I Need To Praise God
God came through for my friends, and I'm so grateful. Even though I was angry with Him over their plight--even vented a little bit, questioning His care for them--I now must give Him credit for taking a seemingly hopeless situation and turning it into life. He does that all the time, doesn't He? If there's anything we Christ-believers must cling to with the very passion of our lives it is this: the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ turns loss into gain, sorrow into joy, despair into hope, death into life. Thanks be to God for the life we have in the Crucified One.
There are scars, to be sure. My friends still have a long way to go. But, to see them smiling in light of some recent good news sure did my heart good.
I'm looking forward to Sunday so I can tell God what I really think about Him. Come to think of it, that's why I go. I have this compulsion, this need to worship God. And, I need to hear others do the same.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Complaining is an act of worship
Lately, I've been thinking about how much we try to impress God with our worship. We want to say the right things. We want to do the right things. And, rightfully so. When we read Leviticus, it becomes pretty obvious that God takes our service of worship very seriously. At the risk of sounding sacrilegious, God seems rather obsessive about it: bring coals from the wrong fire and He'll kill you.
This is why the Psalms are so refreshing to me. I love the way the penitent will often rake God over the coals for not coming through, not making good on promises, not helping in times of need. These laments sound brash and daringly provocative to my ears that are used to hearing American versions of worship songs, inspiring us to whisper "sweet nothings" into God's ears. I sing about sacrifice. I sing that God is "my everything." But, I'm not sure I mean it.
But, I must tell you. I could really get into songs that would inspire me to be honest to God, especially when I'm considering the suffering of others who are far more faithful than I. Lyrics like, "God, why have you forsaken us?" Or, "How long, O Lord? When will you remember the promises You made to my friends who have been faithful to You?" Or, "Why do you keep a safe distance in our times of trouble?" Those who know the Psalms will recognize these verses. They inspire me. I love the fact that our God is so big He inspired His people to complain to Him when times were hard--even in songs meant for worship. Why would he allow such a thing? Because He knows He's our only hope.
Oh God, please help my friends today. You know who they are. I'm angry that they're going through another impossibly difficult time. Why would you let this happen? Please, be their God. Please take care of them. We have no where left to turn.
Lately, I've been thinking about how much we try to impress God with our worship. We want to say the right things. We want to do the right things. And, rightfully so. When we read Leviticus, it becomes pretty obvious that God takes our service of worship very seriously. At the risk of sounding sacrilegious, God seems rather obsessive about it: bring coals from the wrong fire and He'll kill you.
This is why the Psalms are so refreshing to me. I love the way the penitent will often rake God over the coals for not coming through, not making good on promises, not helping in times of need. These laments sound brash and daringly provocative to my ears that are used to hearing American versions of worship songs, inspiring us to whisper "sweet nothings" into God's ears. I sing about sacrifice. I sing that God is "my everything." But, I'm not sure I mean it.
But, I must tell you. I could really get into songs that would inspire me to be honest to God, especially when I'm considering the suffering of others who are far more faithful than I. Lyrics like, "God, why have you forsaken us?" Or, "How long, O Lord? When will you remember the promises You made to my friends who have been faithful to You?" Or, "Why do you keep a safe distance in our times of trouble?" Those who know the Psalms will recognize these verses. They inspire me. I love the fact that our God is so big He inspired His people to complain to Him when times were hard--even in songs meant for worship. Why would he allow such a thing? Because He knows He's our only hope.
Oh God, please help my friends today. You know who they are. I'm angry that they're going through another impossibly difficult time. Why would you let this happen? Please, be their God. Please take care of them. We have no where left to turn.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
PCUSA Debate over Homosexuality
I've been following the debate in the Presbyterian Church over whether practicing homosexuals should be ordained for the gospel ministry. Mark Roberts is a Presbyterian minister who recently left the pastorate of an influential church in California to serve as the resident theologian of a retreat/camp in Texas called "Laity Lodge." I've followed his blog ever since I met him last year (through a mutual friend, former student, Steven Purcell, who's also on staff at Laity Lodge), and have found his writing to be very helpful, insightful, wise, and compassionate. He has a great mind and a good heart--a great combination for the work of the kingdom. Anyway, his blog can be found here: http://www.markdroberts.com/
I think Mark has put his finger on the salient reason why those who oppose ordination of gays and lesbians will never be able to agree with those who do (and vice versa). For those who oppose, it's a matter of personal righteousness. Since same sex behavior is condemned in the Bible as sinful, then those who participate in homoerotic behavior are committing sin. For those who support ordination of gays and lesbians, it's a matter of justice. Since the marginalized are often singled out by the prophets as victims of injustice, then those who fight for the marginalized are doing the work of God because He is a defender of the weak, the outcast, the rejected. So, as Mark writes, those who support ordination of gays and lesbians will never give up until these who have been marginalized in America are accepted--it's a matter of divine justice. And, those who oppose ordination of gays and lesbians will never accept the homosexual lifestyle as anything but sinful because personal righteousness is defined by God's Word not by individual preferences.
So, here's the question that I think will help bring a little light to the subject. Can you think of examples where Jesus defended the marginalized by redefining the margins--what is "unclean" anyway? And, can you think of examples where Jesus defended the marginalized while maintaining the margins--sin is still sin, right? I think the difference will be revealing.
I've been following the debate in the Presbyterian Church over whether practicing homosexuals should be ordained for the gospel ministry. Mark Roberts is a Presbyterian minister who recently left the pastorate of an influential church in California to serve as the resident theologian of a retreat/camp in Texas called "Laity Lodge." I've followed his blog ever since I met him last year (through a mutual friend, former student, Steven Purcell, who's also on staff at Laity Lodge), and have found his writing to be very helpful, insightful, wise, and compassionate. He has a great mind and a good heart--a great combination for the work of the kingdom. Anyway, his blog can be found here: http://www.markdroberts.com/
I think Mark has put his finger on the salient reason why those who oppose ordination of gays and lesbians will never be able to agree with those who do (and vice versa). For those who oppose, it's a matter of personal righteousness. Since same sex behavior is condemned in the Bible as sinful, then those who participate in homoerotic behavior are committing sin. For those who support ordination of gays and lesbians, it's a matter of justice. Since the marginalized are often singled out by the prophets as victims of injustice, then those who fight for the marginalized are doing the work of God because He is a defender of the weak, the outcast, the rejected. So, as Mark writes, those who support ordination of gays and lesbians will never give up until these who have been marginalized in America are accepted--it's a matter of divine justice. And, those who oppose ordination of gays and lesbians will never accept the homosexual lifestyle as anything but sinful because personal righteousness is defined by God's Word not by individual preferences.
So, here's the question that I think will help bring a little light to the subject. Can you think of examples where Jesus defended the marginalized by redefining the margins--what is "unclean" anyway? And, can you think of examples where Jesus defended the marginalized while maintaining the margins--sin is still sin, right? I think the difference will be revealing.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Surprised by Wright
N.T. Wright's Surprised by Hope seems to have raised a few eyebrows in the Church. I'm surprised by the reaction to Wright's work. It's one of those cases where I thought everyone already knew what Wright was writing about, i.e., the importance of the resurrection for Christian faith. After finishing the book soon after its release, I thought to myself, "Well. He's done it again. There's nothing new here. But, because he's such a good writer, this will get some good press."
But, here's the shocker: to much of the reading public, there is much that is new here. In other words, Wright has put his finger on a major theological problem in pop Christianity. It seems that most Christians do have a gnostic view of life after death, that the resurrection of their bodies is a rather offensive idea to their modern sensibilities, and that the common way of talking about heaven as "our final reward" does reveal their preferences for the afterlife (by the way, Eugene Petersen issued the same warning a few years ago in his, Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places).
I can't believe it. To test Wright's warning, lately I've been bringing up eschatology in everyday conversation with believers (no, not the left behind variety). It's been amazing how many believers find the biblical idea of a resurrected earth and a resurrected body as bizarre and foreign ideas. When I say, "heaven is not our final reward. It's a halfway house until the last day, when God brings heaven to earth and the grave gives up bodies for resurrection glory." They often say, "Really? I've never heard that before."
All this singing about "When we all get to heaven" has messed up our theology more than I realized.
Be careful little mouths what you sing.
N.T. Wright's Surprised by Hope seems to have raised a few eyebrows in the Church. I'm surprised by the reaction to Wright's work. It's one of those cases where I thought everyone already knew what Wright was writing about, i.e., the importance of the resurrection for Christian faith. After finishing the book soon after its release, I thought to myself, "Well. He's done it again. There's nothing new here. But, because he's such a good writer, this will get some good press."
But, here's the shocker: to much of the reading public, there is much that is new here. In other words, Wright has put his finger on a major theological problem in pop Christianity. It seems that most Christians do have a gnostic view of life after death, that the resurrection of their bodies is a rather offensive idea to their modern sensibilities, and that the common way of talking about heaven as "our final reward" does reveal their preferences for the afterlife (by the way, Eugene Petersen issued the same warning a few years ago in his, Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places).
I can't believe it. To test Wright's warning, lately I've been bringing up eschatology in everyday conversation with believers (no, not the left behind variety). It's been amazing how many believers find the biblical idea of a resurrected earth and a resurrected body as bizarre and foreign ideas. When I say, "heaven is not our final reward. It's a halfway house until the last day, when God brings heaven to earth and the grave gives up bodies for resurrection glory." They often say, "Really? I've never heard that before."
All this singing about "When we all get to heaven" has messed up our theology more than I realized.
Be careful little mouths what you sing.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
One simple truth
Obedience is boring when things are going well.
That's when I'm tempted by the enticement: think of all the things you're missing because you don't . . . .
I must admit: the allurement of sin makes me wonder about the forbidden. Why not spice up your life with a little indulgence?
The problem is: I fear God.
I'm afraid He will say, "So, let's get this straight. Life is so good, every once in a while you get bored. Want a little action? Want to shake things up a little? A little intensity? Want to go to a place where you long for the good ol' days, when good things were predictably boring?"
No. No. I take it back. I'm so grateful your goodness is so reliable I feel like I'm missing out on other things.
Honestly, I wouldn't make a very good rebel, anyways.
Obedience is boring when things are going well.
That's when I'm tempted by the enticement: think of all the things you're missing because you don't . . . .
I must admit: the allurement of sin makes me wonder about the forbidden. Why not spice up your life with a little indulgence?
The problem is: I fear God.
I'm afraid He will say, "So, let's get this straight. Life is so good, every once in a while you get bored. Want a little action? Want to shake things up a little? A little intensity? Want to go to a place where you long for the good ol' days, when good things were predictably boring?"
No. No. I take it back. I'm so grateful your goodness is so reliable I feel like I'm missing out on other things.
Honestly, I wouldn't make a very good rebel, anyways.
Friday, September 07, 2007
A Christian War
I've been working through the Revelation of John, developing an idea that worship is an act of war in the Apocalypse. When we gather to worship God on the Lord's day, we are declaring war on the world. That's the sequence of the seven visions. Each vision begins with a festal gathering of worshippers around God's throne or in God's temple, then forces are marshalled against the powers of evil on earth. Heaven comes to earth when God is worshipped. And, with his presence, so comes the kingdom of God. It's a breath-taking vision--one that each of the seven churches desperately needed. The letter reveals the challenges/problems each church faced. And, I believe, each vision addresses how each church overcomes them.
Here's my thesis: Revelation is a behind the scenes peak at liturgy. So, each vision reveals what happens during the constitutive parts of worship (adoration, prayer, presenting the word, song, confession, commission). And, each part of worship is the answer to each problem the seven churches were facing. Ephesus needed to recover the adoration of God (vision #1), Smyrna needed to be reminded that prayer works (vision #2), and so on.
So, Revelation is a manual for recovering authentic worship of God and bringing justice to the earth.
A little different read than your "left behind" approach. What do you think?
I've been working through the Revelation of John, developing an idea that worship is an act of war in the Apocalypse. When we gather to worship God on the Lord's day, we are declaring war on the world. That's the sequence of the seven visions. Each vision begins with a festal gathering of worshippers around God's throne or in God's temple, then forces are marshalled against the powers of evil on earth. Heaven comes to earth when God is worshipped. And, with his presence, so comes the kingdom of God. It's a breath-taking vision--one that each of the seven churches desperately needed. The letter reveals the challenges/problems each church faced. And, I believe, each vision addresses how each church overcomes them.
Here's my thesis: Revelation is a behind the scenes peak at liturgy. So, each vision reveals what happens during the constitutive parts of worship (adoration, prayer, presenting the word, song, confession, commission). And, each part of worship is the answer to each problem the seven churches were facing. Ephesus needed to recover the adoration of God (vision #1), Smyrna needed to be reminded that prayer works (vision #2), and so on.
So, Revelation is a manual for recovering authentic worship of God and bringing justice to the earth.
A little different read than your "left behind" approach. What do you think?
Monday, August 06, 2007
Why Hell?
Hell may be a strange place to begin a discussion about self-defense, but we all know sometimes it's best to start with last things (Schweitzer!?). The more I think/read about hell according to the NT, the more I'm beginning to see a two-fold purpose: to punish disobedience and to stop evil. Beyond question, God takes violent measures to stop evil (John's Revelation is filled with such imagery). And, according to Paul, God even uses evil empires (Rome!) to stop evil (the infamous Ro. 13 passage). In fact, Revelation tells a similar story: the kings of the earth destroy the Harlot and the heavens rejoice. In other words, even from a NT perspective, God takes violent measures to stop evil.
But, here comes the real question: does that give us precedent for doing the same?
The only scriptural justification in the NT that I can see to support using violence for self-defense is Luke 22:36. Here Jesus seems to imply that his disciples are going to need to take care of themselves since he will no longer be with them. Thus, the advice: if you don't have a sword, sell your coat and get one. But, before we build a case on such cryptic advice, we must consider the rest of the story. When one of his disciples reveal the swords they have already been carrying around (I haven't heard a single sermon stressing this part of the story--but, what does that say about the sword-carrying disciple? Maybe he wasn't so sure Jesus would protect him from evil? Where's the faith?), Jesus reveals a reason why he made such a request: having sword-toting disciples will fulfill Scripture when he is arrested. Is this the only reason Jesus gave the advice to buy a sword? I don't think so. It strains at credulity to think that Jesus expects his disciples, so late in the evening, to secure a sword before they get to Gethsemane. Something else is going on here. (I think Jesus knew a few of his disciples were carrying swords--what, were they hiding them in their pockets? Jesus made his statement to draw out the implications of what would transpire in the garden. He wouldn't need their help. But, at the same time, they wouldn't have his anymore.) But, I don't think this one text stands up very well as a proof text for violent, self-defense--especially against the sea of evidence we call the NT. No where do we have stories of Christians using violence to defend themselves. Not even in the Revelation of John do we have scenes of God or Christ marshalling forces on earth to conquer evil. The only armies that do violence come from heaven. Instead, throughout the Revelation, the faithful on earth are encouraged to remain faithful witnesses (martyrs).
So, would God allow me, a follower of Christ, to use violent means to stop an evil attack on me, just like God does/did?
I don't think so. But, that doesn't mean I won't. After all, I'm evil, too (Mt. 7:11).
Which is why, when it comes to stopping evil, I can eventually count on hell.
Hell may be a strange place to begin a discussion about self-defense, but we all know sometimes it's best to start with last things (Schweitzer!?). The more I think/read about hell according to the NT, the more I'm beginning to see a two-fold purpose: to punish disobedience and to stop evil. Beyond question, God takes violent measures to stop evil (John's Revelation is filled with such imagery). And, according to Paul, God even uses evil empires (Rome!) to stop evil (the infamous Ro. 13 passage). In fact, Revelation tells a similar story: the kings of the earth destroy the Harlot and the heavens rejoice. In other words, even from a NT perspective, God takes violent measures to stop evil.
But, here comes the real question: does that give us precedent for doing the same?
The only scriptural justification in the NT that I can see to support using violence for self-defense is Luke 22:36. Here Jesus seems to imply that his disciples are going to need to take care of themselves since he will no longer be with them. Thus, the advice: if you don't have a sword, sell your coat and get one. But, before we build a case on such cryptic advice, we must consider the rest of the story. When one of his disciples reveal the swords they have already been carrying around (I haven't heard a single sermon stressing this part of the story--but, what does that say about the sword-carrying disciple? Maybe he wasn't so sure Jesus would protect him from evil? Where's the faith?), Jesus reveals a reason why he made such a request: having sword-toting disciples will fulfill Scripture when he is arrested. Is this the only reason Jesus gave the advice to buy a sword? I don't think so. It strains at credulity to think that Jesus expects his disciples, so late in the evening, to secure a sword before they get to Gethsemane. Something else is going on here. (I think Jesus knew a few of his disciples were carrying swords--what, were they hiding them in their pockets? Jesus made his statement to draw out the implications of what would transpire in the garden. He wouldn't need their help. But, at the same time, they wouldn't have his anymore.) But, I don't think this one text stands up very well as a proof text for violent, self-defense--especially against the sea of evidence we call the NT. No where do we have stories of Christians using violence to defend themselves. Not even in the Revelation of John do we have scenes of God or Christ marshalling forces on earth to conquer evil. The only armies that do violence come from heaven. Instead, throughout the Revelation, the faithful on earth are encouraged to remain faithful witnesses (martyrs).
So, would God allow me, a follower of Christ, to use violent means to stop an evil attack on me, just like God does/did?
I don't think so. But, that doesn't mean I won't. After all, I'm evil, too (Mt. 7:11).
Which is why, when it comes to stopping evil, I can eventually count on hell.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Rediscovering Paul
IVP has listed our textbook (written by Capes, Reeves, and Richards) as a future release on their website. "Rediscovering Paul" is supposed to come out the end of October/beginning of November. Getting some good reviews. Looking forward to seeing what readers think. I'll be using it this Fall for Early Pauline Epistles.
Here's the link:
http://www.ivpress.com/cgi-ivpress/book.pl/code=2598
IVP has listed our textbook (written by Capes, Reeves, and Richards) as a future release on their website. "Rediscovering Paul" is supposed to come out the end of October/beginning of November. Getting some good reviews. Looking forward to seeing what readers think. I'll be using it this Fall for Early Pauline Epistles.
Here's the link:
http://www.ivpress.com/cgi-ivpress/book.pl/code=2598
Friday, July 13, 2007
7/7/7
We were sitting on the beach in Maui and it dawned on me that we were enjoying the perfect day.
My beautiful wife by my side.
Our son and daughters reveling in the sand, surf, and sun.
Drip sand castles. Boogie boards. Paperback novels.
Rolling waves, indigo sea, clear blue skies, basaltic mountains, tropical flowers, distant islands.
Rest. Sabbath. Selah. Pause.
Breathe in, breathe out.
This is paradise.
Wait. No, it's not. This too shall pass. Even though I want this moment to be eternal, I know time marches on. Like the wind, I don't know why it moves on. But it always does. I can take a picture and try to capture the moment. Video tape may take me back vicariously to this perfect day, helping to preserve a memory. But, indeed, it's never the same. Even now, that blissful time dances in my mind like a dream, a vision, a recollection.
One day, time will be frozen. The eternal moment will be upon us. Paradise--like we've known only for a few moments in this beautiful world made by a God who is Beauty--it will be forever ours. Until then, whispers of what has been continue to push me forward to what will be.
He is Paradise. And, one day, I will be with Him, with my beautiful wife by my side, with our children reveling in the sea of His presence, and a clear vision of all that is Beauty and Goodness and Fun.
Oh God. What a day that will be.
The perfect day.
We were sitting on the beach in Maui and it dawned on me that we were enjoying the perfect day.
My beautiful wife by my side.
Our son and daughters reveling in the sand, surf, and sun.
Drip sand castles. Boogie boards. Paperback novels.
Rolling waves, indigo sea, clear blue skies, basaltic mountains, tropical flowers, distant islands.
Rest. Sabbath. Selah. Pause.
Breathe in, breathe out.
This is paradise.
Wait. No, it's not. This too shall pass. Even though I want this moment to be eternal, I know time marches on. Like the wind, I don't know why it moves on. But it always does. I can take a picture and try to capture the moment. Video tape may take me back vicariously to this perfect day, helping to preserve a memory. But, indeed, it's never the same. Even now, that blissful time dances in my mind like a dream, a vision, a recollection.
One day, time will be frozen. The eternal moment will be upon us. Paradise--like we've known only for a few moments in this beautiful world made by a God who is Beauty--it will be forever ours. Until then, whispers of what has been continue to push me forward to what will be.
He is Paradise. And, one day, I will be with Him, with my beautiful wife by my side, with our children reveling in the sea of His presence, and a clear vision of all that is Beauty and Goodness and Fun.
Oh God. What a day that will be.
The perfect day.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Zeroes and ones
I was recently informed by Baker Books that they're going to declare my book, "A Genuine Faith: How to Follow Jesus Today" out of print. Seems that 4,000+ copies in two years isn't enough to justify keeping it around. Since this was my first attempt at writing/publishing for the general market, I'm not surprised. At the same time, it kind of "hurts" to know that what I wrote didn't appeal to very many readers (at least, by Baker Books' standards). Obviously, I didn't try to write something that would be "marketable." Yet, I secretly hoped it would do well.
Thanks to all who bought a copy, read a copy, or shared a copy.
I was recently informed by Baker Books that they're going to declare my book, "A Genuine Faith: How to Follow Jesus Today" out of print. Seems that 4,000+ copies in two years isn't enough to justify keeping it around. Since this was my first attempt at writing/publishing for the general market, I'm not surprised. At the same time, it kind of "hurts" to know that what I wrote didn't appeal to very many readers (at least, by Baker Books' standards). Obviously, I didn't try to write something that would be "marketable." Yet, I secretly hoped it would do well.
Thanks to all who bought a copy, read a copy, or shared a copy.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Just Jesus
There is no such thing as a "just war" according to the New Testament. That's why most Christians who argue for a "just war" appeal to the Old Testament. But, to use the Old Testament to justify war is about as precarious as justifying polygamy (Gen. 30) or divorce (Ezra 10:3) or adultery (Gen. 38). No doubt, some might point out: but God never told them to marry another or divorce their wives or commit adultery to preserve a blood line. He did say to Joshua to "utterly kill every enemy." Ah, but therein lies the rub: God used to say "kill your enemies," but now he says "love your enemies." He used to say "an eye for an eye," but now he says, "take no revenge." At least, that's what Jesus said God says. Was Jesus right about God? Has God "changed his mind"--once he was for genocide but now he's against it? That's the question "just war" theorists must answer. Be careful little mouths what you say! You might just find yourself disagreeing with the one you claim to follow.
Jesus didn't have the same sense of justice as we do. For me, the classic example is found in Luke 12. A man asked Jesus to take up his cause. The injustice? His brother was not obeying the Torah. So, the man appealed to Jesus: "Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me." What Jesus should have said was, "Let's go find this scoundrel and teach him a lesson about greed." Instead, Jesus warns the victim about the dangers of "every form of greed." If Jesus were out to right every wrong, he shouldn't have walked away from this fight. He should have corrected the injustice. He is, after all, the righteous one. But, this injustice wasn't worth his time. Instead, he said (somewhat callously), "What's that got to do with me?"
Jesus wasn't out to make sure people get what they deserve. In fact, he lived and died so that none of us would get what we deserve. In a "just" world, everyone is supposed to get what they deserve. We make laws and wars to make sure of it. We know that law and order doesn't work sometimes. We know that war is bad. Innocent people can suffer from both. But, we believe the lesser of two evils is required if we're going to strive for justice. And yet, most of the time, preserving our justice comes at the expense of another. Justifying war seems just as easy as justifying our sin.
So, how did Jesus deal with this mess? What did he do? Jesus believed the only way we can do justice is to show mercy. That's what the cross proves to us. To quote Paul, "while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." And, here's the hard part: Jesus expected us to follow his lead. Paul did. Peter did. John did.
Do we?
Honestly, I'd rather have "justice" on my terms than his.
There is no such thing as a "just war" according to the New Testament. That's why most Christians who argue for a "just war" appeal to the Old Testament. But, to use the Old Testament to justify war is about as precarious as justifying polygamy (Gen. 30) or divorce (Ezra 10:3) or adultery (Gen. 38). No doubt, some might point out: but God never told them to marry another or divorce their wives or commit adultery to preserve a blood line. He did say to Joshua to "utterly kill every enemy." Ah, but therein lies the rub: God used to say "kill your enemies," but now he says "love your enemies." He used to say "an eye for an eye," but now he says, "take no revenge." At least, that's what Jesus said God says. Was Jesus right about God? Has God "changed his mind"--once he was for genocide but now he's against it? That's the question "just war" theorists must answer. Be careful little mouths what you say! You might just find yourself disagreeing with the one you claim to follow.
Jesus didn't have the same sense of justice as we do. For me, the classic example is found in Luke 12. A man asked Jesus to take up his cause. The injustice? His brother was not obeying the Torah. So, the man appealed to Jesus: "Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me." What Jesus should have said was, "Let's go find this scoundrel and teach him a lesson about greed." Instead, Jesus warns the victim about the dangers of "every form of greed." If Jesus were out to right every wrong, he shouldn't have walked away from this fight. He should have corrected the injustice. He is, after all, the righteous one. But, this injustice wasn't worth his time. Instead, he said (somewhat callously), "What's that got to do with me?"
Jesus wasn't out to make sure people get what they deserve. In fact, he lived and died so that none of us would get what we deserve. In a "just" world, everyone is supposed to get what they deserve. We make laws and wars to make sure of it. We know that law and order doesn't work sometimes. We know that war is bad. Innocent people can suffer from both. But, we believe the lesser of two evils is required if we're going to strive for justice. And yet, most of the time, preserving our justice comes at the expense of another. Justifying war seems just as easy as justifying our sin.
So, how did Jesus deal with this mess? What did he do? Jesus believed the only way we can do justice is to show mercy. That's what the cross proves to us. To quote Paul, "while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." And, here's the hard part: Jesus expected us to follow his lead. Paul did. Peter did. John did.
Do we?
Honestly, I'd rather have "justice" on my terms than his.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Why I am not a pacifist
Once again, after working through the Sermon on the Mount, I am faced with the blunt reminder that I'm not following Jesus. He said we're supposed to gouge out our eyes and cut off our hands if they offend us. He said we're not supposed to call anyone a fool. He said we're not supposed to take revenge. He said we're supposed to love our enemies.
Here is my confession: I want to follow Jesus, but I don't. I want to turn the other cheek, but I can't. I want to be a pacifist, but I'm not. Here's why.
1. Hypocrisy. I don't believe those who live in America can be pacifists. To me it is hypocrisy to enjoy "peace and security" via violent resistance (police and military protection) and claim to follow the way of Jesus, i.e., non-violent resistance. It reminds me of the wealthy who are troubled by their fate--how horrible it is to be imprisoned by the power of money and greed. The easy solution? Give away your wealth. But, we won't do that, will we? We'd rather complain about how hard it is to live with money than do something about it. Pacifists who complain about the injustices of war and benefit from military protection have little moral authority to preach their sermons. Genuine pacifists live under facist dictators, where the context of Jesus' teaching matches the conviction of those who would live out non-violent resistance. Even though I think the Amish come closest in our country to following the teachings of non-violent resistance, even they will call the police when an unspeakable tragedy has befallen them (Paradise, Pennyslvania).
2. Interpreting Jesus. None of us take Jesus' sermon literally. Even though he lived what he preached (read the rest of the story. Did he not turn the other cheek? Did he not love his enemies?), we don't. Take for example the way we read his teachings about lust. Bonhoeffer rightly suggested why Jesus targeted eyes and hands as instruments of offense. These are the tools of lust. Yet, I have never met a single disciple of Jesus who is maimed or blind because they tried to follow Jesus' teachings literally. Instead, we recognize that Jesus' may have used hyperbole (exaggeration for effect) when speaking of the dangers of lust. Was Jesus also exaggerating when he talked about giving away our coats or turning the other cheek? At the same time, we know that lust is sin; violence is evil. So, the fact that Jesus was exaggerating to make his point doesn't excuse our behavior, either. Can you imagine any disciple of Jesus saying, "I'm still going to harbor lustful desires for another woman. I'm still going to hate my enemies and try to destroy them"? Whether we like it or not, we still have to intepret what Jesus said not only by what we think he meant, but also by what he did. Who is following him?
3. Context is key. Jesus gave instructions for his disciples in a time when Roman Imperial oppression was reality. I'm a white, male who lives in America (no oppression). I don't live in a land of foreign occupation (I'm not full-blooded Indian). I've never been struck on the cheek. My government defines who my enemies are supposed to be. Even though, as an American, I have certain rights and privileges protected by law (violent resistance!), here I am, wanting to follow Jesus because I claim to be his disciple. Is that possible? Jesus' world was so different from mine. What is non-violent resistance supposed to look like in place like America? Maybe it looks like Martin Luther King, Jr. Maybe it looks like an abused wife who refrains from killing her husband. Maybe it looks like American Christian Arabs who live under the oppressive weight of suspicious neighbors. It certainly doesn't look like me.
Lord Jesus, help me follow you.
Next post: why I don't believe in a just war.
Once again, after working through the Sermon on the Mount, I am faced with the blunt reminder that I'm not following Jesus. He said we're supposed to gouge out our eyes and cut off our hands if they offend us. He said we're not supposed to call anyone a fool. He said we're not supposed to take revenge. He said we're supposed to love our enemies.
Here is my confession: I want to follow Jesus, but I don't. I want to turn the other cheek, but I can't. I want to be a pacifist, but I'm not. Here's why.
1. Hypocrisy. I don't believe those who live in America can be pacifists. To me it is hypocrisy to enjoy "peace and security" via violent resistance (police and military protection) and claim to follow the way of Jesus, i.e., non-violent resistance. It reminds me of the wealthy who are troubled by their fate--how horrible it is to be imprisoned by the power of money and greed. The easy solution? Give away your wealth. But, we won't do that, will we? We'd rather complain about how hard it is to live with money than do something about it. Pacifists who complain about the injustices of war and benefit from military protection have little moral authority to preach their sermons. Genuine pacifists live under facist dictators, where the context of Jesus' teaching matches the conviction of those who would live out non-violent resistance. Even though I think the Amish come closest in our country to following the teachings of non-violent resistance, even they will call the police when an unspeakable tragedy has befallen them (Paradise, Pennyslvania).
2. Interpreting Jesus. None of us take Jesus' sermon literally. Even though he lived what he preached (read the rest of the story. Did he not turn the other cheek? Did he not love his enemies?), we don't. Take for example the way we read his teachings about lust. Bonhoeffer rightly suggested why Jesus targeted eyes and hands as instruments of offense. These are the tools of lust. Yet, I have never met a single disciple of Jesus who is maimed or blind because they tried to follow Jesus' teachings literally. Instead, we recognize that Jesus' may have used hyperbole (exaggeration for effect) when speaking of the dangers of lust. Was Jesus also exaggerating when he talked about giving away our coats or turning the other cheek? At the same time, we know that lust is sin; violence is evil. So, the fact that Jesus was exaggerating to make his point doesn't excuse our behavior, either. Can you imagine any disciple of Jesus saying, "I'm still going to harbor lustful desires for another woman. I'm still going to hate my enemies and try to destroy them"? Whether we like it or not, we still have to intepret what Jesus said not only by what we think he meant, but also by what he did. Who is following him?
3. Context is key. Jesus gave instructions for his disciples in a time when Roman Imperial oppression was reality. I'm a white, male who lives in America (no oppression). I don't live in a land of foreign occupation (I'm not full-blooded Indian). I've never been struck on the cheek. My government defines who my enemies are supposed to be. Even though, as an American, I have certain rights and privileges protected by law (violent resistance!), here I am, wanting to follow Jesus because I claim to be his disciple. Is that possible? Jesus' world was so different from mine. What is non-violent resistance supposed to look like in place like America? Maybe it looks like Martin Luther King, Jr. Maybe it looks like an abused wife who refrains from killing her husband. Maybe it looks like American Christian Arabs who live under the oppressive weight of suspicious neighbors. It certainly doesn't look like me.
Lord Jesus, help me follow you.
Next post: why I don't believe in a just war.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
The Resurrection is the Kingdom of God
Jesus predicted that some of his disciples wouldn't die until they saw the kingdom of God (Mark 9:1). As far as Mark is concerned, that prophecy began to be fulfilled just "six days later" when Jesus was transfigured before three of the twelve. Jesus was radiant that day, all white and sparkly. Indeed, the metamophosis of Jesus was (in the words of Richard Hays) a "sneak preview of Easter." Glorious. Brilliant. Shining. A shade of white no laundry could produce (no kidding, Mark).
I think it's significant that Jesus said some of his disciples wouldn't die until they saw the glory of the kingdom. He didn't use any other benchmark for life. "I tell you, some of you won't get married until . . . some of you won't leave the country until . . . some of you won't observe another seder until . . ." No. It was the terminus of life--death itself--which hung over all their heads like a guillotine. And, ironically, it would be the death of Jesus that would bring about the end of death's reign. For, when Christ was raised from the dead, the glory of God's kingdom was revealed. Jesus killed death, our greatest enemy, so that life would reign forevermore.
In Mark's gospel, the disciples never got to see the fulfillment of that prophecy. All they had to go on was what they heard: Christ is risen and he goes ahead to meet you, "just as he said he would." And so it is.
Jesus predicted that some of his disciples wouldn't die until they saw the kingdom of God (Mark 9:1). As far as Mark is concerned, that prophecy began to be fulfilled just "six days later" when Jesus was transfigured before three of the twelve. Jesus was radiant that day, all white and sparkly. Indeed, the metamophosis of Jesus was (in the words of Richard Hays) a "sneak preview of Easter." Glorious. Brilliant. Shining. A shade of white no laundry could produce (no kidding, Mark).
I think it's significant that Jesus said some of his disciples wouldn't die until they saw the glory of the kingdom. He didn't use any other benchmark for life. "I tell you, some of you won't get married until . . . some of you won't leave the country until . . . some of you won't observe another seder until . . ." No. It was the terminus of life--death itself--which hung over all their heads like a guillotine. And, ironically, it would be the death of Jesus that would bring about the end of death's reign. For, when Christ was raised from the dead, the glory of God's kingdom was revealed. Jesus killed death, our greatest enemy, so that life would reign forevermore.
In Mark's gospel, the disciples never got to see the fulfillment of that prophecy. All they had to go on was what they heard: Christ is risen and he goes ahead to meet you, "just as he said he would." And so it is.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
X Marks the Spot
(I'm currently writing about Paul's spirituality. So, thought I'd post a paragraph or two.)
When you see a cross, what do you think of? Churches and jewelry, vampires and cemeteries, or crusades and swords? Crosses are worn religiously by the fashionable and the pious. Crosses ward off evil spirits and mark off dead men’s bones. Crosses shield the faithful warrior and are driven into the ground by the victorious. Indeed, over time, the Roman cross has come to symbolize many things: power, sacredness, beauty, and hope. But, to the people of Paul’s day, crosses meant one thing: death. Outside nearly every Roman town, along the major roads that funneled travelers into the cities, there were crosses. Sometimes holding their latest victim, with birds perched on their shoulders, picking at the carrion left exposed to the elements, crosses stood like soldiers holding post, guarding Roman interests, warning violators of imminent death. You couldn’t leave town or enter a city without the daily reminder of death’s ugly pallor. Travel along the roads of the first-century Roman Empire and you would always find a cross.
When I travel, I can’t help but notice the crosses that line the highways, marking the sacred places where somebody died. A husband, wife, son, daughter—an entire family. Sometimes adorned with placards, pictures, flowers, wreaths—these makeshift monuments remind all travelers that death could be waiting for us around the corner. A cross marks the spot, a time and a place. Every time I pass one, my heart hurts. Without dwelling on the mystery too long, I wonder what happened. Who died? When did it happen? Sometimes the large collection of gifts around the cross makes me wonder if the accident occurred last week. At other times these sacred sites look weathered and cluttered—the pitiful remains of a holy pilgrimage no longer dutifully kept. Even after road crews carefully remove the tattered teddy bears and broken wreaths, the crosses often remain. Indeed, one cannot travel across our country without seeing a cross, the end of life, the last place on earth for somebody.
“Who lives there?” That’s the question our daughter asked when we drove by a cemetery several years ago. Emma was only six years old at the time. We had passed by that graveyard many times before. Had never talked about it. Never pointed it out. It’s one of the older cemeteries in Jonesboro, the kind that have the large monuments, statues of angels, and crosses. I really don’t know why she assumed that such a place had anything to do with people. But she did. “That’s where dead people live,” I said rather callously, enjoying the paradox. My wife, Sheri, was taken back by my blunt response, giving me the “that-was-insensitive look” I have come to recognize so well. “What do you mean?” Emma asked with her usual matter-of-fact tone. “Well, when we die, our souls go to be with Jesus in heaven, but our bodies stay here—so they have to put them somewhere.” Sheri interrupted my indelicate answer with a more careful explanation. “Most of the time the body is placed in a box called a ‘casket.’ Then, family and friends go to the cemetery to have the funeral, and the casket is placed underground.” No response. Emma seemed satisfied with her little tutorial about death, caskets, dead bodies, and cemeteries. Then, several minutes later, after the conversation had thankfully turned to another subject, Emma interrupted, “Then why does our church have a cross on it. Dead people don’t live there, too, do they?”
A cross is supposed to show where you can find a dead man. When we hang them around our necks or mount them on top of our church buildings, we’re actually declaring to the world: “dead people live here.” Paradoxically, the cross of Jesus marks the end of our life, which is death, and the beginning of our death, which is life. X marks the spot where we gave up our life and found it at the same time. For all practical purposes, when we bent our knee to Jesus, when we embraced the cross of his death as our life, we kissed the world goodbye. Like a reversal of the betrayer’s kiss in Gethsemane, we have signaled to our captors that friendship with the world is enmity toward God. Not in remorse, but with gratitude we throw our thirty pieces of silver into the temple because an innocent man was sacrificed for us. Arrested by God’s grace, we claim that money isn’t the root of all good, that pedigree means nothing, that the pursuit of happiness is a waste of time, that the world can never fail us because we’re no longer counting on it. For us, the cross of Jesus is not losing some to gain more—an investment strategy. This is giving up. When Jesus forgave my sins he took my pitiful, irreplaceable life as well. What a relief! Travelers to southern California and southwest Missouri may not see it, but a cross on life’s highway marks the spot where I died.
Paul’s cross stands on the road to Damascus, Syria. It must have been quite a shock. Up to that point, Paul was convinced that he was in the center of God’s will, doing exactly what God wanted him to do—arresting fellow Jews who belonged to “the Way.” As persecutor of the church, Paul considered himself “blameless” in the ways of righteousness (Phil. 3:6). He was doing God’s work, zealous for God’s law. Imagine his surprise when he found out he was doing the exact opposite of what God wanted. One minute you’re walking confidently on the path of righteousness, the next moment your face is on the ground looking for a little mercy. Life changes like lightning flashes. Sight one moment, blind the next. Paul lost it all that day—the day he was knocked to the ground and blinded by a heavenly light. He knew what this meant. He had been wrong—wrong about Jesus, wrong about the law, wrong about the Christians, wrong about the cross. And, he knew what this would mean. Nothing would stay the same: in an instant, old things passed away and everything became new. It was an unbelievable reversal—the rumor spread quickly: “He who once persecuted us is now preaching the faith which he once tried to destroy” (Ga. 1:23). For Paul, this was more than a prophet’s calling: “Go, preach to the Gentiles.” This was conversion. Embracing the cross of Jesus meant turning his back on his previous life. But, did it have to be that way? Why did Paul automatically assume that he would have to give up his “former life in Judaism”—that he couldn’t be a Pharisee and preach the gospel of Jesus Christ at the same time (Ga. 1:13-16)?
Some think Paul was tired of trying to please God by obeying all the rules. That trusting in Christ came as a welcome relief to this frustrated, obedient Jew. But, that doesn’t square with the way Paul characterized his life in Judaism before he met Christ. For him, the law was the means to life—a gift from God. Paul loved the law; it was holy and good (see Ro. 7:10-12). And, he was keeping it better than anyone. He liked the way things were before Damascus. So, why did he give it all up?
When Paul met Christ it was the end of the world. Seeing the Messiah in all of his glory meant that the kingdom of God had come. That’s what Paul had been told all of his life: if you see a glorified Messiah, it’s all over. It’s kind of like the constant idea you run into when reading the Old Testament. When a person saw God, they thought they were dead because no one looks upon the face of the Lord and lives to tell about it. Likewise, many Jews believed that when Messiah appeared in all his glory it would signal the end of this age, this time, this world. That’s what happened to Paul the day Christ appeared to him. His world was over. His life had come to an end. Traditions (preserving the old) became irrelevant because the new had come. Old ways died. The new age had begun. Nothing would be the same again.
Paul claimed that the gospel of Jesus was “apocalypsed” in him (Gal 1:16). Indeed, what happened to him on the road of Damascus was an apocalyptic, end-of-the-world event. The Christophany just didn’t happen to him, but exploded within him. From that day forward, Paul’s life would no longer be defined by the law, by ethnicity, by nationality, by traditions—everything that gave him an identity was gone. From the time he hobbled into Damascus like a blind man until the day he was thrown into prison like a criminal, his life would look like the life of the Crucified One. Paul lost it all that day: status, family, ethnic pride. Everything that defined who he was—how he saw himself and the world—was gone. Before, he saw all things through the lens of the law—a binary world of men/women, Jew/Gentile, blessed/cursed, holy/unclean. But now, after Damascus, he sees neither Jew nor Gentile, male or female, slave or free. Can you imagine how difficult it was? Being a Jew doesn’t matter anymore, so now I have to start over. Keeping the law doesn’t define who I am anymore, so now I can hang out with Gentiles and eat pork. Women can handle the scriptures. The cursed are loved by God. The orderly world, the comfortable world, the world as he knew it was no more. When Paul gained Christ, he lost it all.
I hope it's not too late to realize what I lost when I gained Christ: I am not an American. I am not a Baptist. I am not a Professor. I am not a success. I am a man who hopes to find life in a cross.
(I'm currently writing about Paul's spirituality. So, thought I'd post a paragraph or two.)
When you see a cross, what do you think of? Churches and jewelry, vampires and cemeteries, or crusades and swords? Crosses are worn religiously by the fashionable and the pious. Crosses ward off evil spirits and mark off dead men’s bones. Crosses shield the faithful warrior and are driven into the ground by the victorious. Indeed, over time, the Roman cross has come to symbolize many things: power, sacredness, beauty, and hope. But, to the people of Paul’s day, crosses meant one thing: death. Outside nearly every Roman town, along the major roads that funneled travelers into the cities, there were crosses. Sometimes holding their latest victim, with birds perched on their shoulders, picking at the carrion left exposed to the elements, crosses stood like soldiers holding post, guarding Roman interests, warning violators of imminent death. You couldn’t leave town or enter a city without the daily reminder of death’s ugly pallor. Travel along the roads of the first-century Roman Empire and you would always find a cross.
When I travel, I can’t help but notice the crosses that line the highways, marking the sacred places where somebody died. A husband, wife, son, daughter—an entire family. Sometimes adorned with placards, pictures, flowers, wreaths—these makeshift monuments remind all travelers that death could be waiting for us around the corner. A cross marks the spot, a time and a place. Every time I pass one, my heart hurts. Without dwelling on the mystery too long, I wonder what happened. Who died? When did it happen? Sometimes the large collection of gifts around the cross makes me wonder if the accident occurred last week. At other times these sacred sites look weathered and cluttered—the pitiful remains of a holy pilgrimage no longer dutifully kept. Even after road crews carefully remove the tattered teddy bears and broken wreaths, the crosses often remain. Indeed, one cannot travel across our country without seeing a cross, the end of life, the last place on earth for somebody.
“Who lives there?” That’s the question our daughter asked when we drove by a cemetery several years ago. Emma was only six years old at the time. We had passed by that graveyard many times before. Had never talked about it. Never pointed it out. It’s one of the older cemeteries in Jonesboro, the kind that have the large monuments, statues of angels, and crosses. I really don’t know why she assumed that such a place had anything to do with people. But she did. “That’s where dead people live,” I said rather callously, enjoying the paradox. My wife, Sheri, was taken back by my blunt response, giving me the “that-was-insensitive look” I have come to recognize so well. “What do you mean?” Emma asked with her usual matter-of-fact tone. “Well, when we die, our souls go to be with Jesus in heaven, but our bodies stay here—so they have to put them somewhere.” Sheri interrupted my indelicate answer with a more careful explanation. “Most of the time the body is placed in a box called a ‘casket.’ Then, family and friends go to the cemetery to have the funeral, and the casket is placed underground.” No response. Emma seemed satisfied with her little tutorial about death, caskets, dead bodies, and cemeteries. Then, several minutes later, after the conversation had thankfully turned to another subject, Emma interrupted, “Then why does our church have a cross on it. Dead people don’t live there, too, do they?”
A cross is supposed to show where you can find a dead man. When we hang them around our necks or mount them on top of our church buildings, we’re actually declaring to the world: “dead people live here.” Paradoxically, the cross of Jesus marks the end of our life, which is death, and the beginning of our death, which is life. X marks the spot where we gave up our life and found it at the same time. For all practical purposes, when we bent our knee to Jesus, when we embraced the cross of his death as our life, we kissed the world goodbye. Like a reversal of the betrayer’s kiss in Gethsemane, we have signaled to our captors that friendship with the world is enmity toward God. Not in remorse, but with gratitude we throw our thirty pieces of silver into the temple because an innocent man was sacrificed for us. Arrested by God’s grace, we claim that money isn’t the root of all good, that pedigree means nothing, that the pursuit of happiness is a waste of time, that the world can never fail us because we’re no longer counting on it. For us, the cross of Jesus is not losing some to gain more—an investment strategy. This is giving up. When Jesus forgave my sins he took my pitiful, irreplaceable life as well. What a relief! Travelers to southern California and southwest Missouri may not see it, but a cross on life’s highway marks the spot where I died.
Paul’s cross stands on the road to Damascus, Syria. It must have been quite a shock. Up to that point, Paul was convinced that he was in the center of God’s will, doing exactly what God wanted him to do—arresting fellow Jews who belonged to “the Way.” As persecutor of the church, Paul considered himself “blameless” in the ways of righteousness (Phil. 3:6). He was doing God’s work, zealous for God’s law. Imagine his surprise when he found out he was doing the exact opposite of what God wanted. One minute you’re walking confidently on the path of righteousness, the next moment your face is on the ground looking for a little mercy. Life changes like lightning flashes. Sight one moment, blind the next. Paul lost it all that day—the day he was knocked to the ground and blinded by a heavenly light. He knew what this meant. He had been wrong—wrong about Jesus, wrong about the law, wrong about the Christians, wrong about the cross. And, he knew what this would mean. Nothing would stay the same: in an instant, old things passed away and everything became new. It was an unbelievable reversal—the rumor spread quickly: “He who once persecuted us is now preaching the faith which he once tried to destroy” (Ga. 1:23). For Paul, this was more than a prophet’s calling: “Go, preach to the Gentiles.” This was conversion. Embracing the cross of Jesus meant turning his back on his previous life. But, did it have to be that way? Why did Paul automatically assume that he would have to give up his “former life in Judaism”—that he couldn’t be a Pharisee and preach the gospel of Jesus Christ at the same time (Ga. 1:13-16)?
Some think Paul was tired of trying to please God by obeying all the rules. That trusting in Christ came as a welcome relief to this frustrated, obedient Jew. But, that doesn’t square with the way Paul characterized his life in Judaism before he met Christ. For him, the law was the means to life—a gift from God. Paul loved the law; it was holy and good (see Ro. 7:10-12). And, he was keeping it better than anyone. He liked the way things were before Damascus. So, why did he give it all up?
When Paul met Christ it was the end of the world. Seeing the Messiah in all of his glory meant that the kingdom of God had come. That’s what Paul had been told all of his life: if you see a glorified Messiah, it’s all over. It’s kind of like the constant idea you run into when reading the Old Testament. When a person saw God, they thought they were dead because no one looks upon the face of the Lord and lives to tell about it. Likewise, many Jews believed that when Messiah appeared in all his glory it would signal the end of this age, this time, this world. That’s what happened to Paul the day Christ appeared to him. His world was over. His life had come to an end. Traditions (preserving the old) became irrelevant because the new had come. Old ways died. The new age had begun. Nothing would be the same again.
Paul claimed that the gospel of Jesus was “apocalypsed” in him (Gal 1:16). Indeed, what happened to him on the road of Damascus was an apocalyptic, end-of-the-world event. The Christophany just didn’t happen to him, but exploded within him. From that day forward, Paul’s life would no longer be defined by the law, by ethnicity, by nationality, by traditions—everything that gave him an identity was gone. From the time he hobbled into Damascus like a blind man until the day he was thrown into prison like a criminal, his life would look like the life of the Crucified One. Paul lost it all that day: status, family, ethnic pride. Everything that defined who he was—how he saw himself and the world—was gone. Before, he saw all things through the lens of the law—a binary world of men/women, Jew/Gentile, blessed/cursed, holy/unclean. But now, after Damascus, he sees neither Jew nor Gentile, male or female, slave or free. Can you imagine how difficult it was? Being a Jew doesn’t matter anymore, so now I have to start over. Keeping the law doesn’t define who I am anymore, so now I can hang out with Gentiles and eat pork. Women can handle the scriptures. The cursed are loved by God. The orderly world, the comfortable world, the world as he knew it was no more. When Paul gained Christ, he lost it all.
I hope it's not too late to realize what I lost when I gained Christ: I am not an American. I am not a Baptist. I am not a Professor. I am not a success. I am a man who hopes to find life in a cross.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Hurry up, Jesus
Believing isn't difficult. Waiting is the hard part. As believers we're taught to consider the injustices of our world. We try to do our part to help relieve human suffering (do we ever do enough?). Tired of things "the way they are," we want God to "put the world to rights," to use N.T. Wright's favorite expression. But, what happens when it's our world that is out of joint? What happens when we're the one looking for help, feeling the injustice, setting our face against the winds of resistance? It's one thing to contend with the God of the heavens, trying to get him to reverse the curse and bring help and hope to our friend or neighbor. It's quite something else to shake the heavens with our prayers for our own family. Who cares about the principle of the matter? I'm not arguing theology. This time, injustice is personal. This time, evil hurts. This time, we want God to favor us regardless. I'm not thinking about others right now.
I'm drawn to this story because of what it doesn't say. I've always been intrigued by Mark's weaving of these two stories together--the woman with female problems and Jairus' daughter (Mark 5:21-43). For both, the number 12 is significant--the woman suffered from her condition for 12 years, the little girl who died was 12 years old. Uncleanness runs throughout both stories: the woman's constant period rendered her perpetually unclean; the little girl was dead (the epitome of uncleanness). And, I've always appreciated how Jesus "reversed the curse" in both stories. The Pharisees taught the touch of unclean persons made the clean unclean. In these stories, in dramatic fashion, Mark shows how Jesus reversed the polarity of clean and unclean: this time, it's the clean touch of a holy man who makes the unclean clean. Making a big deal about "who touched me" and ordering the parents to give the once-dead-but-now-alive girl something to eat (unclean!!!) proves Jesus' point very well. And yet, there are things that didn't happen that should have happened that make me consider the faith of one person--the man who appears in both stories.
Jairus had been waiting for Jesus for quite some time. To Jewish eyes, I'm sure, Jesus had been "wasting time" in Gentile country before coming back across the Sea to Jewish territory. Desperate, Jairus falls on his knees and begs for Jesus to come and "lay hands" on his daughter because he believed she was "close to death." Much to his delight, Jesus decides to follow the man to his house. This was the time to make haste. The girl was about to die. But, Jesus didn't make very good time for two reasons: the huge crowd prevented an expeditious trip, and there was some commotion about touching Jesus and an unclean woman begging for forgiveness. If I were the man, the snail pace of Jesus pushing through the crowds would have made me desperately angry. "Get out of the way! Get out of the way! Move! Move! Hurray. We've got to go. Would you numbskulls get OUT OF THE WAY!" I would have been screaming my head off. Then, inexplicably, Jesus stops in the middle of this mad scene, the masses pressing in against him, with signs of paranoia, "Who touched me? Who touched me?" Even the disciples were incredulous, "What do you mean, 'Who touched you?' Do you see the crowd? Who isn't touching you?" But Jesus wouldn't budge. He wouldn't take another step until he got his answer. At this point, my desperation would have turned to exhaustion. "Who cares? Who cares? We'll find out later. Let's go, for heaven's sake. MY DAUGHTER IS DYING."
But, he didn't say a word. Patiently waiting his turn, he gets word that it's too late. His little girl is dead. But, Jesus knows it's never too late--especially when a holy man says he's coming to your house to take care of business.
Oh Lord. Please come to my house and take care of your business . . . whenever you get the time.
Believing isn't difficult. Waiting is the hard part. As believers we're taught to consider the injustices of our world. We try to do our part to help relieve human suffering (do we ever do enough?). Tired of things "the way they are," we want God to "put the world to rights," to use N.T. Wright's favorite expression. But, what happens when it's our world that is out of joint? What happens when we're the one looking for help, feeling the injustice, setting our face against the winds of resistance? It's one thing to contend with the God of the heavens, trying to get him to reverse the curse and bring help and hope to our friend or neighbor. It's quite something else to shake the heavens with our prayers for our own family. Who cares about the principle of the matter? I'm not arguing theology. This time, injustice is personal. This time, evil hurts. This time, we want God to favor us regardless. I'm not thinking about others right now.
I'm drawn to this story because of what it doesn't say. I've always been intrigued by Mark's weaving of these two stories together--the woman with female problems and Jairus' daughter (Mark 5:21-43). For both, the number 12 is significant--the woman suffered from her condition for 12 years, the little girl who died was 12 years old. Uncleanness runs throughout both stories: the woman's constant period rendered her perpetually unclean; the little girl was dead (the epitome of uncleanness). And, I've always appreciated how Jesus "reversed the curse" in both stories. The Pharisees taught the touch of unclean persons made the clean unclean. In these stories, in dramatic fashion, Mark shows how Jesus reversed the polarity of clean and unclean: this time, it's the clean touch of a holy man who makes the unclean clean. Making a big deal about "who touched me" and ordering the parents to give the once-dead-but-now-alive girl something to eat (unclean!!!) proves Jesus' point very well. And yet, there are things that didn't happen that should have happened that make me consider the faith of one person--the man who appears in both stories.
Jairus had been waiting for Jesus for quite some time. To Jewish eyes, I'm sure, Jesus had been "wasting time" in Gentile country before coming back across the Sea to Jewish territory. Desperate, Jairus falls on his knees and begs for Jesus to come and "lay hands" on his daughter because he believed she was "close to death." Much to his delight, Jesus decides to follow the man to his house. This was the time to make haste. The girl was about to die. But, Jesus didn't make very good time for two reasons: the huge crowd prevented an expeditious trip, and there was some commotion about touching Jesus and an unclean woman begging for forgiveness. If I were the man, the snail pace of Jesus pushing through the crowds would have made me desperately angry. "Get out of the way! Get out of the way! Move! Move! Hurray. We've got to go. Would you numbskulls get OUT OF THE WAY!" I would have been screaming my head off. Then, inexplicably, Jesus stops in the middle of this mad scene, the masses pressing in against him, with signs of paranoia, "Who touched me? Who touched me?" Even the disciples were incredulous, "What do you mean, 'Who touched you?' Do you see the crowd? Who isn't touching you?" But Jesus wouldn't budge. He wouldn't take another step until he got his answer. At this point, my desperation would have turned to exhaustion. "Who cares? Who cares? We'll find out later. Let's go, for heaven's sake. MY DAUGHTER IS DYING."
But, he didn't say a word. Patiently waiting his turn, he gets word that it's too late. His little girl is dead. But, Jesus knows it's never too late--especially when a holy man says he's coming to your house to take care of business.
Oh Lord. Please come to my house and take care of your business . . . whenever you get the time.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Come and See
I recently received an invitation to attend a conference where Christian theologians are going to defend the faith against deconstructionists. The best defense, the organizers claim, is wielding the sword of "propositional truth." After all, if deconstructionists maintain there is no absolute truth (oxymoron!), then the best thing we can do is to show them what is absolutely true: arguing for the verities of our faith one proposition at a time.
Ever since my first philosophy class, I've always been a bit suspicious of "propositional truth." My philosopher professor loved to show his students how absolute claims rarely bear the weight of careful argumentation. Like cracks in a concrete foundation, flaws in the premise of an argument eventually brings the whole house down. I decided right then I wouldn't ever find shelter from the storm of doubt in a house built on rationalism. One person's reason is another person's invitation to try to blow the house down.
Greek students know that "abide" or "remain" is a code word in John's gospel and letters. As a matter of fact, it appears so often, they get sick of seeing it. Abide here, abide there, abide everywhere. Abide, abide, abide. That's why most readers miss the irony of the question when a couple of would-be disciples of Jesus asked him, "where do you abide?" They had begun to follow Jesus because their mentor, John the Baptizer, told them to. Jesus, perhaps curious about their intentions asked them, "what are you looking for?" (Jo. 1:38). "Rabbi, where do you abide?" Jesus said, "Come and see."
I'm so glad he said, "Come and see," rather than, "I'm staying in Capernaum" or "The Son of Man has no where to lay his head" or "You have no idea what you're asking. Do you realize the implications of 'abiding'? That's one loaded question. Let's see. Some might say that I abide with the Father. Others might say that I abide in the hearts of believers. . ." or [I'm especially glad he didn't say] "split a piece of wood, and I am there; lift up a stone, and I am there."
Instead, he gave one of the most tempting, tantalizing, curiously inviting, intriguing, provocative, profound replies. Come and see. Come and see. Oh God, I'm so glad he said, "come and see."
Out of my wonder, sorrow, and night. Jesus, I come to thee.
I recently received an invitation to attend a conference where Christian theologians are going to defend the faith against deconstructionists. The best defense, the organizers claim, is wielding the sword of "propositional truth." After all, if deconstructionists maintain there is no absolute truth (oxymoron!), then the best thing we can do is to show them what is absolutely true: arguing for the verities of our faith one proposition at a time.
Ever since my first philosophy class, I've always been a bit suspicious of "propositional truth." My philosopher professor loved to show his students how absolute claims rarely bear the weight of careful argumentation. Like cracks in a concrete foundation, flaws in the premise of an argument eventually brings the whole house down. I decided right then I wouldn't ever find shelter from the storm of doubt in a house built on rationalism. One person's reason is another person's invitation to try to blow the house down.
Greek students know that "abide" or "remain" is a code word in John's gospel and letters. As a matter of fact, it appears so often, they get sick of seeing it. Abide here, abide there, abide everywhere. Abide, abide, abide. That's why most readers miss the irony of the question when a couple of would-be disciples of Jesus asked him, "where do you abide?" They had begun to follow Jesus because their mentor, John the Baptizer, told them to. Jesus, perhaps curious about their intentions asked them, "what are you looking for?" (Jo. 1:38). "Rabbi, where do you abide?" Jesus said, "Come and see."
I'm so glad he said, "Come and see," rather than, "I'm staying in Capernaum" or "The Son of Man has no where to lay his head" or "You have no idea what you're asking. Do you realize the implications of 'abiding'? That's one loaded question. Let's see. Some might say that I abide with the Father. Others might say that I abide in the hearts of believers. . ." or [I'm especially glad he didn't say] "split a piece of wood, and I am there; lift up a stone, and I am there."
Instead, he gave one of the most tempting, tantalizing, curiously inviting, intriguing, provocative, profound replies. Come and see. Come and see. Oh God, I'm so glad he said, "come and see."
Out of my wonder, sorrow, and night. Jesus, I come to thee.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Ashamed of Jesus
There's a story in Mark's gospel that I've never really paid much attention to. It's when Jesus' family comes for him when he's teaching but they can't get to him because of the crowded house. They send word for him. Jesus, obviously interrupted by their notice of arrival, callously replies, "Who are my mother and my brothers?" Then he says to those listening to him, "See! My mother and my brothers." Justifying his strange comment, Jesus states, "Whoever does the will of God, he is my brother and sister and mother." The reason, I think, I've never been bothered by Jesus' provocative statement is that I have always found myself in the company of those who belong to Jesus' new family. Sitting at his feet, I hear his words as if he were talking to me. I revel in the fact that, even though I don't have Jewish blood coursing through my veins, I'm still Jesus' brother because I try to do God's will. So, I belong to him. He's like family to me.
Mark finishes off the story as a continuation of what happened before. Because Jesus reconstituted Israel by choosing the twelve (God is starting over!), his family thought he had lost his mind (Mark 3:21). They, embarassed by Jesus, came to retrieve him--to get him out of the mess he was making. Even for them, things had gone too far. This is why they come to remove him from the crowded house. But, to their surprise, Jesus went even further with his charade. Not only was Israel being redefined. Jesus was re-imaging what it meant to be family. Imagine how shocking it must have been for his mother and brothers to hear the report. "Did you tell him we're out here? Yes, we told him. What did he say? He said you're not his family anymore. He said we're his family now."
Now, I find myself outside the crowded house where people who are not Jesus' family gather to listen to him. They're addicts and divorcees and homosexuals and foul-mouthed vagrants. They're also Asians and Africans and South Americans and Indians. They don't worship God like I do. They don't talk like I do. They don't eat and drink the right things, read the right books, or listen to the right preachers. Yet, there they sit. Gathered around his feet. Studying his every word. Trying to make sense of his life, his teachings, his ways.
This is embarassing. They act like they are his family. They act like they know him. They act like they're listening to him. They even quote him (like they know what he's talking about). Somebody needs to go to Jesus and pull him out of this mess. He needs to know things have gone too far. This is getting out of hand.
I know. I'll do it. I'll go and tell him his brother is here. We need to talk.
"God does not need us. Indeed, if He were not God, He would be ashamed of us. We, at any rate, cannot be ashamed of Him." Karl Barth
There's a story in Mark's gospel that I've never really paid much attention to. It's when Jesus' family comes for him when he's teaching but they can't get to him because of the crowded house. They send word for him. Jesus, obviously interrupted by their notice of arrival, callously replies, "Who are my mother and my brothers?" Then he says to those listening to him, "See! My mother and my brothers." Justifying his strange comment, Jesus states, "Whoever does the will of God, he is my brother and sister and mother." The reason, I think, I've never been bothered by Jesus' provocative statement is that I have always found myself in the company of those who belong to Jesus' new family. Sitting at his feet, I hear his words as if he were talking to me. I revel in the fact that, even though I don't have Jewish blood coursing through my veins, I'm still Jesus' brother because I try to do God's will. So, I belong to him. He's like family to me.
Mark finishes off the story as a continuation of what happened before. Because Jesus reconstituted Israel by choosing the twelve (God is starting over!), his family thought he had lost his mind (Mark 3:21). They, embarassed by Jesus, came to retrieve him--to get him out of the mess he was making. Even for them, things had gone too far. This is why they come to remove him from the crowded house. But, to their surprise, Jesus went even further with his charade. Not only was Israel being redefined. Jesus was re-imaging what it meant to be family. Imagine how shocking it must have been for his mother and brothers to hear the report. "Did you tell him we're out here? Yes, we told him. What did he say? He said you're not his family anymore. He said we're his family now."
Now, I find myself outside the crowded house where people who are not Jesus' family gather to listen to him. They're addicts and divorcees and homosexuals and foul-mouthed vagrants. They're also Asians and Africans and South Americans and Indians. They don't worship God like I do. They don't talk like I do. They don't eat and drink the right things, read the right books, or listen to the right preachers. Yet, there they sit. Gathered around his feet. Studying his every word. Trying to make sense of his life, his teachings, his ways.
This is embarassing. They act like they are his family. They act like they know him. They act like they're listening to him. They even quote him (like they know what he's talking about). Somebody needs to go to Jesus and pull him out of this mess. He needs to know things have gone too far. This is getting out of hand.
I know. I'll do it. I'll go and tell him his brother is here. We need to talk.
"God does not need us. Indeed, if He were not God, He would be ashamed of us. We, at any rate, cannot be ashamed of Him." Karl Barth
Friday, December 22, 2006
Rest in Peace.
We sing a lot about peace during advent. "Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me." "Sleep in heavenly peace." "Peace on earth, and mercy mild; God and sinners reconciled." We sing of peace because, according to Luke's gospel, the heavenly host chanted "Peace on earth, goodwill to men" the night Jesus was born. Christians are supposed to be of irenic purpose.
Ironically, even though Jesus sent his disciples to deliver a message of peace (Lu. 10:5), he said he did not come to bring peace to the earth (Lu. 12:50). Indeed, wherever Jesus went, there was trouble. In certain respects, things seemed to get worse not better when Jesus went about effecting the reign of God on earth. Sabbath days were disrupted. Rulers were alarmed. Families were displaced. Enemies were empowered. Friends were betrayed. Not very good press for the man who came to be known as the "Prince of Peace." No wonder John the Baptizer had his doubts about Jesus. "Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?" (Lu. 7:19).
I look around and I think many wonder the same. A world filled with violence and hatred and restlessness and cynicism--where is the evidence that supports the claims of our Christmas carols? Did he bring peace to the earth? Or, are we simply fooling ourselves?
"Once Jesus was asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God was coming, and he answered, 'The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed'" (Lu. 17:20). There's the understatement of the century (yea, even a millennium or two). The reign of God's kingdom does not bring peace in obvious ways. That's especially hard to take when you're facing death's pallor. "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!" (Lu. 23:39).
Sometimes, late at night, I cry out to God, "when are you going to do something about this? We're hurting down here. Children are abused. War reigns. Death keeps winning. Please, stop the madness." That's when I hear the cry of a criminal (of all people!)--a man who is getting what he deserves! Yes, justice, finally! Hear his pathetic plea: "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." Poor beggar. Pretty desperate. But then, for some inexplicable reason, the mercy man said, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise." (Lu. 23:42-43). And, here's the most amazing part: these words were uttered from a cross, a Roman weapon of torture and death.
I think I see peace there.
We sing a lot about peace during advent. "Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me." "Sleep in heavenly peace." "Peace on earth, and mercy mild; God and sinners reconciled." We sing of peace because, according to Luke's gospel, the heavenly host chanted "Peace on earth, goodwill to men" the night Jesus was born. Christians are supposed to be of irenic purpose.
Ironically, even though Jesus sent his disciples to deliver a message of peace (Lu. 10:5), he said he did not come to bring peace to the earth (Lu. 12:50). Indeed, wherever Jesus went, there was trouble. In certain respects, things seemed to get worse not better when Jesus went about effecting the reign of God on earth. Sabbath days were disrupted. Rulers were alarmed. Families were displaced. Enemies were empowered. Friends were betrayed. Not very good press for the man who came to be known as the "Prince of Peace." No wonder John the Baptizer had his doubts about Jesus. "Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?" (Lu. 7:19).
I look around and I think many wonder the same. A world filled with violence and hatred and restlessness and cynicism--where is the evidence that supports the claims of our Christmas carols? Did he bring peace to the earth? Or, are we simply fooling ourselves?
"Once Jesus was asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God was coming, and he answered, 'The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed'" (Lu. 17:20). There's the understatement of the century (yea, even a millennium or two). The reign of God's kingdom does not bring peace in obvious ways. That's especially hard to take when you're facing death's pallor. "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!" (Lu. 23:39).
Sometimes, late at night, I cry out to God, "when are you going to do something about this? We're hurting down here. Children are abused. War reigns. Death keeps winning. Please, stop the madness." That's when I hear the cry of a criminal (of all people!)--a man who is getting what he deserves! Yes, justice, finally! Hear his pathetic plea: "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." Poor beggar. Pretty desperate. But then, for some inexplicable reason, the mercy man said, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise." (Lu. 23:42-43). And, here's the most amazing part: these words were uttered from a cross, a Roman weapon of torture and death.
I think I see peace there.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Why do I think about his death when I celebrate his birth?
I have mixed feelings during Christmas. I don't think it's your typical "holiday blues." I've always enjoyed the festivities. This growing restlessness has more to do with making sense of the celebration. Forgive me for saying so, but sometimes our sermons/songs sound rather morbid: "He was born to die," "From the womb to the tomb," and especially [quoting Isaiah] "For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulders." Even as a child, I remember thinking, "that sounds like a huge weight for such a little baby." The ominous tone of our hope, the pressing weight of the human condition makes me realize that we jump to the end of the story without considering the middle of the story. The beginning merely leads to the end. Mangers and crosses, birth and death, Christmas and Easter. Indeed, the sacrificial language that usually accompanies Christmas sayings makes us sound like a bunch of cannibals: "Give us your child so that he can die for us." Like monsters, we call for his blood before he even had the chance to live. In the midst of the hue and cry, I want to bellow: "But he lived such a beautiful life."
There's a rather unfamiliar saying of Jesus that keeps looping in my head, over and over again. I can't get the refrain out of my mind. As he carried his fate to Golgotha, Jesus noticed Jerusalem women weeping. He found the sight troubling. He told them not to cry for him. They should cry for themselves because, "If they do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?" Even Jesus knew he was too young to die. For all the splendor of the gospel story--a man came from God and offered himself as a ransom for many--the tragedy of that day still shakes me to the core. Jesus showed so much promise. He was such a lovely man, a kind heart, a confident soul, a gracious human being. Then, evil raised its ugly head and struck with the venomous poison of all hatred and malice. It wasn't that Jesus was startled by all of this. He knew how bad things had gotten down here. He knew what would happen when the irrepressible force of God's love and mercy crashes against the powers of the world. And yet, living in the shadow of that inevitable collision, he cherished life. Every ounce of it, every shred of it, every pulse, every creature, every one of us. Which is why he said, "don't cry for me." I'm so glad he said, "don't cry for me." Because sometimes, in the midst of celebrating his birthday, I feel like he got the short end of the stick.
Even though green trees are still felled, and many of us have grown dry, I will take comfort in the brief life of a man who taught us how to live . . . and die.
Happy birthday.
I have mixed feelings during Christmas. I don't think it's your typical "holiday blues." I've always enjoyed the festivities. This growing restlessness has more to do with making sense of the celebration. Forgive me for saying so, but sometimes our sermons/songs sound rather morbid: "He was born to die," "From the womb to the tomb," and especially [quoting Isaiah] "For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulders." Even as a child, I remember thinking, "that sounds like a huge weight for such a little baby." The ominous tone of our hope, the pressing weight of the human condition makes me realize that we jump to the end of the story without considering the middle of the story. The beginning merely leads to the end. Mangers and crosses, birth and death, Christmas and Easter. Indeed, the sacrificial language that usually accompanies Christmas sayings makes us sound like a bunch of cannibals: "Give us your child so that he can die for us." Like monsters, we call for his blood before he even had the chance to live. In the midst of the hue and cry, I want to bellow: "But he lived such a beautiful life."
There's a rather unfamiliar saying of Jesus that keeps looping in my head, over and over again. I can't get the refrain out of my mind. As he carried his fate to Golgotha, Jesus noticed Jerusalem women weeping. He found the sight troubling. He told them not to cry for him. They should cry for themselves because, "If they do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?" Even Jesus knew he was too young to die. For all the splendor of the gospel story--a man came from God and offered himself as a ransom for many--the tragedy of that day still shakes me to the core. Jesus showed so much promise. He was such a lovely man, a kind heart, a confident soul, a gracious human being. Then, evil raised its ugly head and struck with the venomous poison of all hatred and malice. It wasn't that Jesus was startled by all of this. He knew how bad things had gotten down here. He knew what would happen when the irrepressible force of God's love and mercy crashes against the powers of the world. And yet, living in the shadow of that inevitable collision, he cherished life. Every ounce of it, every shred of it, every pulse, every creature, every one of us. Which is why he said, "don't cry for me." I'm so glad he said, "don't cry for me." Because sometimes, in the midst of celebrating his birthday, I feel like he got the short end of the stick.
Even though green trees are still felled, and many of us have grown dry, I will take comfort in the brief life of a man who taught us how to live . . . and die.
Happy birthday.
Monday, December 04, 2006
(Dis)Possessing Christmas.
It's time, once again, to hear the tried and true exhortations to celebrate the birth of our Lord for the right reasons: "Jesus is the reason for the season," "Put the Christ back in Xmas," "Make the holiday a Holy Day, " et al. We owe it to the Lord, we think, to make sure the world knows what all the fuss is about. Directing the festivities, we remind each other that consumerism destroys the "true meaning of Christmas." Even though pagans get it wrong (wasn't the date, Dec. 25th, chosen to compete with a pagan holiday?), we try to preserve the magic of advent with candles and carols. This is our holiday. This is our time of the year. Believers must do Christmas the right way.
But, if Matthew and Luke have anything to say about how we should observe the birthday of Jesus (and they tell two completely different stories), it is this: Christmas is for all people. It's not only for religious people. It's not only for righteous people. It's not only for insiders. Jesus was born for all people. Matthew loves the part about how "outsiders" (pagan star-gazers) offered Jesus their expensive gifts (inappropriate for poor people like Joseph and Mary), worshipped the Christ child, then returned to their homeland, disappearing from the narrative. Luke tells the story about how Joseph was rejected by his family (Bethlehem is home), how Mary had no women-folk to help with the delivery (usually, the women would announce the birth of a son with jubilant chanting), and how insignificant shepherds discovered their Messiah in a feeding trough. Angels chanted when Jesus was born. Shepherds were the first evangelists. And, thanks to Matthew, Joseph would go down in history as the dreamer who knew how to protect his little family from the King of the Jews. There are no insiders or outsiders when it comes to the good news of great joy for all people.
Come wise men, come shepherds, come angels, kings, and paupers. Do what you have to do. Give what you have to give. This child was born for all of us. Whether we realize it or not, this is good news for all. Christmas is not a Christian holiday. It's not up to believers to make sure we get it right. We do not own him. He is God's gift to the world.
Which is why my heart is strangely warmed by crass Christmas decorations, and pagans singing Christmas carols, and signs that announce "Xmas Sale", and greeting cards that rely upon glib cliches.
None of us get it right. And, for some reason, I think Jesus wouldn't have it any other way.
It's time, once again, to hear the tried and true exhortations to celebrate the birth of our Lord for the right reasons: "Jesus is the reason for the season," "Put the Christ back in Xmas," "Make the holiday a Holy Day, " et al. We owe it to the Lord, we think, to make sure the world knows what all the fuss is about. Directing the festivities, we remind each other that consumerism destroys the "true meaning of Christmas." Even though pagans get it wrong (wasn't the date, Dec. 25th, chosen to compete with a pagan holiday?), we try to preserve the magic of advent with candles and carols. This is our holiday. This is our time of the year. Believers must do Christmas the right way.
But, if Matthew and Luke have anything to say about how we should observe the birthday of Jesus (and they tell two completely different stories), it is this: Christmas is for all people. It's not only for religious people. It's not only for righteous people. It's not only for insiders. Jesus was born for all people. Matthew loves the part about how "outsiders" (pagan star-gazers) offered Jesus their expensive gifts (inappropriate for poor people like Joseph and Mary), worshipped the Christ child, then returned to their homeland, disappearing from the narrative. Luke tells the story about how Joseph was rejected by his family (Bethlehem is home), how Mary had no women-folk to help with the delivery (usually, the women would announce the birth of a son with jubilant chanting), and how insignificant shepherds discovered their Messiah in a feeding trough. Angels chanted when Jesus was born. Shepherds were the first evangelists. And, thanks to Matthew, Joseph would go down in history as the dreamer who knew how to protect his little family from the King of the Jews. There are no insiders or outsiders when it comes to the good news of great joy for all people.
Come wise men, come shepherds, come angels, kings, and paupers. Do what you have to do. Give what you have to give. This child was born for all of us. Whether we realize it or not, this is good news for all. Christmas is not a Christian holiday. It's not up to believers to make sure we get it right. We do not own him. He is God's gift to the world.
Which is why my heart is strangely warmed by crass Christmas decorations, and pagans singing Christmas carols, and signs that announce "Xmas Sale", and greeting cards that rely upon glib cliches.
None of us get it right. And, for some reason, I think Jesus wouldn't have it any other way.
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