Our obsession with food in this country hits a fever pitch this week as we celebrate Thanksgiving. Yet according to the National Resources Defense Council, Americans throw away $165 billion (yes with a B) worth of food every year. Sam Wells provides a thoughtful reminder that probably won’t make the gastronomic headlines this week.

Food is Politics. The food industry is the largest manufacturing industry in this country. Anyone who disputes the description of agriculture and animal farming as an industry has not been outside lately. The reality is, the old distinction between food on the one hand, which was about the country and the soil, and industry on the other, which was about the city and the factory, has broken down. We all go to the supermarket and shop for groceries. But did you know that the average item of food in a grocery store has travelled 1500 miles? This means that putting food on our dinner plates is a global project.

It has always been so. The outer reaches of Tiberius’ Roman Empire had one central purpose in the imperial economy: and that was to be a breadbasket and source of other agricultural surpluses. If you lived in an Italian villa and your taste was fish paste, olive oil, or wine, then Galilee was your key supply base. Consider the kinds of diseases carried by those drawn to Jesus. You will find that most of them are connected in some way to malnutrition. The politics of food dominates the gospels just as much as it dominates today’s global economy. When Jesus set about transforming human reality, he went to the core of the culture: the production and consumption of food.

Most of Jesus’ talking about food comes in his parables. It is often supposed that Jesus was a simple agrarian figure telling homespun yet subversive stories of small-town folk, a kind of cross between Huckleberry Finn and John Denver. But when your eyes are opened to the politics of food, the parables take on a new dimension. When we read the story of the landowner who built bigger and bigger barns, we start to ask, “Whose land had now come into his possession and why? Was he in the Romans’ pocket or simply exploiting his fellow Jews?” In other words, it is no longer just a parable about greed but also a story about the politics of food. Think again about the parable of the sower. The stony ground and the thistles are not just figures of speech. They are agronomic reasons why peasant farmers remained in grinding poverty. And when the good soil produced a hundredfold, this is not just some kind of Middle Eastern penchant for exaggeration. This is saying at last this struggling peasant famer could pay his taxes, pay his debts, and finally buy his own land and be free of bonded oppression for good. This becomes Jesus’ image of salvation, of the kingdom of God – the ability to have more than enough food in a culture of extortion and exploitation.

How might we embody a Christian politics based on food?

1. Realize that there is nothing more political than what you eat. Let us not get into a fantasy about uncontaminated food. But let us realize that the world’s economy is based on choices about agriculture. The world is what we eat.
2. Ask yourself “Who am I eating with?” Food is both need and pleasure. And when those in need and those you love come together in such a way that they get all tangled up around the meal table, we call it the kingdom of God.
3. If worship is food, could it be that food is worship? Could we imagine how good eating might become a sacrament of reconciliation between human beings and our planet?

The Revd Dr Sam Wells is the vicar of St Martin-in-the-Fields in London. He has served as a parish priest for 15 years – 10 of those in urban priority areas. He also spent 7 years in North Carolina where he was Dean of Duke University Chapel.

Taken from Come to the Table: A Collection of Recipes celebrating the 25th Anniversary of the Congregation at Duke University Chapel. Congregation at Duke University Chapel, Durham, NC

Once again, I closed the newspaper and tried to think of better news, instead of reading about another murder.   Once again, I passed in front of the yellow tape a policeman had put up at the scene of a crime. Once again I wanted to cry out to God on behalf of the families involved. One more death. One more kid. One more driver. One more child. One more woman. One more is too much and is one more than necessary. When a human life is lost, the feelings of powerlessness and the inability to feel comfort are natural, and lately the feeling of powerlessness has begun to feel normal. But in the last few weeks, I have also been trying to reflect on new ways to listen to the Spirit that guides us in the midst of such trying times.

“Listen! Your brother’s blood is crying out to me from the ground.” – Genesis 4:10

Recently I have been reading a book called Power & Poverty by Dewe Hughes. He mentions this passage from Genesis 4:10, analyzing reactions to injustice and the incorrect use of power by certain groups. Though in and of itself it is such a powerful message in the context of the struggle for power, I realized that the very literal words have a much deeper meaning than I ever previously noticed.  Something special about this verse is that it is God himself who is talking; he recognizes what is going on. This should be enough to allow us to breathe more easily. God knows. God does not ignore what these hands are doing. But more than that, God speaks of the blood as a symbol of life and he speaks of your brother. What a great implication this has on my identity. The blood that has been shed is part of my blood! He also speaks of a cry – a voice that calls out for justice, a voice that speaks out of the ground, the lowest place on earth, the point from which the shed blood cannot be gathered again.

Every one of these words can be deeply analyzed, but I have found myself thinking over and over again of the phrase as a whole: ‘Your brother’s blood is crying out to me from the ground.’ I can almost hear it as if it were spoken to me! I ask myself, ‘Can you not hear it? Have you not realized? What are your going to do with that voice, that cry?’

In the middle of the city of Kingston, Jamaica there is a statue in memory of the children who have died in tragic circumstances. The title of the sculpture is ‘Gone too soon’. It is surrounded by the names of hundreds of children whose lives have been taken and the date of their murders. When we visited, we were told that at the unveiling of the statue, one of the hopes expressed was never having to write another name on it. This has not been the case. But despite the circumstances, the first step is being taken: the cry of the bloodshed has been heard. As symbolic as it can be, as little as one monument represents, it is doing something.  There are people who are writing down one more name, one more date. And they seek justice.

Some of us have the privilege of walking in the ‘lowest places’ and being witnesses of the tragedy, violence, and pain that exists in these communities because of injustice, death and scarcity. We also have the privilege of listening to the cry rising up from these low places – a cry that unites us. We are witnesses of a divine voice that recognizes and hears our cry, and He does not remain silent.

Liz Herrera loves to learn, read, have a good cup of coffee and find creative ways to combine her passions: communications, urban ministries, social action and mixed media.  Liz is a journalist and has served alongside the team of CTM Guatemala since 2006 and worked for over 12 years among marginalized populations with churches and non-profit organizations.

Barbara Brown Taylor takes a different and very timely look at the parable of the talents found in Matthew 25:14-30. The full text can be found here but an excerpt is given below the video.

“In Jesus’ day, a talent weighed between 80 and 130 pounds and was worth roughly twenty years’ worth of an ordinary person’s labor. The only people who had that kind of money were the wealthy elite, whose households were the basic economic units of the time. How did they get the money? The usual ways: they engaged in trade, got goods to market, ran import-export businesses, lent money to people at interest—especially land-poor people who often had trouble trying to make ends meet at the end of a long drought, or a catastrophic illness in the family.

Wealthy householders were happy to help out in circumstances like those. There was nothing to it: if you were strapped for cash, you got the best interest rate you could, you put up your land as collateral, and you got busy bringing in the sheaves. By the time you noticed what 60% interest really meant, it was too late. Your land went into foreclosure, and quicker than you
could say, “Leviticus” it was not yours anymore–but that did not always mean you had to leave. You could also stay, as long as you were willing to work for your former lender—and if you could stand to watch your family’s fields re-purposed as olive groves, or vineyards—something more easily monetized, that would appeal to a more upscale market at home and abroad.
(Is anything sounding familiar here?)

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Is the idea of being a child-like activist an oxymoron?

I sense that when we imagine the stereotypical legit activist, one who advocates for justice and equality on behalf of the voiceless and powerless we don’t necessarily imagine someone who would appreciate a good Will Ferrell movie. Rather than imagining a whimsical or playful personality my imagination tends to lean toward somber, stoic, and pre-occupied, the type of people who wouldn’t allow themselves to giggle at the odd sounding fart.

This is my experience.

Once I began accepting the prompts to hang among, befriend, and move toward a place of solidarity with the pain and suffering of those from below, I had to accept the wintery emotional state that often accompanies me in those uncomfortable places. And even if I didn’t experience an automatic feeling of sadness to match the hard environments I find myself in, through my own knee-jerk feelings of guilt and shame I often end up there anyway.

My son, Josiah, is 2 and he loves to laugh. To be thrown up in the air and feel those funny feelings in the belly… To make goofy faces at the dinner table… These are the simple and great things that come with the colorful terrain of being a kid. Josiah’s child-like ways will often break down the heavies that sometimes saturate me when I’ve been among those who are hopeless much of the day. Sometimes it brings to the surface an intriguing tension to walk in a home marked by the laughter of a two year old when I’ve just come from dwelling with people and places marked by severe pain.

Jesus says blessed are those who dwell in those cold hard places. Blessed are the poor and blessed are the peacemakers. But he also told his disciples that unless you change and become like little kids again you just won’t understand what the Kingdom is all about. And I believe that being like a child means being able to laugh and find joy in the smallest and goofiest things of life. 

Stumbling upon this unique harmony is just one paradox among many in the spiritual life. It’s a scandal worth pursuing deeply. Advocating for those who are suffering while also pursuing an attitude and posture that is quick to be playful and one that allows for fits of gut busting laughter. Carrying BOTH of these with you in whatever environment you find yourself is the beginning of wisdom. 

Ryan Taylor is a Hoosier by birth but now lives in Denver and works with Mile High Ministries. He’s learning how to be incarnational with himself and others. Find more of this thoughts at: www.tallmonasticguy.typepad.com where this post was first published on January 19, 2011.

When I took up the cross, I recognized its meaning….  The cross is something that you bear, and ultimately that you die on… And that’s the way I’ve decided to go.                          

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. May 22, 1967, Penn Community Center, Frogmore, South Carolina

Power & Passion: Six Characters in Search of Resurrection  
by Samuel Wells

When Andrea and I made the move from Tacoma, WA to Durham, NC for her to pursue graduate studies we did not imagine we would end up calling Duke Chapel our church home. Duke Chapel is a grand gothic cathedral that physically is the central focal point of Duke University. It is beautiful and hard to miss. But we thought we were looking for a church that represented the full spectrum of the wider community of Durham not the formal high setting that is Duke Chapel. However, we decided we would start there and in the end we never left. One of the reasons for this is the Dean of the Chapel, Sam Wells. Wells’ preaching and leadership anchor Duke Chapel and contribute to it being a vital part of Duke University. Being located on the campus of a ‘prestigious’ school like Duke with a well respected Divinity School  means that the opportunity to hear great thinkers and speakers is never in short supply. Just in the past few months, N.T Wright and Walter Brueggemann have spoken.  Wells himself is considered one of the leading theologians in the world when it comes to issues of ethics but it is his thoughtful communication, intentionality and ability to make connections between scripture and daily life that continually call me back to be challenged and encouraged.  

I’m not sure Sam Wells ever thought he would be leading an institution with the powerful platform that Duke Chapel and Duke University provide. Much of his early pastoral call was spent serving in economically and socially challenged neighborhoods in his homeland of England. (Personally this is of course another reason that I was drawn to Duke Chapel. Having a British accent in a beautiful gothic church is good for this dual citizen and reminds me where part of me is from!) I am grateful and encouraged to see that even with this very visible platform and position Sam’s heart still beats strongly for the marginalized in the world. Yet most of those who attend Duke Chapel would not be thought of as marginalized or the least, last and lost in any material sort of way. Most of us who fill the pews each week are privileged if not powerful by most of the world’s standards. But in a wonderful way, Sam always invites us to enter a world where we are all broken and our shared calling is to walk with each other and carry each other’s burdens. Sam Wells is a brilliant thinker, but brilliance means nothing if it does not move us to practically engage with the other – those who are most different and even those who most threaten us in some way.

As I have sat in the pews and in other public gatherings listening to Sam I have realized that ultimately all his thoughts and words come down to the fact that he believes the resurrection is true. And he has spent a lot of time thinking about the ramification of this. If the resurrection is true, the ever present question is how will this change the way we live our lives in the world today? Wells is able to continually bring this question to life and to reality in a way that is convicting and challenging while also being lovingly invitational. He weaves stories from scripture together paying careful attention to place and context and then makes the connection to our modern day. Wells is able to make living and profound connections in a way that shows deep insight into the human condition.

In 2007 Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams invited Wells to write a book for the Archbishop of Canterbury’s official Lent book series. The result of that invitation was titled Power & Passion: Six Characters in Search of Resurrection. Wells’ intended title was “Power & Passion: The Resurrection of Politics” but the publisher didn’t want the word ‘politics’ in the title which ironically only serves to highlight the weight and complexities of these four focal words: Politics, Power, Passion, and Resurrection. In the six chapters of this book (one for each week of Lent) Wells takes on power, passion, politics, the past and the present seen through the resurrection and through the words and actions of six characters present during Holy Week. It is through the lens of the lives of Pontius Pilate, Barabbas, Joseph of Arimathea, Mrs. Pilate, Peter and Mary Magdalene that the reader is invited to a life of repentance, empowerment, and encourage­ment.

In this book Wells explores the different kinds of power that exist in the world. As he highlights each of the six character’s words and actions during the week leading up to Jesus’ crucifixion, Wells contrasts the politics of resurrection (and subsequent abundance) with that of the power that ultimately denies the resurrection producing a politic of scarcity.

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Editor’s note: In light of the recently revised Huckleberry Finn we thought this article was timely.

“All right, then, I’ll go to hell.” 

These are the courageous words of Huck Finn in Marks Twain’s classic Huckleberry Finn.  Huck is a 13 year old white boy growing up in pre-Civil War American South, helping a runaway slave, “nigger Jim” escape to freedom.  Huck’s declaration is the moral center of the story and a beautiful illustration of Good News.  

The 1850 Fugitive Slave Law made it illegal to aid or abet a runaway slave and required that every U.S. citizen assist in the capture of runaways.  Huck believes (as he was taught) that by helping Jim he will not only suffer the wrath of the law, but also the wrath of God himself.  Huck is convinced that he will be sent to hell for helping Jim escape slavery.

Suffering under the weight of this moral dilemma Huck decides to write a letter to Jim’s “owner” Miss Watson, and turn in Jim.  By returning Jim to slavery Huck would free his conscience and his soul from eternal damnation.  After writing the letter Huck begins to reflect on his relationship with Jim, their journey together down the Mississippi river, and the deep friendship they had formed along the way.  Yes, Huck had become friends with Jim.  This realization does something to Huck – something for which his upbringing, culture, theology and even his God had not prepared him for – that “nigger Jim” is not just a runaway slave.  Nigger Jim is a human being.  Unthinkable! 

Huck is completely undone by this realization.  He tears up the letter, convinced that by doing so he is condemning himself to hell.  As a result, Huck’s adventure takes a huge turn.  Huck is undergoing grace – the kind that empowers one to risk it all for the sake of those we love.  The kind of grace that frees us to forsake our culture, our religion and even our God when they keep us from doing good. 

“All right, then, I’ll go to hell,” Huck declares.

 Salvation has come and it has come to both Huck and Jim.  They are of one piece.  Their stories are bound together and inseparable.   These fugitives become radically united symbols of freedom in their rebellion to the powers that hold them hostage.

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Over the last few months, we’ve been mobilizing evangelicals in Denver, Colorado, to raise a public voice on behalf of reforming the immigration system in the United States. Ours is a nation of immigrants and their descendants. But the system of laws that govern immigration into our country is complicated and unhelpful for immigrants, for businesses who would like to hire them, and for the cohesiveness of our communities. As a result nearly 12 million undocumented immigrants live in the shadows of American society. Many of these are my neighbors, and a handful are my friends.

There are followers of Jesus who have been advocating on behalf of immigrants for years – Roman Catholics, Quakers, and many others. But evangelicals, the Word-centered folks with whom I have fellowshipped for 30 years, have been mostly silent.
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Today was an important day in Barak Obama’s candidacy, and perhaps even in our nation’s collective conversation about race. Over the last week or so, the buzz has been all about the topic of race. Former VP candidate Geraldine Ferraro, who was Walter Mondale’s running mate in 1984 and who works for Clinton now, said that Obama wouldn’t even be here if he wasn’t Black.

Of course not. After all, he wouldn’t be who he is if he wasn’t Black. Hillary Clinton wouldn’t be who she is if she weren’t a woman. I wouldn’t be who I am if I weren’t a white man. But Ferraro was suggesting something more: that we’re only taking him seriously as a candidate because he is Black.

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…even if you can’t spell it: Aung San Suu Kyi (pronounced roughly “ang sun su chee”). Recently I was in a group doing “get to know you” introductions where the question was, what famous living person would you most like to meet? Slam dunk. For me, nobody else comes close, not even Britney Spears or O.J. Simpson. It might be stretching things to call Aung San Suu Kyi famous, though she was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1991. However, she is one person for whom far greater fame would not only be appropriate, but actually helpful for the causes she represents.

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