Some reading this book will share its convictions about Jesus Christ but remain skeptical about his vision of justice. I hope you become convinced that he is the restorative Christ. Four, reliable theological guides are employed across the main chapters to develop the restorative calling and character of Jesus Christ: Chris Marshall’s compassionate Jesus; John Howard Yoder’s nonviolent Jesus; Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Jesus for others; and, Miroslav Volf’s embracing Jesus. Each chapter contains a core sample from Luke-Acts that provides the biblical-theological resources for my restorative Christ. Others reading this book will share its convictions about restorative justice but remain uncertain about Jesus Christ. Surely religion in general—and Christianity in particular—have caused as much enmity, violence and injustice in the world as they have solved? I believe discipleship of ordinary victims, wrongdoers and their local Christian communities described in this book provide a powerful witness to the justice of Jesus Christ.
Each chapter explores the discipleship practices required for that justice to be enacted. Following Jesus Christ must be imaginative, conversational and embodied. Imaginative practices include disciplines of remembering, seeing and desiring; conversational practices include disciplines of naming, questions and forgiving; and embodied action involves absorbing, embracing and repairing. These nine disciplines are to be practiced by victims, wrongdoers and the community, that is, they cannot be legitimately separated. These practical disciplines are more crucial and most effective in those middle-levels of school, workplace, neighbourhood and church. It is these very places, among the least, where I have learned to follow the restorative Christ. They have been my teachers in living justly alongside the celebrated theologians who appear in this book. Each chapter begins, therefore, with the street view describing a commonplace encounter with those who taught and trained me to become a streetwise disciple of the restorative Christ.
Street view
One of my teachers was Rick, usually found at the bus stop directly opposite the church and rectory on the main strip of the village of Glebe. Rick, fueled by his 2 liter bottle of Diet Coke, was always ready for a chat. Over the years I had many conversations with Rick ranging from the profound to the nonsensical, varying in length from a few seconds to discussions lasting several days. Some time after Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code was released I resorted to lifting a few of the floorboards in the church to prove to Rick there were no secret treasures—only bare earth—a few centimeters beneath the church floor. Even then he found it hard to let go of such conspiracy theories.
On one occasion that I was walking around Glebe, moving between cafés for various meetings, I had several encounters with Rick. We had a brief, pleasant exchange on the first occasion. On our second encounter, he quickly began rambling about lawyers, lawsuits and the houses he owned—numbering (apparently) in the hundreds. The “nonsense” conversation with Rick was familiar terrain, so after a few minutes of semi-polite listening, I was glad to have an excuse that I was on my way to a meeting, and needed to depart. He held out his hand to shake, as was his custom, but as he grabbed my hand he pulled me in close and said conspiratorially, “I forgive you as well.” Sensing the conversation had suddenly shifted from nonsense to more profound matters, I replied: “As well . . . ? When did I forgive you?” “Aaah!!” he replied rather triumphantly, “now remember, you don’t have the authority to forgive me.” I felt caught between conflicting desires. I didn’t have enough time for one of our long, theological or philosophical discussions. But neither did I want the conversation to finish on this note (perhaps the old preacher’s habit of wanting to have the last word?). Fearful of what I was getting myself into, I responded “technically, that’s not quite correct.” He quickly countered with the hint of challenge: “in what way?” “God says we should forgive one another, as Christ has forgiven us” I responded. “Good answer” he replied with a wink, adding “I’d better let you get to your meeting.” Rick let go of my hand and sent me on my way.
The brief exchange unsettled me enormously. I cannot remember hearing or saying anything of value at those meetings I dutifully attended that day. The conversation with Rick reverberated around my mind posing many questions, challenges and paradoxes: did Rick, despite his battle with mental illness—or was it because of his struggle—know more about forgiveness than I ever would? I was sure I had wronged Rick on many occasions: not listening to him with full attention; not caring about his various struggles and disappointments in life; and, completely ignoring him on occasions. I was certain that, on at least one occasion, I had been exactly like that priest in Jesus’ story who crossed to the other side of Glebe Point Road (as opposed to the Jericho Road) to avoid getting involved. There was no question in my mind that I had wronged Rick. But I had never apologized, never repented of any wrongdoing or my failure in Christian concern and care. I realized I had not properly considered my relational or spiritual obligations to Rick before this particular conversation. Rick announced [God’s?] forgiveness to me with his words, “I forgive you as well” reversing the order and the role of a penitent’s confession and the priestly absolution.
There was another dimension to our relationship and conversation. It was equally true that Rick had wronged me. On countless occasions he had hijacked my goodwill, exploited my compassion, often at the most inappropriate moments. The week previous to this conversation he burst into the Church in the middle of a wedding rehearsal with some trivial matter of urgency! I had rarely confronted him about his behavior or called for true repentance. Nor had I ever sought to forgive him for any of these offences. Probably the most unsettling aspect of this conversation on forgiveness was that Rick took the lead, offered me forgiveness, and named what true forgiveness involves. The role of student and teacher were also reversed! Rick graciously ended the conversation so that I would not be late for my meeting: even the roles of the pastor and the one cared for had been inverted. The street was the place where the demands of Jesus and justice shaped my discipleship: mine, Rick’s and the Church community. The roles of victim and wrongdoer are well established in the principles and practices of justice. Why do I privilege the community in the discussion and disciplines of the restorative Christ? The impetus for the research that led to this book was dealing with wrongdoing in inner city neighborhoods consistent with Christian faith and discipleship. The disciplines involved—for the victim, the wrongdoer and the wider community—transcend these faith communities to be suggestive for other local communities: schools, workplaces and local organizations. The overlapping insights of sociologist Ray Oldenburg’s identification of the third place, American peace-builder John Paul Lederach, and Ugandan theologian Emmanuel Katongole have intentionally focused on the village-neighborhood as the site for reconciliation and justice-making confirm my conviction that local communities are better equipped at enacting the justice of the restorative Christ.1
The reason can be discerned in another typical incident from both inner city communities to which I belonged.
A person known locally enters a community space owned and staffed by the church. They are loud and more aggressive than usual. After a while he (it is usually a male) gets into an argument with another person. Threats are traded and violence erupts. In attempting to diffuse the situation, a female volunteer is physically knocked to the ground. Fortunately, she is not seriously hurt. The question arises: what constitutes a just outcome in responding to this situation? There are several stakeholders entertaining different views of what constitutes justice. First, there are those gathered in the community centre who have been promised a place free from the violence of the streets. Second, there is the victim who was promised relationships based on generosity, compassion and respect. Third, there is the volunteer who was promised physical and emotional safety in the context of serving others. Fourth, there is the wrongdoer who is possibly a victim of the street environment he inhabits. Fifth, there is the Christian community who owns and operates the place where such a diverse group of people can gather and make these kind of promises. Sixth, there are the surrounding neighbours (such as local shopkeepers and residents) who expect to work and live in a safe and respectful environment. The crucial question is this: how can this web of interconnected relationships be justly restored in the concrete realities I have described?
Through