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.
Friday, January 26, 2007
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.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
I'm growing weary of the argument that Jesus' advice via the Sermon on the Mount isn't applicable to our situation because the politics of his day were so different from ours, i.e., since democracy wasn't available to him, all he could do to confront injustice was to teach his disciples to counter Roman Imperial rule by turning the other cheek. If first-century Palestine had enjoyed a democratic form of government, then Jesus' teaching surely would have been different: join the political fray, get elected, and do some good for a change.
I beg to differ.
Jesus could have joined the party of the Pharisees (even he admits he's closer to their teaching than any of the other sects, see Matt. 23), endeared himself to the movers and shakers in Jerusalem (remember, he showed great promise when he was a wee, little lad, Lu. 2:41ff), get elected to the Sanhedrin (think of how much help Nicodemus would have been to Jesus' political career!), and effect the kingdom of God by working within the system.
But he didn't do that. Why not? To many Americans, it would appear that he missed his chance to "make a difference" in the world. But, that's okay. Even he said his kingdom is not of this world. When are we going to learn?
I beg to differ.
Jesus could have joined the party of the Pharisees (even he admits he's closer to their teaching than any of the other sects, see Matt. 23), endeared himself to the movers and shakers in Jerusalem (remember, he showed great promise when he was a wee, little lad, Lu. 2:41ff), get elected to the Sanhedrin (think of how much help Nicodemus would have been to Jesus' political career!), and effect the kingdom of God by working within the system.
But he didn't do that. Why not? To many Americans, it would appear that he missed his chance to "make a difference" in the world. But, that's okay. Even he said his kingdom is not of this world. When are we going to learn?
Thursday, November 09, 2006
First attempt at adding my voice to the dissonance in hopes of finding clarity.
How are we supposed to follow a man who lived 2,000 years ago?
Too often Christian discipleship is defined by what we're against: counter culture. This is the way of the world; therefore, in order to follow Jesus, we must be anti-status quo. But, I want to be for something.
What I'm proposing (nothing new, really) is that we begin with the gospels and see how each writer makes a disciple of his reader. In other words, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John were written not only to get readers to believe in Jesus; they were written to show believers how to follow Jesus.
How does Matthew's story make a disciple of you? How is that different from Mark? What is the literary effect of Luke's story? And, now for something completely different, how does John make disciples out of his readers?
These are the questions that interest me.
I think we've lost the power of the gospel story. Instead, we rely upon list makers to tell us what we're supposed to do. So, I compare my list with your list (they never agree) and judgment comes.
Jesus never made a list. He preferred telling stories, and then he said, "You figure it out." That should tell us something.
How are we supposed to follow a man who lived 2,000 years ago?
Too often Christian discipleship is defined by what we're against: counter culture. This is the way of the world; therefore, in order to follow Jesus, we must be anti-status quo. But, I want to be for something.
What I'm proposing (nothing new, really) is that we begin with the gospels and see how each writer makes a disciple of his reader. In other words, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John were written not only to get readers to believe in Jesus; they were written to show believers how to follow Jesus.
How does Matthew's story make a disciple of you? How is that different from Mark? What is the literary effect of Luke's story? And, now for something completely different, how does John make disciples out of his readers?
These are the questions that interest me.
I think we've lost the power of the gospel story. Instead, we rely upon list makers to tell us what we're supposed to do. So, I compare my list with your list (they never agree) and judgment comes.
Jesus never made a list. He preferred telling stories, and then he said, "You figure it out." That should tell us something.
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