyone who doesn’t have a legal degree. I think Jesus would have us start where we are and serve however we can. As we serve simply, he may show us more that we can do and “more is required from those to whom more is given” (Luke 12:48, NLT).

I have more questions. For instance, is serving for the church or is the church for serving? And how much does the answer matter? One thing I have discovered is this: serving others is my favorite act of worship. I feel God’s pleasure in unselfish service maybe more than anything. Properly understood, I think serving is best enjoyed not because it’s needed or because I should, but because Jesus is worth it. And I think I enjoy it, in part, because I am longing for the Kingdom to come in my heart as it is in heaven.

This last section was headed 2006 because, like the year, this new motivation is coming, but is not quite here. Maybe Ensor imagined something similar when he set Christ’s Entry a year in the future. Since his painting, a hundred years has passed, modernity has run its course, and much has changed. The band in Brussels may still be playing and the party in full swing, but there’s no mistaking the fact that the bishop is no longer leading the parade. Could it be that a stirring in the crowd is causing heads to turn back towards the Servant King? Could it be a rumor you hear that somewhere near the man on the donkey feet are being washed, even as you feel a gentle tug at your feet….

 

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1. Held at the Getty Museum, Los Angeles. More information from http://www.getty.edu/art/ collections/objects/o932.html

2. Steve Sjogren, Conspiracy of Kindness (Vine Books, 1993)

3. Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death (New York: The Free Press, 1973)

4. Johann Lukasse, Churches with Roots (Bromley: STL, 1990

5. Joseph Aldrich, Lifestyle Evangelism (Portland: Multnomah Press, 1981)

6. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow’s_hierarchy_of_needs

7. Abraham Maslow, A Theory of Motivation (Psychological Review, 50, 370-396, 1943). Also available at http://psychclassics.yorku.ca/Maslow/motivation.htm

Serving the Poor While Walking with Them

Esmée Chengapen

In the book of Isaiah, when the prophet is announcing the coming of the Messiah, one finds that the poor is very much in the priority list of Jesus. Isaiah 11:3-4 says:

He will not judge what he sees with his eyes,
or decide by what he hears with his ears;
but with righteousness he will judge the needy,
with justice he will give decisions for the poor of the earth

And when we fast, what God demands of us (he does not just suggest it) to share our food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter and when we see the naked, to clothe them…. (Isaiah 58:7)

It seems straightforward because of the injustice around us about who should be a major target group of the communities of faith, but also Christ’s message goes beyond simply feeding the poor, it is a liberating message as described in Isaiah 58, true fasting is also to loose chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, set the oppressed free and break every yoke.

I would think that it is important first to articulate our view of poverty because this will strongly influence how we should go about it and change our lifestyles accordingly.

Is poverty merely a deficit?

If we view poor people as not having enough to eat, a place to sleep, the unspoken assumption is to provide the missing things and the poor will no longer be poor. If they do not have the relevant skills or knowledge, then providing education and if the poor simply learns enough, they will no longer be poor. We, as followers of Christ, then add the knowledge of the gospel to our programme for the poor. 

This has been the traditional approach of the church, however it creates a “Santa Claus” picture of the communities of faith and the poor become passive recipients of the church’s generosity. This approach has two negative consequences: it demeans the poor and it temps us to play god in the lives of the poor.

I experienced this kind of approach while growing up in Mauritius. I must add that I am eternally grateful to the missionaries especially the Irish Catholic nuns who came to the island before its independence from the British. From my great-grandfather to my grandfather to my Dad and his siblings, and to my cousins and I, we all went to missionary schools. In many ways, Mauritius could make it to independence in 1968 because it had an educated workforce and for this, the country owes a great deal to the missionaries who did a great job on the island. However, as of today, most of the island’s population respects Christianity but they are still very captive in superstitious beliefs. As a child, I always thought that the missionaries were superior given that they had the resources, the education and the connections (these are very important on an island!). Indeed, they played god in my life.

Poverty as disempowerment

In “Walking with Poor”, the author shares the thesis of Jayakumar Christian who is a World Vision development worker.[1] His study is based on his work in transformational development in India.[2] Christian describes the poor household embedded in a complex framework of interacting systems which includes:

• a personal system including psychology;
• a social system; and
• a spiritual/religious system (both personal and social).

Each part of the system creates its own particular contribution to the disempowerment of the poor including captivity to god complexes of the non-poor, deception by “principalities and powers”, inadequacies in worldview and suffering from a marred identity.

Captivity to god-complexes of the non-poor- the socio-economic-political system

This is something one would not naturally think of when one has access to the rights and privileges of a middle class European. The poor is subject to another reality: to the whims of a landlord, to radical decisions of governments if he is refugee, to the drug trafficker is he is pawn and victim of the drug trade. Jayakumar Christian reminds us that these powers exist within a cosmic system in which principalities and powers work out their rebellion against God and God’s intention for human life in creation.

 Communities of faith working with the poor should be mindful of this aspect of captivity of the poor. Working for the transformation of the lives of the poor can be compared to getting Egypt out of the children of Israel after they were liberated from the powers of the pharaoh. Indeed, it was a matter of days for God to get the children of Israel out of Egypt but forty years in the wilderness to get Egypt out of them!

While we must always encourage the poor to respect the law of the land, we must educate them about the freedom one has as a citizen of a country (one should have a closer look at his entitlements if he has refugee status) and also the freedom one has in Christ.

This is something that I personally struggle with when I am working with refugees. It is very hard for them as they are unable to work for many years under refugee status, the man is usually so robbed of his dignity because he cannot provide for his family, and on top of that, being a refugee equates being despised by many locals. 

I can illustrate this point with what happened once to one of my refugee friends. Naibkhil is the father of an Afghan boy named Hassib whom I was helping a couple of years ago, the rest of the family was still in Afghanistan at the time. As he did not have much to do after his son left for school, he used to go for a long walk around the refugee centre daily. Once he met a Dutch lady walking her dog and he said a friendly hello to her. The woman proceeded to tell him that he had no human dignity for coming to Holland as a refugee (in the area they knew who were the locals and who were the refugees) and she then said that her dog had a better attitude to the rest of humankind than he had and she would not speak to people of his level! This really hit my friend and as he was telling me about this upsetting encounter, he had tears in his eyes. I felt so helpless in what I could say to him as I felt that he had lost so much of his dignity.

So how can we go about helping the poor in the socio-economic-political area? 

Deception by principalities and powers – the spiritual system

“We were in slavery under the basic principles of this world” - Galatians 4:3

The powerless of the poor is reinforced by fear and deceit created by the god of this age that blinded the minds of believers (2 Corinthians 4:4). 

I can so relate to these verses growing up in Mauritius. Superstition held my family so captive and although we were not poor in Mauritian terms, we lived under the lies of the enemy. It seemed that my family had such a bad karma, that the endless fasting and sacrifices to the Hindu gods would not change anything! When I visit the poor in Mauritius or the refugees in Amsterdam, I can see how the same kinds of superstitions haunt them. They struggle to succeed as at the back of their minds, they have been born under the wrong sign or at the wrong time, or they are not getting their permanent resident status because another family in the camp is envious of them and creating bad vibes in their direction.

Dealing with this kind of spiritual deception requires prayer and fasting and also knowing God’s word, I can say this by reason of my own journey from Hinduism to Christianity.

The marred identity of the poor

Jayakumar Christian observes in his thesis that the poor is marred in two important ways:

Firstly, they are excluded as actors in society and too often, the voice of the poor is regarded as “damaged goods”. The leaders of the country do not expect the poor to have anything to offer since they have been labelled as lazy, ignorant or unworthy, 

Secondly, a lifetime of suffering, deception and exclusion is internalised by the poor in a way that results in the poor no longer knowing who they truly are or why they were created. This is the deepest and most profound expression of poverty. The poor come to believe that they are and were always meant to be without value and without gifts. The identity of the poor is distorted and is kept by a web of lies that entraps the poor in ways far stronger and deceitful than physical bonds or limitations.

To address this aspect of poverty, the communities of faith need to become instruments of God to restore the identity of the poor. Being their friend, helping them to deal with their internal struggles, walking with them as a friend and showing them God’s truth. It requires a much closer approach to working with the poor than what we are currently doing.

Should missional communities aggressively change their lifestyles, attitudes and teaching to reach out to the poor and marginalized in Europe?

I wish I did not have to deal with this question as this is that has been on my mind for quite a while concerning my own life. I would think that most of us have gone through some downward mobility when moving to Europe and leaving the comforts of home. Part of me wishes that there would be no more downward mobility!

Yet, we live in a bubble and very often, this bubble is called an expatriate middle-class world. We then tend to concentrate on our own middle-class problems and do not have the time and energy to reach out to the poor. 

These are the questions I struggle with:

• Should I live in a poorer area so that I am physically closer to the poor?
• How much of my income should go to the poor?
• How much of my church’s income should go towards serving the poor?
• How welcoming am I to the poor in my home?

Footnotes

[1] Myers, Bryant L. 1999, Walking with the Poor, World Vision International, Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books
[2] Christian, Jayakumar. 1998a. “A Different Way to Look at Poverty”, Body and Soul, London: World Vision UK

The ultimate in downward mobility: reflections on the incarnation

Rogier Bos

From the heights we leap and go
To the valleys down below
Always answering to the call
To the lowest place of all
From the heights we leap and go
To the valleys down below
Sweetest urge and sweetest will
To go lower, lower still

Hannah Hurnard, Hinds’ feet on high places

Our culture values upward mobility. Driven by commerce and the media people in the Western world strive for a bigger paycheck, a better car, a larger house, a nicer office, more possessions, a more powerful place on the corporate ladder, and more status. More is better, bigger is better, higher is better, seems to be the message. A not so subtle form of the Social Darwinist claim that we should always be evolving promotes the message ‘be all you can be.’ In the movies of Walt Disney this quickly becomes ‘reach for the stars’ and ‘dare to dream big.’ The mentality in Western culture has become ‘have all you can have, get all you can get and reach everything you can reach.

This culture is pervasive, and it has invaded the church. There is little difference in the pursuits of people outside of the church, and people inside. But was it God’s intention that his people should always be moving upward? Not in Paul’s idea. In his letter to the Philippians he encourages them to follow the example of Christ. In the incarnation Christ modelled downward rather than upward mobility.

In this paper I want to look closely at the famous passage Philippians 2:4-11. Paul’s encouragement is to have the same attitude as Christ Jesus. What lessons might be drawn with regards to downward mobility?

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus:

Who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be grasped,
but made himself nothing,
taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.

And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to death –
even death on a cross!

Therefore God exalted him to the highest place
and gave him the name that is above every name,
that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.

The largest journey ever made, the most amazing trajectory ever travelled, was the distance between heaven and earth, deity and humanity, life and death, as traversed by Jesus. There can be no greater example of downward mobility than the son of God becoming man, and this man dying on a cross. The incarnation is the ultimate example possible of downward mobility.

General comments

Perhaps two introductory and general comments need to be made regarding this passage. Since it references both the nature of Jesus as divine being as well as the nature of Jesus as human being, this passage plays a role in the debate regarding how those two natures relate to each other. I have no wisdom to offer on this point, other than that it seems to me that this passage does not infer that Jesus was not divine while on earth. In my mind this passage creates no problem with the understanding that Jesus was both God and man while on earth.

The other question raised regarding this passage is the question of authorship. The common view seems to be that this was some sort of hymn the early church sang, quoted by Paul. N.T. Wright disagrees. He suggests that Paul wrote the passage himself, as it ‘dovetails so neatly with chapter 3 on so many levels.’

The intentional nature of the incarnation

When I told a leader in my community I was writing a paper on downward mobility her immediate response was: “I have a number of clients who can say a few choice words on the subject.” She works in public service, helping people who have lost their income. Her ‘clients’ are people who claim welfare. Many of them attempt to defraud the Dutch government by not declaring income or other benefits they are enjoying. Her list of clients is growing: the current economic climate is forcing many below the line of poverty. Downward mobility is not an unfamiliar concept these days.

But downward mobility as a result of economic misfortune is a forced form of such mobility. Jesus’ example, however, is based entirely on his decision to do so. Paul does not write that Jesus was demoted or released from the deity, but rather that ‘he made himself nothing,’ ‘he took the very nature of a servant’, and ‘he humbled himself.’ In calling us to have the mind of Christ (NKJV and ASV), or having the attitude of Christ Jesus (NIV and NLT), Paul invites us to voluntary downward mobility.

Who is not here?

In a recent conversation on this subject Robert Calvert, pastor of the Scottish Church in Rotterdam, helped me understand the motivation to become downwardly mobile. The motivation stems from the realization that some who should be here, are in fact not here. The journey down, to quote Wes White, starts when one looks around the room, and asks the question Who is not here?

Let me explain. In Calvert’s understanding people run the risk in any group to become satisfied or complacent with our group. When we enter a new group of people we try hard to understand the common frame of mind this group shares. But after a while we come to accept the assumptions we make about the group, and accept them as truth. After sufficient time has gone by we stop asking questions regarding inclusion and exclusion all together. These assumptions explain both why the ones who are part of this group are part of this group, while the ones who are not part of the group are not.

"The journey down… starts when one looks around the room, and asks the question Who is not here?"

In looking around the room and asking the question who is not here? we challenge the assumptions we share about our group. We question the status quo, and realize there are reasons why those who are not here should in fact be here. Our reasons for previously excluding them often have to do with some form of pride; we tell ourselves ‘they don’t fit in’ or ‘they don’t meet our expectations’. Once we get past this, we realize that an incursion will have to be made into foreign territory to invite those previously excluded. This is where downward mobility starts.

I think this is precisely what happens in the incarnation. If the relationship between the three persons of the Trinity can be described as a dance, as Orthodox Christianity does in describing perichoresis, Jesus leaves the dance as Paul describes in v. 6 precisely because three persons of the trinity have ‘looked around the room and asked themselves ‘who is not here?’, and they have decided to act on this. Their desire is to bring mankind into their dance, and in order to do that an journey into foreign territory will have to be made, so as to make those not part of the dance previously, now part of the dance.

Mother Theresa is a current-day shining example of this. Her effort is solely aimed at making those not wanted, wanted.

Malcolm: What exactly are you doing for these dying people? I know you bring them in to die there. What is it you are doing for them, or are seeking to do for them?

Mother Theresa: First of all we want to make them feel that they are wanted; we want them to know there are people who really love them, who really want them, at least for the few hours they have to live, to know human and divine love. That they too may know they are the children of God and that they are not forgotten and that they are loved and cared about and there are young lives ready to give themselves in their service.

Lower still

There seems to be a two tier process to Jesus’ downward mobility. First, Paul describes how Jesus relinquished his divine nature and equality to God, and became a human being. Then, once he is human, the second part of the process sets in, in which he humbles himself before mankind, becoming a servant before them, and allowing himself even to be crucified. It is almost as if the text allows for the reader to think ‘And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself – again. Or ‘once more’.

This speaks to me. On those rare occasions where I have voluntarily chosen to humble myself, I doubt I have thought to myself: “OK, now how can I humble myself even further?” Yet this seems to be precisely what Jesus did. He travels from the one far end of the spectrum, where he is part of the trinity and equal with God the father, to the far other end of the spectrum, where he is put to death as the worst kind of person, a traitor crucified on a cross. The words Paul writes to the Galatians echo here: “Cursed is everyone who is hung on a tree.” (Deuteronomy 21:23; Gal. 3:13).

My own desire for upward mobility rather than downward mobility notwithstanding, having Christ’s attitude would make us want to ‘go lower, lower still,’ as Hannah Hurnard writes in her water song. A community that has this attitude could be said to engage in a spiritual limbo-dance, cheering each other on: “how low can you go?”

Strong imagery

Two images speak strongly to me from this passage in Philippians. The first is that Jesus did not consider equality with God something to be grasped. The image of hands grasping something, or conversely, letting go, is powerful to me. In Crossroads Rotterdam we make much of this image. We teach our people to live ‘with open hands.’ Open hands can receive blessing when it comes. They do not claim, seek control, force or keep. Paul highlights Jesus’ attitude, implicating that Jesus lives with open hands. This image becomes clearer when we look at the cross, where his hands were nailed to the wood in the ultimate release.

"So much of our striving for upward mobility seems to be driven by the desire to fill a sense of emptiness we sense within ourselves."

The other image is that of Jesus emptying himself. V. 7 reads Jesus ‘made himself nothing,’ but this could also be translated (as the ASV) does as ‘he emptied himself.’ The Greek word underlying this text is ‘kenoo’ which means ‘to make void or empty’ or ‘to make of no effect.’ For this passage has become known as the kenosis passage: the passage which describes Jesus emptying himself out.

This is another powerful image to me. So much of our striving for upward mobility seems to be driven by the desire to fill a sense of emptiness we sense within ourselves. This is at least true for much of my personal striving. Yet here is Jesus, who seeks the emptiness rather than the fullness. As we see in the confrontation with Satan in the desert (Luke 4:3) he is content with emptiness.

What does emptying oneself entail? If we are to think about ourselves as Christ thought of himself (v. 4, The Message), how do we do that?

A few things come to mind. One is that we can of course give materially. We can give time. We can give energy. This is the first thing most people think of. Most churches teach on giving, or rather, teach on stewardship. In the course of such teaching people learn to give substantially. Some learn to tithe. But is this emptying ourselves?

I would suggest it probably is not. Most teaching on stewardship teaches people to give from the margins of their lives. They may learn to give substantial, and sacrifice may be involved: at least in the congregation I lead few people can easily miss 10% of their monthly income. Yet what Jesus did, was to give all. He did not give from the margins of his life – He emptied himself out. There was nothing left when he was done. His words to the rich young ruler come to mind: “go away, and give everything you have to the poor, and then come back and follow me.”

Recently I have toyed with this concept in Crossroads Rotterdam. Of course I teach on stewardship. I teach that it would be good for people to give a significant portion of their income away: doing so liberates us and it allows the work of the Kingdom to continue. But the idea I have been playing with is this: maybe I should tell the people that at least once in their life-time, they should give away everything they have, and follow God’s call – if not for a lifetime, than at least for a season.

Most people (myself included) tend to think they can have Christ’s attitude precisely because we never think such an extreme possibility will become a reality. We imagine ourselves great hero’s as long as no one calls on us. Reality however sets in when we start considering seriously giving everything away.

I have been reading about Mother Theresa recently. If anyone in my lifetime ever embodied Paul’s description of Jesus, it would probably be her. Her example is amazing – and it helps me realize how completely unattainable Paul’s charge to us in Philippians is to me.

Make us worthy?

In his book Something Beautiful for God Malcolm Muggeridge describes meeting Mother Teresa in Calcutta. He arrives there to make a documentary for the BBC about her work. As soon as she meets him she invites him to accompany her to the chapel. There they both kneel to pray. Her prayer, which she later writes out in a booklet she gives him, is this:

Make us worthy, Lord, to serve our fellow men throughout the world who live and die in poverty and hunger.

Make us worthy? To us living in Western Europe this seems like a strange prayer. Yet Paul’s song of Jesus’ downward mobility sits in the context of a letter written to a community that is starting to feel persecution. The author of the letter writes about his hardship, and in the process even wonders if he will survive: both life and death hold merit to him (1:20). Then he writes his audience that they, too, have been granted ‘not only to believe on Christ – but also to suffer for him’ (1:29). Paul’s charge to them to follow Christ and perhaps go the lower road – even to death is not an unlikely thing! For them persecution, which might include being stripped of possessions, or being captured for slavery or imprisonment, and even death) was a real possibility. And in the middle of that Paul says what Mother Theresa prays: to serve Christ in such a manner means you have been found worthy in some sort of way. There is a worthiness that is involved in following Christ on the lower road. I wonder if by and large the church in the West has not been found worthy to follow Christ in this manner because we serve God from the margins of our life, instead with all of it.

And then, as I think about this again, I run into the impossibility of really answering this invitation. I cannot follow Christ like that! Giving some – for sure! Giving all – no way! My desire to maintain myself, protect myself, my desire for luxury stand in the way.

Perhaps that is what the disciples felt too, after Jesus was finished with the rich young ruler: “who then, can be saved?” Jesus answer both respected their incredulity and lifted the bar of their faith. “With men this is not possible. With God all things are possible.” Maybe I should echo Mother Theresa’s prayer: “Lord, make me worthy…”

Obedience

What strikes me further is the reference to obedience (v. 8). In our culture we have lost most of our understanding of what obedience means. The term rarely falls in discussions about parenting. We speak of respecting management rather than obeying leaders. Richard Forster writes that the idolatry of today is the worship of power. We do not learn service when we crave influence and power. We regard ourselves and each other as educated, free thinking and empowered, and react in a hostile manner to the very thought of obedience. This isn’t the middle ages!

Two ladies in my community illustrated this recently. They returned from a holiday in the Himalayas of Nepal. Originally their party was supposed to consist of 14 Westerners. But 12 cancelled, leaving only Hester and Erika to go on the trip. Yet the tour operator had organized a company of 7 Nepali companions, consisting of 6 carriers and 1 cook. So off they went into the mountains.

Never once did my two friends feel unsafe in the company of these men. But they did feel uncomfortable! Because these 7 gentlemen asked permission frequently, and sought their leadership at every turn – even though these ladies had never visited this part of the world while these men lived there. As Hester said: “it felt so colonial and so wrong. Yet these men could not operate in another way.”

Another illustration of this comes from Mother Theresa. She made her vows to God and the church, and simply obeys – never questioning. She cannot relate to Malcolm Muggeridge’s questions regarding the political role of the church, nor the church’s involvement in scandals. It simply doesn’t enter her mind to question the reigning authority structures! Her call is simply to obey.

Obedience is a form of downward mobility. We submit to the will and leadership of a force outside of us, and at that point our opinion simply ceases to matter. Jesus became obedient – and obedient to death! To take seriously Jesus’ example means that we must learn to obey. We have to learn not to be involved in the decision making process. We have to learn to be OK with not having been asked for input. We need to learn to accept orders and carry them out without complaining or questioning. A Dutch saying says one has sit quietly when being shorn. Isaiah says Jesus was led like a lamb to the slaughter – without opening his mouth (Isaiah 53:7).

What happens in downward mobility?

How might we become downwardly mobile? Here are some examples I have heard of people pursuing an initiative that might be described as downwardly mobile.

I heard a story recently of a group of people who purposefully put their caucasian children in all-black schools in Rotterdam. In most Dutch cities the innercities consist almost entirely of coloured people. Most inner-city schools are describes as ‘black schools;’ this refers to the absence of any white Dutch children. These schools lag behind notoriously, not only in test scores, but also in facilities, equipment, emotional development and use of new technologies. They have the poorest teachers and the highest truancy rates. Purposefully inserting your white children into such a school in the hope to make a difference, just when your last white neighbours are leaving for the suburbs, might be described as downward mobility.

"Purposefully inserting your white children into such a school in the hope to make a difference, just when your last white neighbours are leaving for the suburbs, might be described as downward mobility."

Another example is when middle-class people move from the suburbs to