Moving from Fear to Transformation

I recently discovered a website that lists all the legitimate phobias that could be identified. Currently the list documents 530 diagnosed conditions of fear.

I have a dear friend visiting right now from England. I am so happy that I do not suffer from Anglophobia. I am considering having some bacon for breakfast. Thankfully, I do not have Carnophobia. I am alive and wish to stay that way as long as possible, but at least I am not immersed in Thanatophobia.

But wait: Maybe I am. Thanatophobia is fear of dying. I may not be overwhelming by that documentable phobia, but I am clearly not interested in undergoing a premature death.

Recent events, however, suggest that the possibility—even the inevitability—of death hovers over all of us. Young children are sent off merrily to school and are killed by a mentally ill gunman. Runners engaged in an annual marathon and are blown up at the finish line, possibly at the hand of terrorists. A fertilizer plant in Texas explodes, taking lives and shattering an entire town.

Perhaps we can’t be blamed for just a touch of Thanatophobia.

Fear, however, often results in protectiveness (understandably so), and protectiveness can morph into protectivism (protectiveness as a core value), and the process can spawn anger, which can whip into rage. And rage wants retribution and punishment.

We who follow Jesus are told over and over again in our scriptures to fear not. But we do. And we continue to be given reasons to fear.

When we speak of following Jesus, it is insufficient to say that we follow what he taught, as important as that is. It is insufficient to claim that we are Christians because we have affirmed a particular creed or list of doctrinal statements. There must be something more to all of this, or we will project our protectivism onto our belief system and our fear will be the dominant characteristic of our faith.

The more that is required has to do with our lives being truly and deeply changed. I’m not speaking only of change that is expressed in our behaviors, but change that impacts the very essence of who we are as human beings. And the narrative of our faith insists that such change comes at the hand of God, expressed in the real, historic life of Jesus, and poured into our lives through the presence and power of the Holy Spirit.

Without such spiritual transformation—a transformation that the Bible characterizes as a movement from death to life, from darkness to light—then we’re only left with religious turf to defend. And that’s a battle that is fueled by fear.

When we see God face-to-face someday, I hope that our trembling comes, not from fear, but from joy and adoration.

On Suicide

I need to take a brief break from my series on heresy to comment about something else.

I am saddened by the death of Rick and Kay Warren’s son, Matthew, and I pray for them. A lot of people have offered condolences and prayer, and I am grateful for those thoughtful responses. But I am also horrified by the hateful social media comments that some people—Christian and non-Christian alike—have so quickly unleashed, like scorpions out of a demonic fire hose.

This tragic situation has also caused some other people to share their personal grief about losing someone to suicide, not only in an attempt to empathize with the Warren family, but also to ask some very real and painful questions about what happens when human beings voluntarily end their lives.

Does God abandon them for all of eternity?

There was a time in the history of the Christian church—both Catholic and Protestant—that a doctrine about suicide insisted that there was not hope for salvation for a person dying in such a way. After all, murder is a grave sin, right? But a murderer can later repent and seek God’s forgiveness. But a suicide cannot do that. It’s too late.

So, a genocidal maniac can kill untold numbers of people and then confess and repent just before the hangman’s noose snaps his neck, and he gets an eternal get-out-of-jail free card (even though his victims might have been denied that opportunity). But the person suffering deep pain, depression, and hopelessness is denied such grace? There is clearly something wrong with this way of thinking.

The Roman Catholic Church has changed its doctrine on the subject. Pity, compassion, and prayer for the mercy of God are the proper responses rather than the insistence on eternal condemnation. Most Protestants take the same view. I’m sure there are others in the mix holding on to the old view. You can hear from some of them on Twitter and Facebook.

The apostle Paul says something very important about human death and how it relates to God:

“Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written,
‘For your sake we are being killed all day long; we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.’ 
No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:35-39)

We speak of Jesus as one who has “abolished death” (2 Timothy 1:10), and we see death as an inevitable event for all people, but an event that has lost its sting (1 Corinthians 15:55).

In the death of Jesus, God destroyed the power of death to have the last word. Death, by whatever means, has lost its sting. There is no deathly power that can trump God’s love. Even death by one’s own hand.

O God, who by the glorious resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ, destroyed death, and brought life and immortality to light: Grant that your servant Matthew, being raised with him, may know the strength of his presence, and rejoice in his eternal glory; who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

A Reflection for Good Friday, March 29, 2013

Then the high priest questioned Jesus about his disciples and about his teaching. Jesus answered, “I have spoken openly to the world; I have always taught in synagogues and in the temple, where all the Jews come together. I have said nothing in secret. Why do you ask me? Ask those who heard what I said to them; they know what I said.” When he had said this, one of the police standing nearby struck Jesus on the face . . .

Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. And the soldiers wove a crown of thorns and put it on his head, and they dressed him in a purple robe. They kept coming up to him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” and striking him on the face.

Then he handed him over to them to be crucified. So they took Jesus; and carrying the cross by himself, he went out to what is called The Place of the Skull, which in Hebrew is called Golgotha. There they crucified him, and with him two others, one on either side, with Jesus between them. (John 18:19-22, 19:1-2, 16-18)


There are many stories that deal with horror. But horror is not really a literary genre—it is a response to something horrific, an emotion that reflects the terror being encountered, whether in depiction or in experience.

It’s easy to revisit the story of Jesus’ arrest, abuse, suffering, and death abstractly, even theologically. But it’s a horror story of the first degree, a story of torture, humiliation, and a slow, painful death. While all the gospel accounts are relatively brief on this part of the narrative, they don’t skip it. Maybe this sort of thing happened often enough in first century Palestine that the story didn’t need an overabundance of detail. Nevertheless, they speak of it. And it’s a horror show.

Imagine this happening to someone you know, someone you care deeply about who is in your life right now—a friend, a brother, a son, a father, a husband. Imagine him being arrested on a false charge, cruelly beaten by soldiers and they nailed up on a cross of wood to die in the public square. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. There is no authority to stop the horror. The authorities are the authors of it all.

Jesus allows himself to be taken to this end. In his willingness to die, the power of evil ramps up to a fever pitch and has its way with him. If what we believe about Jesus is true—that he is the Word made flesh, that the fullness of God dwells in him—then that rabid force of evil has its way with God on that bleak Friday afternoon.

The most disturbing part of this horror story is that it didn’t come about by monsters or serial killers or phantoms. It came about in a way that was familiar to the people. The Romans were good at this sort of thing, and they plied their trade on Jesus with a well-rehearsed skill. It had happened before and it would happen again. But it was still an experience of horror for everyone.

It is an odd thing that our story of salvation could be classified as a horror story. But if it doesn’t invoke an emotion of horror at some point, then perhaps we have insulated ourselves against its gritty reality. Our story is not one divorced from the terrors of human history, but one that is grounded in a specific time and place, yet for all people in all times and places. And that one place, like all places, is a place where horror dwells.

It’s no wonder that the lights go out on Good Friday. Horror loves the dark.

A Lenten Reflection for March 22, 2013

Then Jesus told them plainly, “Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.” Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” (John 11:14-16)

Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. (John 11:21)

Jesus began to weep. (John 11:35)


The story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead is a deeply emotional one. Lazarus and his sisters were not just faces in a crowd—they were Jesus’ friends. It seems odd to us, at first, that Jesus waited to go to Bethany where the family lived, but perhaps he knew that it was too late, since it would take two days to get there. Jesus also knew what he was about to do, so he wasn’t in a panic.

Nevertheless, he encounters deep pain when he arrives. Jesus enters into the family’s grief, even though he knows that Lazarus will be returned to them.

Jesus was not a magician who performed medical parlor tricks for the crowds. In every act of ministry he revealed the true face of God, the God who was Emmanuel—God is with us. Jesus was profoundly with the people in their pain and suffering. And so he wept.

Martha was only partially right in what she said to Jesus. Yes, he could have prevented Lazarus from dying at that time. But at some point death would claim him just as it would claim others. And just as it would claim Jesus.

Was Jesus weeping because his friends grieved? Or did he weep because he knew that death remained an inevitability for all? Yes, in his coming death and resurrection, death would be defeated in that it would be revealed that death did not have the last word for human beings. Still, it would come to all.

Thomas (who is unfortunately labeled by tradition as “the doubter”) made a significant theological statement when he insisted that the twelve go with Jesus to die with him. We have come to believe that Jesus’ death was not only unjust and politically motivated, but was also representational. When Jesus died he represented all of Israel, and also the entire world. Jesus would absorb the power of sin and death and take into himself the inevitable end of all human beings. And in his death, in a very important way, God would endure suffering and death.

I wonder if Jesus still weeps? Yes, he has come through death and into resurrection, just as we hope for ourselves. But does he still weep as death cuts it swath over the fields of humans that suffer under its effect? In his place of exaltation with God the Father, is his joy constantly lubricated with his tears?

If he is truly Emmanuel, if he is truly with us, then he is with us in all aspects of our lives.

And perhaps he still weeps.

A Lenten Reflection for March 13, 2013

“Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away; for I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me.” (John 6:37-38)

There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and of death. For God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do: by sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh, and to deal with sin, he condemned sin in the flesh . . . (Romans 8:1-3)


Our story of faith seems to move from the singular to the plural, from the particular to the universal. It moves from Abram to his descendants to all the families of the earth; it moves from Moses to the Hebrew slaves to the nation of Israel; it moves from Jesus to his followers to the church and to the world.

Paul tells us that Jesus came deal with sin. John tells us that Jesus came to be the savior of the world (1 John 4:14). The issue of sin moves easily from the particular to the universal and back again. Sin may be about me, but it’s about me in the context of us.

When we read the narratives of the gospels, it is a bit shocking to see how this dealing with sin comes about for Jesus. It comes about by sin having its way with him. The story culminates in sin winning the day, parading Jesus’ perfect, broken body around like a macabre trophy. Sin wins and Jesus suffers and dies.

I suppose that’s part of the reflective lament of the season of Lent. We hover over the passion narrative and watch tragedy unfold. This one sent as savior of the world, whose words and works rolls across the cracked and wounded skin of Israel like a healing salve, is suddenly despised by his own people and brutally, shamefully, executed. Somehow, in that sad drama, Jesus deals with sin.

It isn’t just that Jesus takes my sin and your sin away. It’s that Jesus allows the systemic, violent sin of the world to focus its fury on him on a particular day in a particular point in human history. In that particularity, in and through Jesus, God takes both sin and death into himself. He doesn’t heap sin and death on us; he embraces them willingly in order to rip out their teeth and ultimately destroy them.

We don’t see the turning of the tables until Easter. Yes, sin and death win on Friday. But their power is unraveled on Sunday. Yes, in the world there is still sin and, yes, we will still die. But neither sin nor death gets the last word in the story. God’s word is the last word.

And his word is Jesus.

A Lenten Reflection for February 23, 2013

See, I am setting before you today a blessing and a curse: the blessing, if you obey the commandments of the Lord your God that I am commanding you today; and the curse, if you do not obey the commandments of the Lord your God, but turn from the way that I am commanding you today, to follow other gods that you have not known. (Deuteronomy 11:26-28)

In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to the one who was able to save him from death, and he was heard because of his reverent submission. Although he was a Son, he learned obedience through what he suffered; and having been made perfect, he became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him . . . (Hebrews 5:7-9)


Everyone knows that, when God hears your prayer, the prayer gets answered, right? As Moses declared, obedience to God results in blessing, and turning away becomes a curse. It makes sense, especially when you remember that God loves us.

Of course, God loved Jesus when he prayed. The writer of Hebrews refers to Jesus as an obedient Son, one whose prayers were heard because of his reverent submission. Jesus offered those prayers “with loud cries and tears.” Why? Because he knew he was facing horrific suffering and death. And “the one who was able to save him from death” heard those prayers.

And Jesus still suffered and died. Not the answer I would have expected.

Most of us would prefer a quid pro quo relationship with God, a kind of trade off of goods and services. In exchange for my obedience and reverence, God offers blessing and answers to prayers. Right answers to prayers, I might add. If I pray for a great job, I don’t want a mediocre job. If I pray that my car will magically start after it breaks down, I don’t want to see it hauled off by a tow truck.

And if I pray to escape suffering and death, I don’t want to suffer and die.

But Jesus accepted his suffering and death as the answer to his prayer, and then went willingly to the cross. While dying he identified his ravaged body with the people of Israel and even asked his Father to forgive the ones who had orchestrated his death. His final words were ones that continued to reflect reverent submission: “In your hands I commit my spirit.”

Jesus apparently recognized that struggling with God in prayer didn’t necessarily result in getting one’s way. My obedience isn’t rule-keeping, but instead is participation with God and his mission in the world. My prayer might be about trading participation for self-interest. In those instances it might be that the answer is an uncomfortable—even painful—realignment with what God is doing.

I think I have a lot to learn about prayer.

The Day of the Second Death

On the Friday of Holy Week, evil has its way. The forces that seek power, domination, and predictability have carried the day, silencing the one who challenged their dominance.

On the Saturday of Holy Week it is apparent that death, too, has had its way. Jesus lies cold in a donated tomb, inhabiting the space that all people will ultimately occupy. The grave makes commoners of us all, giving no preference to any in the end. Jesus, it appears, was just another good person who met the same end as all other people.

And Saturday is a silent day, a day of grief, a day that marks the loss of hope.

In some Hispanic cultures, there is an annual celebration called El Dia de los Muertos—The Day of the Dead. Amidst all the celebration and candy skeletons and music, there is a core purpose to this day. It is a day to remember the loved ones who have preceded us to the grave.

People in these cultures sometimes say that they celebrate this day because there are three deaths. The first is when your body stops functioning and you breathe your last. The second is when your body is lowered into the ground and you are buried.

The third death is when you are forgotten.

Holy Saturday is a second-death day. For some, it is the day that the challenge to religious, political, and military dominance is buried. For others, it is the day that hope and wonder find their place in the grave. For still others, it is the day that another nuisance is covered with dirt and the process of forgetting begins so that everything can return to normal.

But on this second-death day, Jesus takes normal to the grave with him.

The players in this ancient drama all stand in the same place. Their world is now one without Jesus. While some rejoice and others mourn, they all await the third death. They all know that their memories will ultimately decline. And with that third death, all will affirm that the grave does, indeed, have the last word.

And on the third day, there will be a third death, as memory begins its decay like the organisms that slowly consume a corpse.

And on the third day, there will be a third death . . .

And on the third day . . .

A Good Friday Reflection on Death

Why does anyone have to die?

The obvious answer is that all people must ultimately die. The joyful celebration of birth is always shadowed by the grim reality of death. For every new human life that appears, a corresponding grave will be dug. The end of life is a surety, and it is guaranteed that each will have a trajectory of its own.

But the general and abstract acceptance of death is not what really troubles us. It is the death of someone who matters, someone we have come to love and value. It is the death of a cherished person that tears at our hearts and causes us to ask,
Why this one? Does this death mean something?

We look for meaning in death because we have a difficult time believing that death just happens. We project intentions and purposes onto God in order to explain why our loved one left us too soon, why thousands were swept away by natural disasters, why a person who has contributed generously to others would suffer a wasting disease and then disappear from our midst. We look for answers when we experience these losses, and the rationales offered by well-meaning (and not so well-meaning) people do not generally bring comfort.

It is common for people of faith to attempt theological responses to these questions. Some of these answers suggest things about God that might cause us to wonder if this God is different than Jesus described as the one “who so loved the world” (John 3:16), or as the one characterized in First John as the very essence of love (1 John 4:7-8). We sometimes hear of a God who allows a beloved child to die so that the family will learn some important lessons, or that the death of thousands by tsunami or earthquake is a result of God’s retributive wrath, or that God has in mind a greater good that requires the taking of a human life. These responses are often the product of a narrative that is unable to tolerate mystery or to accept the randomness of evil and suffering.

In Luke chapter 13 there is a scene involving some people who ask Jesus about the deaths of some local Jews—one violent episode that occurred at the hands of the local Roman governor, and another tragic accident involving the collapse of a tower. Jesus’ response suggests that his questioners were looking for the meaning behind the tragedies:

He asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? . . . Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?” (Luke 13:2-4)

Jesus refuses to assign to these losses the deeper meaning that his questioners desire. He merely tells them, in effect, that they too should watch their steps.

It is difficult for us to imagine that the God of the Bible—the God who is filled with love and mission and purpose—would allow anything to occur without reason. After all, either God is in control or he is not. All things must have meaning, otherwise we would be living in a random, chaotic universe, and our lives—lives that we have come to believe are precious to God—are subject to forces that are not God. We have trouble with this, and so we should. Rarely can we get away from the conviction that the cause of something has to be related to its meaning.

That people will one day die is a scientific certainty that we can affirm. It is the art that confounds us—in the deaths that matter to us, there has to be some kind of meaning.

There is a theme that the Bible appears to embrace: We humans live in a dangerous, broken world. The desire of God—that all of creation would live in open, unhindered relationship with him—has been countered by humanity’s preference for other things. By our own devices we have opened ourselves to all that the forces of the universe can deliver: Natural disasters, hostile environs, the horrors of human sin, the fear of death. In the end we find only the conviction that this state of affairs is not as it should be. There is clearly something wrong with the world.

When it comes to Jesus, the question of his death has fueled theological debates for centuries. The death of one so important, one so pivotal in our perception of human history, cannot easily be explained away as another random and tragic occurrence, especially since there is resurrection to follow. We long for reasons and our reasons craft our theologies about what it means to find the new life that we believe defines us as the people of God. What we conclude about this particular death matters because it speaks significantly about how we see the character of God, his mission in the world, and his destiny for the human race and all of creation.

Holy Week is a time when we reimagine the story in fresh and new ways and rehearse it within our ancient traditions. My hope is that we would continue to wonder and marvel at this great mystery that we have come to call The Atonement, seeing it not merely as a theological concept but also as a living reality that defies our categories and unravels our attempts at simplification. It is also a story that must continue to be told.

(This is an excerpt from Atonement at Ground Zero: Revisiting the Epicenter of Faith, to be released in late 2012 (Wipf and Stock Publishers)

The Journey to Atonement

I have written a book that should be published sometime in the Spring. The title is Atonement at Ground Zero: Revisiting the Epicenter of Salvation. Here are some thoughts from the introduction:

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That people will one day die is a scientific certainty that we can affirm. It is the art that confounds us—in the deaths that matter to us, there has to be some kind of meaning.

There is a theme that the Bible appears to embrace: We humans live in a dangerous, broken world. The desire of God—that all of creation would live in open, unhindered relationship with him—has been countered by humanity’s preference for other things. By our own devices we have opened ourselves to all that the forces of the universe can deliver: Natural disasters, hostile environs, the horrors of human sin, the fear of death. In the end we find only the conviction that this state of affairs is not as it should be. There is clearly something wrong with the world.

When it comes to Jesus, the question of his death has fueled theological debates for centuries. The death of one so important, one so pivotal in our perception of human history, cannot easily be explained away as another random and tragic occurrence, especially since there is resurrection to follow. We long for reasons and our reasons craft our theologies about what it means to find the new life that we believe defines us as the people of God. What we conclude about this particular death matters because it speaks significantly about how we see the character of God, his mission in the world, and his destiny for the human race and all of creation.

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It is my hope that, during this season of the church year, we all engage more deeply with the mystery of what God has done in and through Jesus Christ.