Jesus: Talisman, Buffer, or God Incarnate?

I've been thinking about the various roles that we sometimes assign to Jesus.

I was once asked to pray publicly at a non-religious event, with several hundred people in attendance. I ended my prayer with a typical "Amen." Some well-meaning folks there criticized me because I didn't say "In the name of Jesus." I reminded them that my prayer was consistent with the one Jesus taught us in the first place—the one we call The Lord's Prayer. That didn't change any minds.

I do pray in the name of Jesus. But I am sometimes concerned that we tag that line on to the end of our prayers as if it is the amount of postage required to get it to heaven, or that it puts it at the top of God's IN-BOX. "In the name of Jesus" is not a talisman that promises good luck; it is, rather, the framework of all our prayers (and our deeds), whether we utter the words or not. Jesus is not a good-luck charm.

We also occasionally cast Jesus into the role of Buffer. We conclude that God is angry with us because of our sin, and would just as soon destroy us as look at us. Jesus steps into the picture, dies horribly at the demand of God, and now stands between the human race and this rageful deity. It is difficult to see ourselves as the beloved of God, part of the world that God loves, if God actually despises us and would like to kill us. Good thing that Jesus runs interference.

This, too, is a problem.

I tell my students that, when we think about the way to God, we do well to begin here: God is the way to God. We who call ourselves Christians believe that, in Jesus, God has revealed himself in the most tangible, real way possible. In doing so, he has fully identified with our broken, sinful condition and has given all of himself to us, that we might be rescued from a life that is perishing.

In this we see Jesus, not as talisman or buffer, but as the very embodiment of the God who has always loved us, and has always intended to rescue the world from sin and death.

We need a fresh image of Jesus. I know that I do.

The Gods of Washington

I just returned from a five day visit to Washington, DC. It was my first time there, and I loved the city. My wife and I did the typical tours, and I was glad to do that, since my feet started hurting after the second day and the double-decker tour bus became a beloved oasis for us.

After wandering through the grounds of the Capitol building, the memorials, the museums, and other great sites, I wondered how a visitor from a distant planet might interpret the architecture, statues, and engraved quotes that can be found in DC. If our visitor had studied all the religions of planet earth prior to her visit, how would she describe the religious leanings of the US if the nation's capital was her first stop?

I think she would say that, indeed, this nation of America shows itself to be very religious. Many of the engraved quotations reference God. And the architecture and statuaries would suggest an honoring of God—or gods, to be precise. Our visitor might conclude, based on her observations, that America is grounded in the gods of the Greeks and Romans. Those are the most dominant religious symbols in our nation's capital.

The only suggestions of any Abrahamic religions that I saw were in the Holocaust museum.

Maybe if people want refer to the US as a "Christian nation," or at least one that was "Christian" at its inception, they should wander around the National Mall and process what they see. Maybe it would be more accurate to describe the founders of the nation as Enlightenment Progressives, informed and influenced by British Anglicanism. Or something like that.

Don't get me wrong: I don't mean to disparage the nation's beginnings. The people who got this whole enterprise going were amazing people (with regular human faults, to be sure), who shared a grand vision for a new kind of nation, and they risked everything they had to take the plunge into independence. But they were also people of their time, and the Enlightenment formed their thinking in a very significant way. The symbols that were, for the most part, constructed in the 19th century, offer testimony to that way of thinking.

We ought to be careful about tossing around the term "Christian" to characterize the nation (or anything else, for that matter). Christianity's influence and presence has certainly flourished here (not always in good ways), but "Christian" probably isn't a category to which the country might somehow return. A return to our beginnings would probably surprise most of us.

Where was God?

I stood yesterday over the huge bin of shoes, the smell of old leather hanging in the air like a dim memory. A young woman standing near me was weeping. I saw a small shoe among the thousands that the Nazis took from the Jews. It looked about the size that one of my grandsons wears.

The Holocaust Museum in Washington DC provides visitors with a startling, heart-breaking experience. That such a horrific series of evil events could occur in recent history is almost unthinkable, but the museum refuses to let the story die.

People have to ask, after witnessing the accounts of the genocides of World War II: "Where was God?" I asked it a number of times myself. But it occured to me that maybe God was doing what he always does--calling the church and the world to enact his justice, to rescue the oppressed.

Maybe too many weren't listening. Many German leaders--leaders in both the church and the state--listened to Hitler, but not to God. Nations--including the US--shut their ears and refused to take in the persecuted strangers, allowing immigration limits to trump the call to alleviate human suffering and to provide care for the stranger.

Others, however, did listen. Denmark protected its Jewish citizens from Nazi demands. The Dominican Republic took in 100,000 Jewish refugess. Faithful Christians and people of good conscience protected as many as they could, often suffering harsh consequences for their courageous acts of rescue.

I believe that God was at work during that dark time in world history, not only suffering with the oppressed, but also calling out for people to stop the machinery of terror and rescue those targeted by Hitler's insane, murderous schemes.

I wonder what our ears are closed to right now? I wonder what my ears . . .

Would Jesus even vote?

Interesting CNN blog posting regarding how Jesus might vote in the US presidential election.

Here's my take:

Jesus couldn't vote at all. He would need to be a US citizen.

Unless Jesus had papers, he would be deported.

Jesus said that his kingdom was not of this world. In a very cosmic sense, he would be an illegal alien.

If asked his opinion about how to vote, he would probably say something weird like, "Give to Caesar what is Caesar's, and to God what is God's." Really? How impractical.

John Piper and the Tornados

I am puzzled by yesterday’s post on John Piper’s blog. He ascribes to the will of God the devastation by the recent tornados in America’s Midwest. Specifically, he says:

“Jesus rules the wind. The tornados were his.”

Then he closes the blog with a call to aid and generosity:

“You can show your partnership in suffering, and help lift the load, at Samaritan’s Purse” (link supplied).

I don’t get it. God unleashes his wrath against sin and we have to clean up his mess? Why help “lift the load” if this was the work of Jesus? If we ease the suffering that Jesus has inflicted, then aren’t we working against him?

Dr. Piper offers his scriptural analysis regarding God’s will and works of judgment. You can read them for yourself and make your own evaluation. I see this in a different way.

The world in which we live is, and always has been, a dangerous one. Gravity alone accounts for all sorts of pain and suffering. The earth is constantly in turmoil, expressed in earthquakes, tsunamis, storms, and extreme weather patterns. The creatures of the earth—including humans—live, suffer, and die in this violent, dynamic environment, and have been for a very long time.

But ancient theologians, moved by the Spirit of God, saw something different in the intentions of God for all of his creation. The biblical narrative of Genesis 1 and 2 portrays a relationship between God and the created order that is unhindered by sin and death. It reveals the human longing for a world—still a dynamic, dangerous one—in which God’s open presence and constant restorative power does not allow the power and violence of the world to have its way.

In Genesis 3, of course, it all crashes down and the entire creation is subject to the unbridled elements of nature and the power of sin and death. That’s the reality that all people experience in life.

Certainly our story includes judgment and the call to repentance. But does it include God’s random and capricious attacks on human beings in order to remind them that they are a mess? Is God really that way? If so, then I wonder why John would say,

God is light, and in him is no darkness at all. (1 John 1:5b)

Or that Jesus would say,

“God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” (John 3:17)

Yes, there is Sodom and Gomorrah. Yes, there is Ananias and Sapphira. But do those stories constitute the necessity of a God whose character is such that we can expect him to destroy both the guilty and innocent in a random sweep of his hand? Do no faithful Christians ever die in these natural disasters?

The God revealed to us in Jesus is not dark. Mysterious, yes. But not dark and capricious. Jesus shows us the God who takes evil into himself rather than inflicting it upon the world, leaving the interpretation of his violence to theological speculators who seem to have God’s cosmic playbook in hand.

Yes, we live, suffer, and die in a dangerous world. But our hope still lies in the presence and restorative, healing work of God. I believe that our participation in bringing aid to the suffering, as Dr. Piper has rightly encouraged, is participation in the real work of God. His work is redemptive and hopeful rather than violent and inflictive.

We really need to work on this, for ourselves and for the world that hears our stories and wonders about God. You can worship God because you fear he will kill you, or you can worship God because he invites you into his healing love.

Which story is ours?

What is Truth?

In his response to the uproar over Rush Limbaugh’s recent incendiary comments, John J. DeGioia, President of Georgetown University, cited the words of St. Augustine:

“Let us, on both sides, lay aside all arrogance. Let us not, on either side, claim that we have already discovered the truth. Let us seek it together as something which is known to neither of us.”

With the combination of political rhetoric, massive amounts of available information on the Internet (which may or may not be verifiable), the ability to edit Internet-based videos, and number of other assaults on our thinking, truth becomes an elusive prize. Often what we believe is true is what we prefer to be true. Verification is a lot of work. Just because it’s on YouTube doesn’t make it true.

We Christians struggle with the idea of truth. We believe our scriptures to reveal truth, but we draw firm lines when it comes to the language that describes how scripture’s authority is described (infallible, inerrant, authoritative, and so on). We sometimes insist that one descriptor over another must be affirmed in order for orthodox faith to be grasped as true.

We believe that God is source of all truth. We believe Jesus when he says that he is the way, the truth, and the life (John 14:6). Yet we are puzzled when Jesus doesn’t respond to Pilate’s question, “What is truth?” (John 18:38). It might have been helpful if Jesus had supplied a precise definition rather than remaining silent.

To suggest that truth cannot be fully grasped sometimes results in accusations of relativism or postmodern subjectivism. Yet here is one of Christianity’s most profound thinkers telling us that truth must be sought without arrogance, and that it might not yet be known.

We have to be careful about believing that we can fully grasp truth. If we believe that God is the source of all things true, then it has to follow that truth cannot be fully grasped by human beings, since God cannot be fully grasped by us. If we claim to have a hold on the truth (as in our precise theories of the atonement, the authority of scripture, science vs the Bible, and so on), then we might think that we can canonize our views and stop talking to anyone with a different view from ours (except to fight with them). We might also run the risk, having locked down our version of truth, of no longer really needing God. The god of our own perceptions is a sorry replacement.

The people of God have a long history of nailing down their perception of truth and then having to change directions. We are not exempt from that process. As Augustine suggested, the pursuit of truth is something that we do together, in community, and with people who see things differently. That’s a tough business, and it requires humility and civility. And from what we see in public discourse, those two qualities appear to be in short supply.

It occurs to me that, in the Bible, the words “seek” and “truth” often go together.

On Being Right

I had a lively conversation with some of my students yesterday. We talked together about some of the more significant issues that Christian leaders are facing today: Same-sex marriage and ordination, illegal immigration, religious pluralism, and so on. These are issues that were not on the larger cultural table even twenty or thirty years ago, at least to the degree that they are now.

We talked about how we are always struggling with assumptions about what is acceptable, biblical, and right, while at the same time being confronted with principles that create difficult tensions for us. So our faith tradition might, for example, stand in opposition to same-sex marriage. Yet, if a same-sex couple were to approach one of us and ask for help and counsel, would we refuse them? What if their adopted child had been coming to our church with a friend, and the parents later showed up, wondering if they could be part of such a community of faith? What if we lead a church in a California or Arizona border town, where emotions run high regarding illegal immigration, and a family in our neighborhood—a family without proper US documentation—needs help, do we reach out or turn away because of their illegal status? Either way, do we feel an obligation to turn them in to the authorities?

These are not random, hypothetical questions. They happen. And without deep, theological reflection, we run the risk of sacrificing human beings on altars of rightness. The tensions are not insignificant, and Christian leaders need more than a list of rules in order to respond with integrity.

Here’s a precedent from the Bible. The rule for the first followers of Jesus was that, in order to enter into this new life and to receive the Holy Spirit, a person had to become part of the Jewish community. It made sense: Jesus and the disciples were Jewish, they were all in Israel, Jesus said that he came for his own people, and so on. But when the Holy Spirit fell upon a group of Gentiles in Antioch, a tension was created. Now the rules were crashing against a new reality that involved real human beings and the apparent work of God. The early Christians struggled with this, and the former rule of ethnic affiliation ultimately gave way to the new principle of God’s intentions for the world (see Acts 10-11).

We need to think a lot about where we begin with people. There is a tendency for us (and with most people) to put others in categories (gay, illegal, divorced, apostate, etc.) and react with sets of rules that keep things orderly. That way, we can end with things left in tact (this didn’t work for the earliest Christians, who found their whole world turned upside down when the Spirit fell on the Gentiles). Rather than begin in those categorical places of “sin” (as if we don’t fit in any of those categories), we might consider beginning with other people as co-humans made in the image of God, co-sinners seeking new life. That place of commonality changes our assumptions about others and draws us into the recognition of God’s common grace (as my Reformed friends might say) to us.

Along with Peter and the early Church leaders, we must hold loosely to our rules. After all, the people of God have a long and chronicled history of getting things wrong. We are not exempt from that.

Learning from Mormons

I read an article this morning about the late Daniel Pearl's baptism-by-proxy, performed by some Mormons in Idaho. I knew that baptism of the dead was a common practice by Mormons, but I never knew what was behind it.

It appears, at least according to this article, that their goal is that all people will be redeemed. Saved. So they baptize the dead—even non-Mormons like Daniel Pearl—so that the world might be saved.

While I'm not advocating for Mormon doctrines, I am intrigued by this. Evangelicals preach the gospel so that some will be saved (depending on how they view things like election, predestination, and God's mission in the world). Mormons baptize the dead so that all will be saved. I guess they figure that as long as they keep up the family research work that they do and respond to the requests to baptize the dead, they'll always be in that business.

Maybe there is something for we evangelicals to learn here. We too often draw sharp lines about who is in and who is out, as if we have laid claim to the guest register at Hotel Heaven. We've created very precise requirements about what makes a person acceptable to God (we say that it's faith in Jesus, but we sometimes include the accuracy of the confession, doctrinal affirmations, and even political preferences in the mix). The Mormons don't seem too concerned about those kinds of things. They just baptize the dead willy-nilly, with the intent of helping them live forever in the place of God's intention. So maybe it's a practice that people like me don't buy, but there's still something behind it worth considering.

And it isn't universalism, just so you know. Unless we're talking about the universal nature of God's love, and the universal reach of his mission in the world, and the universal call for the people of God to bring blessing to all the families of the earth (Genesis 12:1-2). That's the kind of universalism I can affirm.

I'm not particularly interested in baptizing the dead, but like Daniel Pearl's mother graciously commented, I think that the Mormons have good intentions. Perhaps we might learn that we can baptize the living with love, prayer, blessing, care, service, hope, and direction. We should certainly preach the gospel, but not absent of demonstration. The evidence of the kingdom of God's present reality is seen in people and communities of faith that demonstrate the reality of the kingdom.

We need to express our own good intentions.

Stumbling Toward the Cross

As we draw nearer to Holy Week, I am sharing another excerpt from my book Atonement at Ground Zero: Revisiting the Epicenter of Salvation (to released in the Spring 2012).

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It should be no mystery that human beings are drawn to the idea of atonement. After all, it would be the rare person who would not agree that there is something wrong with the world and, by association, with all people. As Christian thinkers throughout the ages have wrestled with atonement theory, the looming realities of evil, guilt, and shame have demanded their attention. Various cultures have sought to appease their deities with sacrifices and rituals; Christians have tried to understand how it is that Jesus takes care of everything for us. In this book I have tried to explore that understanding primarily through the experiences of those present at or near the time of Jesus’ death.

None of those present at the ground zero of Jesus’ crucifixion would have divorced him from the life that led to the cross. His death was not an isolated theological event but rather an explosive, mind-numbing experience that translated quickly into joy, hope, and mission. Even those who did not know Jesus before the crucifixion—such as many among the gathered crowds and the executioners—would have seen a real, live human being dragged to the cross and nailed down like a wind-blown shutter. For all present, Jesus’ death was tied intimately to his life.

During a class session in systematic theology, my seminary professor—a man not shy about stirring up controversy—asked the question, “If, in the garden of Gethsemane, under the great stress of anticipating his impending arrest and crucifixion, Jesus died of a heart attack, would he have died for our sins?” I didn’t immediately know how to answer his question, but I expected a lively and spirited class discussion to explode any second. I was not disappointed.

My professor was not attempting to disparage the reality of the cross. Rather, he was attempting to get us to think about the implications of the incarnation. If, indeed, in Jesus the fullness of God dwelt (Col 1:19); if, indeed, Jesus is the Word made flesh (John 1:14), then God has done something in and through the entirety of Jesus’ existence on earth that defies complete and full comprehension. The cross is not God’s cosmic gamble, his hope-against-hope that Jesus doesn’t miss his opportunity for crucifixion; the cross is the penultimate event in the life of the one who became “. . . like his brothers and sisters in every respect” (Heb 2:17a), yet an event that was ultimately turned on its head by Jesus’ resurrection.

While the separating of Jesus’ crucifixion from the full story of his preceding life and subsequent resurrection is faulty theology, it would be no less faulty to treat his death as an event that was incidental because of its human inevitability. We are helped when we remember that we are not asked to come to grips with the man Jesus who is sacrificed by God for the purpose of God’s satisfaction, but rather with the Son . . . “whom [God] appointed heir of all things, through whom he also created the worlds. He is the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being” (Heb 1:2b-3a).

Atonement theory stumbles when it separates the Father from the Son and pits them against each other in a tragic and violent relationship of appeasement. When the Son becomes a perfect, sacrificial other who brings satisfaction to the transcendent God who demands such a requirement, then our understanding of the depth of relationship that is shared by the Father and Son suffers from abuse. While the relationship of the eternal Father to the suffering and dying Son raises questions about the nature of God, creating a chasm between the Father and Son that is bridged only by the Son’s death is a solution grounded more in the concept of blind western justice than in the doctrine of the Trinity.

Not of this world

In the March 5 issue of TIME, Jon Meacham offers an interesting take on faith (Christianity in particular) and politics ("A Time to Compromise"). He writes,

". . . The ferociously religious are doing religion no favors at the moment, and it's beginning to feel as though we may need to save faith from the extreme pronouncements of the faithful. Believers should remember that when he was on trial before Pontius Pilate, Jesus said his kingdom was not of this world. It still isn't."

I agree with Meacham, if what he means by "it still isn't" is that the kingdom to which Jesus refers does not have its origins among the kingdoms of the world. It's not that the kingdom of God is of another world or sphere (like Mars or Heaven), but rather that it does not share, at its heart, a competitive commonality with other kingdoms.

At the time when Pilate was interrogating Jesus (see John 18), the power and domination of the Roman Empire was a present reality. That empire shared much in common with other empires (like the Babylonians and Persians who came before): Domination, acquisition, and forced acculturation. Jesus, however, says that his kingdom does not originate with the others.

Jesus proclaimed the present and impending reality of God's kingdom by teaching through parables and explaining how different God was from the characterizations of the religious elite. He demonstrated the authenticity of the kingdom by casting out demons, raising the dead, and healing the sick. In both proclamation and demonstration he showed that the kingdom of God is like no other. The kingdom of God brings the desires and intentions of God to bear in the real world, deflating the power of evil and death. Yes, there is power in this kingdom, but not the kind that is seen in other kingdoms. It is the power to set all things right, and not just in one country.

I wonder if we American Christians are getting this mixed up. There's too much rhetoric out there that suggests that the kingdom of America (as some wish it would be) is somehow concurrent with the kingdom of God. But America, as unique and fine a place as it can be, is still a kingdom of this world. The kingdom of God transcends all kingdoms, including this one.

We don't help our country by either hating it or deifying it. We help it by seeing it clearly, warts and all. We who follow Jesus also proclaim and demonstrate the reality of God's kingdom when we live faithfully, speak truthfully, care compassionately, and suffer willingly. Political power and domination are not our missions in the world, but they are the context in which we live out the realities of God's kingdom.

When Catholics and Evangelicals are reduced to a voting block; when Christianity is viewed as a religious philosophy that must be forcibly injected into society; when the language of power and control replace the words of compassion and justice; then we may have mixed up our kingdoms. And calling the work of God something that it isn't is to stand on dangerous ground. It should be sacred ground that we seek.

The kingdom of God may not be of this world, but it is still at hand.

God help us.

New Requirements and New Enemies

As the GOP continues its journey toward a presidential nominee, I've observed some new requirements for a candidate's acceptability and some enemies that we apparently need to fear.

Here are the new requirements:

A candidate must be able to

1. Prove to be the most conservative of all.

The Republican candidates have dueled over this requirement, as if the most desirable brand of conservatism is the one that is furthest away from the center. There are certainly important things to conserve, and I would think that an open table of debate would be one of them. I'm unclear about how fighting over who's the most conservative accomplishes that.

2. Endorse a faith system that is the most acceptable to the evangelical voting block.

Rick Santorum seems to be doing well in this one. It's interesting to me that when John F. Kennedy was running for office, people feared that a Roman Catholic would allow the US to be run by the Vatican. Now the fear seems to be transferred to the Temple in Salt Lake City. What would we have done if Joe Lieberman had become President? Would it have been Tel Aviv or Yahweh in charge? Would Joe's faith have been enough for evangelicals?

Here are the new enemies:

1. Moderates.

From what I've been hearing, the Liberals are not the only enemy to fear. Now the Moderates are under suspicion. Is it now undesirable to have someone in office who serves the entire country? Standing firmly in one extreme or the other is better, right? Bad, bad Moderates.

2. Candidates who can't make us evangelicals happy.

Disturbingly, we evangelicals (whoever we really are) come off as a grumpy bunch. The Bible says a lot about joy (the kind that is grounded in Jesus, not the kind that is the result of getting what we want), and it appears that our joy is complete when we get the right candidate in office. So we seem to demand a candidate that bellies up to the bar and meets our demands (and, as one Christian leader has suggested, to awaken "the sleeping giant" of Christianity).

I get worried about this sort of thing. I would hope that USAmerican Christians (and it's a pretty diverse bunch, hardly unified sufficiently to be a sleeping giant) would continue to press upon issues that need to be addressed in our country—like poverty, injustice, immigration—without characterizing ourselves as a powerful political force that can make or break elections.

Isn't our vocation as followers of Jesus different from that? Or is the term "evangelical" now indistinguishable from "conservative Republican?"

I'm not suggested that "liberal Democrat" or "moderate whatevers" would be better. I'm suggesting that we American Christians—particularly the most vocal evangelicals—slow down and revisit the true vocation of followers of Jesus. That's a label that should stand on its own.

"It is not so among you."

A little over a year ago I taught a course at Tabor College in Adelaide, Australia. At one point I brought up the topic of nationalism—the equating of Christian faith with national interests and values—and the class members laughed. They said that Australians would never put up a national flag in their churches or equate faith with politics, and that nationalism must be a distinctive American phenomenon.

Maybe they were right.

According to CNN, Newt Gingrich was the morning speaker yesterday at First Redeemer Church in Cumming, Georgia. A glimpse at the church's website shows a strong emphasis on both Christian faith and a particular brand of American patriotism. Mr. Gingrich was invited to the 10:30 service to "share his testimony" (as stated in the "Events" section of the church's website). According to the CNN report, however, the message carried a bit more than a testimony—it seemed to include a call to arms. You can read the report for yourself and draw your own conclusions.

The call for Christians to stand strong and firm is truly a biblical call and permeates the New Testament texts. It is not, however, a call to political power, but rather a call to stand firm in Jesus Christ, to hold to faith and confidence in him. It is a call to resist evil, religious slavery, and capitulation to forces—including those of the ruling empire—that might seek to destroy the faith. It is a call to suffer and, on occasion, die in the process of living faithfully to Jesus. But it isn't a call to political power or domination.

In Mark 10, when James and John reveal their misunderstanding about Jesus, and ask for positions of power when he embraces his full Messianic role, expels the Romans, and restores Israel to its glory, Jesus tells them that they don't even know what they're asking. They're completely off track. And when the other disciples get angry at the request of the two brothers (probably because they didn't think to ask first), Jesus makes this astounding statement:

“You know that among the Gentiles those whom they recognize as their rulers lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. But it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.” (Mark 10:42-45)

I'm not advocating for political passivity. But I believe we need to stop and think very carefully before we start rattling our religious sabers and organizing ourselves in such a way that we cease to be the people of God (who exist for the sake of the world) and devolve into a voting block that wields political power.

It is not so among us. Or, at least, it shouldn't be.

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:

—

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.

—

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.

We Need The Table of Jesus

A couple of years ago I wrote a book about the Lord’s Supper, titled Shadow Meal: Reflections on Eucharist. After doing some speaking engagements on the book and trying to promote it (as authors have to do), I discovered something interesting:

It was more attractive to Catholics than to Protestants.

This is strange to me because the book is both personal and theological. It’s about my own journey as someone raised up in low church (as in non-liturgical/non-sacramental), trying to figure out why the Lord’s Supper has meaning. Richard Mouw, President of Fuller Theological Seminary, was kind enough to write the foreword, and in it he spoke of his own similar journey. It seems that I’m not alone.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the word Eucharist. It’s a very un-Protestant word, and maybe was off-putting to some. Even though it means Communion, or the Lord’s Supper, we Protestants don’t use the word as much as do our Catholic friends. But I’m thinking these days that we need to put it on again, and start exploring why the Lord’s Supper is still important for the church. And I don’t mean in the age-old debates about the nature of the bread and wine.

I mean the nature of the table of Jesus.

I believe that we who follow Jesus need a revitalized theology of The Table. I think it would help all of our arguments about doctrine, sexuality, gender, and all the other topics that divide and alienate us from one another. There are reasons, I believe, that a new theology of The Table might help us:

We don’t get to say who comes to dine. The invitation comes from Jesus, and he characteristically invites scandalous people to join him.

At The Table, all are side by side, shoulder to shoulder, allowing their humanness to physically engage. That’s why we ought to share the elements of Eucharist in a setting where we stand or kneel together.

When we consume bread and wine, we share together the most common activity of people: Eating. All must eat to live, and the need for nourishment transcends socio-economic status, ethnicity, gender, and politics.

And at The Table, we shed all of our pretenses and illusions of superiority because we are suddenly laid bare: We all need Jesus, and it is only Jesus who sustains us.

After that, we can re-engage in all of our debates. But I believe they will be different, once having dined at Jesus’ table, responding to his summons to come together to share his body and blood.

We need a new theology of The Table.

Ash Wednesday Reflection

He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.’ But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” (Luke 18:9-14)

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. . . (Hebrews 12:1-2b)

Pursue peace with everyone, and the holiness without which no one will see the Lord. (Hebrews 12:14)


I worry about how the large and diverse category of people commonly known as “evangelicals” are perceived by the larger world. At its heart, the word evangelical describes a value placed on the proclamation and demonstration of the good news of the kingdom of God (the word evangelical comes from a Greek word that means good news).

Too often, however, the perception is of bad news rather than of good.

When a body of people is perceived to be characterized by power (as in being viewed as a block of voters that dare not be crossed by politicians) and protest (as in being against many things such as Muslims, gays and lesbians, liberals, and so on), then the characterization is different than being the people of God for the sake of the world.

Jesus claims that humility is to be valued over power and self-righteousness. The parable suggests that the Pharisee had a false perception of himself, but the tax collector (not a popular figure in first-century Jewish culture) saw himself clearly. It was in this painful clarity of sight that he entered into humility.

Could it be that “the sin that clings so closely” includes redefining what it means to follow Jesus, and turning that new life into something that God never intended? Could it be that we’ve lost our way? Have we traded humility for power, and blessing for protest?

Can we really experience holiness without pursuing peace with everyone?

A Christian Response to Alarming Issues

We Christians, especially in the US, don’t do well with alarming issues (and in an election year, alarms are going off everywhere). Whether the issue is same-sex marriage, immigration (illegal or otherwise), or any other lightning-rod topic, we tend to react emotionally and then side with our preferred political camp which we think will solve all the problems if just given enough power.

As the Old Testament prophet Isaiah wondered about the people who worshipped idols of their own making:

“No one stops to think.” (Isaiah 44:19)

We do need to stop and think. And it is Jesus who can help us with this.

In Matthew 5, part of what we call “The Sermon on the Mount,” Jesus holds up a mirror so that people can see themselves with new clarity:

“You have heard that is was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not murder’. . . But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister . . .” (5:21-22)

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart.” (5:27-28)

The mirror is held up and we see ourselves standing alongside the murderers, sharing with them the same heart of anger.

The mirror is held up and we find that we are in league with the adulterers, our single heart of lust beating as one.

Should our conversations and debates about current issues start in any other way? Do we solve our problems when we only know how to divide the human race into us and them?

When it is said that gays and lesbians live outside of God’s intentions for human sexuality, perhaps we can begin the discussion by first holding up a mirror and seeing ourselves in our own broken relationships and distorted sexual expressions and fantasies.

When illegal immigrants are described in terms that make them sound less than human, we can enter the conversation by holding up a mirror and seeing ourselves as co-humans, made in the image of God, trying to find our way in a tragic world.

In this way, we see that there is only us.

Certainly there are legitimate issues to be resolved, and I am not advocating that we all roll over and play dead for every new cultural demand that comes our way. But I am advocating that we begin these things in the way of Jesus. And his way always exposes our own hearts.

Children and Free Will

People were bringing little children to him in order that he might touch them; and the disciples spoke sternly to them. But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them, “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” And he took them up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them. (Mark 10:13-16)

This is another text of scripture that will be explored in the retreat I’ll be leading tomorrow. Again, it’s a familiar story, and I’m doing my usual thing of attempting to shed my preconceived ideas and conclusions about it in order to hear something new.

This is another one of those rather cryptic accounts of Jesus speaking of the kingdom of God, which he mostly did through parables and comparisons (hadn’t he ever heard of systematic theology? What’s this story business?). The people wanted their children blessed by this new and engaging rabbi, and so they brought them, and Jesus took the opportunity to drop some more hints about God’s kingdom

I notice that the children didn’t just take it upon themselves to connect with Jesus. Instead, they were guided to him, escorted to him. They didn’t simply make the right decision for themselves; someone else took the initiative on their behalf, and then the kids participated in the process.

When it comes to God’s kingdom, maybe we give this whole free will thing too much weight. After all, our wills aren’t really all that free. They’re formed and framed by all kinds of outward forces throughout our lives. Our wills are not pure, objective mechanisms. So, if receiving the kingdom is like what was happening for those children, then maybe it’s not so much about getting everything right and making the correct choices, but more about responding to God’s initiative on our behalf, to summon us, guide us, escort us to the threshold of his kingdom. We won’t be forced in, but we are led nonetheless.

Maybe some of the kids shied away from Jesus, or put up a fuss like children sometimes do (think of the various reactions that children have to department store Santas). But they all got blessed, just the same—the obedient ones, the responsive ones, the fussy ones, the rebellious ones, the well-scrubbed ones, the stinky ones. All of them.

I wonder whatever happened to those kids. What did their lives look like 20 or thirty years down the road? When Jesus touches and blesses you, what kind of person do you become? What does that do to your so-called free will?

Reflections on Martha

Now as they went on their way, [Jesus] entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:38-42)

I’m going to be leading a one-day retreat on Saturday, and this is one of the texts that will inform our time together. I’ve been meditating on these words, and have come up with a new conclusion:

Martha gets a bad rap.

Not from Jesus, however. Most sermons I’ve heard on the text pit Martha against here sister Mary. Mary chose “the better part,” while Martha was busy with her tasks. Mary is devoted, while Martha is a legalist. Good Mary. Bad Martha.

But I don’t think that’s what is going on here. First of all, it’s Martha who welcomes Jesus into her home (note: Never, never do this with a vampire. Once you’ve invited one of them into your home, you are done for. Just a tip). It appears that Martha is delighted to have Jesus in the household, and she gets busy in the way that is characteristic for a person who is wired for hospitality.

At the risk of being extra-biblical (like that’s my most feared accusation), I’ve often wondered if Luke edited the conversation more than we realize. Maybe it went more like this:

Jesus: “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”

Martha: “Okay, fine, Jesus. I’ll join Mary at your feet and then you can get your own lunch.”

Jesus: “Um, that’s not exactly what I meant.”

We’ll never know what other discussions took place, but it’s clear to me that Martha didn’t choose what was less than “better” because her work of hospitality was out of line. The issue that Jesus points to is her distraction and worry, both of which served to extract her from engaging with Jesus. Mary chose the “better part” (note: it was the better part, not the only part) because being with Jesus was the one thing that was truly needed.

Martha’s hospitality is not the issue here. Her worry and distraction were the things not needed. They were clearly less than the “better” that Mary chose.

I hope that the story went on with Martha joining her sister at Jesus’ feet, and then everyone getting up to make lunch together. Maybe Jesus even helped to dry the dishes.

On Thinking Rightly

Of all the battles than can be fought in the world, battles over how people think are the most curious. It is an election year in the US, so candidates are currently blasting one another for the way they think about national issues. Christian-Evangelicals in the US (not the voting-block evangelicals, but rather the religious evangelicals, although there is a distressing overlap with the two) routinely assassinate one another’s character when someone claims to think in new ways about God’s love (as in Bell vs Piper) or challenges traditional ideas about God’s nature (as in the Open Theists vs Classical Theists).

It seems that in the US Christian-Evangelical world, we don’t very often sit across the table from one another and talk through our differences and come away as brothers and sisters. Instead, we have a tendency to condemn from afar, dismiss one another from our fellowships, and threaten our respective careers. At least we’ve knocked off the whole burning-at-the-stake thing, although it all comes from the same kind of heart.

It’s interesting how Jesus dealt with his detractors. His opponents, of course, sought to malign and then kill him for claiming that God was different than they had assumed. But Jesus’ response to them was different. Yes, he chastised them, called them “vipers,” and made them the butts of some of his parabolic jokes.

Take the Sadducees, for example. These were the guys who didn’t believe in the resurrection of the dead. They were clearly at odds with Jesus (and with the Pharisees, who were pro-resurrection), and when they tried to trip him up with goofy resurrection hypotheticals, he set them straight. But he didn’t condemn them to hell for their wrong thinking. In fact, as I recall, when Jesus was harsh with the religious leaders in general, it was because of hypocrisy and their lack of care for the poor.

It was these wrong-thinking religious types who orchestrated Jesus’ death. And yet, when Jesus was dying, he prayed the most unusual prayer:

“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” (Luke 23-34)

Jesus asks his heavenly Father to forgive the ones who (a) believed wrongly, and (b) were in the act of committing murder. Those people didn’t ask for God’s forgiveness, but Jesus asked on their behalf.

Are they with him now?

Is God really that generous with us?

Evil Wins?

There’s been a lot of blogging activity generated lately about Hell, especially since writers like N. T. Wright, Rob Bell, and Rachel Held Evans (I’m just finishing her book, Evolving in Monkey Town – I highly recommend it) have questioned some of the traditional views about the topic. I know it’s risky even bringing up the subject, since asking questions like these often results in accusations of heresy or universalism. Nevertheless, I’d like to add a question.

If what some people say about Hell—its tortuous environment, its isolation from God, its hopelessness, its eternality—is all true, then in the end, does evil win? Rob Bell says that Love Wins, and I think he’s on to something. But if others are right, then doesn’t evil win as well?

Maybe Satan and his minions don’t conquer God, but in some scenarios he gets his own kingdom in the end. Evil doesn’t get destroyed after all—it just gets its own eternal territory. In that everlasting house of horrors, evil has its way with all who have not qualified for Heaven, either because they prayed wrongly (or not at all), they believed wrongly (or not at all), they were born on the wrong side of the planet or at the wrong time in history, or because they were just hideous and evil in their crummy 65 years or so on earth. If those are the ways people get damned forever, then one would expect some irony in the smoky gathering in Hades. After all, Hitler (who was clearly hideous and evil) must be there right along with all the Jewish people he slaughtered, since they didn’t believe rightly. Right?

Hell appears to be a place where the heavenly cry in Revelation 21 does not apply. It’s only in the new heaven and the new earth where God “. . .will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away” (Rev 21:4). Not all the first things, of course. Evil gets to stick around. In Hell, evil wins. Forever. And ever. In it’s own private kingdom. And God can’t interfere. Those are the rules.

So does God lose? If you win some and lose some, you still lose something. Right?

In spite of the fact that it is dangerous to question these kinds of things in the evangelical community, I recommend we do it anyway. I’m not suggesting that we acquiesce to our own discomforts or play fast and loose with orthodox faith, but I am suggesting that we re-examine what is orthodox in the first place. Is it ever possible that we might get things wrong?

There is something wrong with our orthodoxy if evil wins in the end.