My first night in the apartment I had a nightmare: I was suddenly living like a pigeon on a very narrow building ledge. I mentioned my apartment was narrow. The dream was also an apt metaphor for the tenuous grip I felt that I had on my life. I had emptied myself out as much as possible in deference to the calling I believed that God had on my life. I felt rather like a prophetic Elijah figure which naturally carries with it a huge risk of hubris. I certainly didn't identify myself as the great prophet nor as his successor. I did feel towards him a certain affinity and often felt his support and encouragement. I often read the accounts about him in the First Book of Kings, of his time in the wilderness being sustained by ravens, of his sacrifice on the mountain, of his vision of God as a Still Small Voice. When I was tending the cairns (situated in the trails of Stanley Park, Second Beach, Jericho Beach, Wreck Beach in the Downtown Eastside and near the site for Expo 86 as well as other strategic locations) I felt that something significant and powerful was happening: a work of intercession for the city of Vancouver, the people who lived here and for the nations. I sensed that I was partaking in a huge spiritual battle, holding back and containing the works of darkness in protection of the fragile beginnings of the work of God and the Holy Spirit. I sometimes had visions of towering shining beings garbed in multi-coloured robes with great long staffs in their hands that they would rhythmically pound against the ground as a declaration of authority and power. This activity of prayer and cairns hugely complemented my work with my clients, the poorest of the poor in the Downtown Eastside, and of my work of ministry with gays, lesbians, transgender people and sex workers of all genders. This all dovetailed powerfully as well with my daily presence at Snooty Church (aka St. James Anglican, or so-sue-me!) for the daily mass.
I also felt well situated in the cultural sense. Almost across the street was the downtown branch of the Vancouver Public Library. Two blocks away the Vancouver Art Gallery. Two blocks in another direction a Cineplex that specialized in foreign, indie and art-house films. Tuesday became for me Cheap Culture Day. The art gallery had free admission on that day and the art-house film houses offered a weekly admission discount. In the library I became particularly interested in their complete collection of the writings of Carl Jung. I became interested in Jung to the point of obsession and was borrowing volume after volume.
In the meantime I cultivated a restrained friendship with a young international terrorist. He was involved with the liberation movements in Europe and in Palestine and frequently travelled there for various direct actions and activism. He worked in the international food store downstairs from my apartment. We clearly liked each other. He was younger than me, twenty-four and impossibly idealistic as well as apparently oblivious to the blood on his hands. For some time he skirted the issue with me, understandably reluctant to give himself away. Then, one day, I called him on it. I told him that as a Christian I could in no way shape or form countenance the spilling of human blood, innocent or otherwise; that however lofty his ideal and vision for humanity and the international community that he would have to one day reckon with the violence he was espousing and enabling and that eventually he would have to taste of the bitter fruit of violence. To my surprise he did not cancel me out. His respect for me appeared to grow and even though we didn't see a lot of each other our friendship mysteriously was enriched and lasted till the last time I saw him many years later.
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