Kingdoms and Politics

“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done.”

Granted. This post backs up one short phrase from last week’s thoughts on praying for the kingdom to come over all the earth, and not just over our tiny corner thereof. Those who are tracking with me joined in repenting of having such a narrow view of God’s interests. Perhaps we also need to ask what it is we are praying for, and what it is that we too readily accept as substitutes. And at times we lobby harder for the substitutes than we do for the kingdom of God.

There are, of course, many ideas about just how the kingdom of God relates to the kingdoms of this world, some of which are nearer or farther from exhibiting laws and policies that are consistent with the rule of God. Good Christians have long disagreed about the level of involvement in secular government that is appropriate for believers. Do we dig in and make the best of a messy situation, hoping to influence policies in God-honoring ways, or is the very activity of governing so steeped in corruption that we must stay out of it entirely if we are to maintain any sort of integrity as citizens of God’s kingdom? I’ve held both views at different times–and sometimes simultaneously!

But this post is not about finding the right theory of engagement for Christians. It is about thinking wrongly about the prospects of bringing God’s rule through governmental actions and policies; and it is about our apparent belief that getting the right party to control the halls of Congress or the various state houses is where our hopes should lie and toward which our energies should be expended. It is all too common for self-identified Christians to join in political rants that have far more to do with maintaining the power of a chosen party than they do with what measures are good for our common life. Often it is done with very bitter spirits, with venom toward any who disagree, and with an edge of anger and self-preservation unbefitting those who are not their own because they’ve been bought with a great price.

Neither the anger of people, not the policies of a government can achieve the righteousness of God. We look to the wrong places for the solutions to greed, corruption, theft, abuse, violence, and basic unrest and distrust if we think a party can accomplish it if only given its way. His will; His ways. Perhaps, just perhaps, if we focused our minds on the ways of our Lord, and then learned to make his ways more consistently our ways we would have the audience the gospel deserves. We might do well to repent of not making it so in our lives.

It Must Be So: Thoughts on the Second Sunday in Lent

“Get away from me, Satan!”

The gospel lesson for today is Mark 8:31-39, wherein Jesus announces his death and resurrection to his disciples. Peter’s response is not at all surprising: “No way!” To which, of course, Jesus replies with the words above. Matthew’s version of this account includes the stark contrast between the words to Peter after his recognition of the true identity of Jesus and the words after the same Peter’s objection to the very means by which his Lord would become his saviour.

The temptation to want a Christ without the messiness of the crucifixion is ever with us. We want a champion with whom to identify, one who captures the imagination with his incredibly insightful answers for all occasions, who confronts the powers that be, bringing them down to size and exposing their duplicity. We want to be on the winning side when the final buzzer sounds. We like the idea of siding with the weak, the poor, the marginalized, the victims. After all, somehow the world unfolds in such a way that we all tend to think that we have drawn the short straw in one way or another. Things are unjust; someone needs to answer for that, and we find it difficult to rest until we at least know who it is. The idea of a triumphal Christ, one who will bring justice in his arm, set the world to rights (in deference to N. T. Wright), and make the evil doers pay sits well with us. We might even be willing to put up with an inconvenience or two in order to remain on his side. It will all be worth it someday.

But somehow the very cross that makes the promised victory possible doesn’t seem quite so popular among some of his would-be followers. We want Jesus to win the day, but we want him to get on with it on our terms. We want him to fill our hopes, our expectations, our dreams of a utopian world, and we really don’t see the need to be talking about crosses along the way. Such is the implication, sometimes clear and sometimes subtle, when we want our side to win without cost. Jesus already paid it all, right? Let’s not speak of it any longer. And if we must, let us speak of it strictly as history.

The horrific persecution being visited upon our Christian brothers and sisters in other parts of the world might give us pause to reconsider the words of Jesus in a different, more challenging light. Crucifixion was the way of God’s victory over sin. Resurrection completes the accomplishment. And those who come after him are encouraged to take up their cross. Middle East believers in the early twenty-first century are not the first or only ones to know fully how literal that directive from Jesus can sometimes be. And while their sacrifice, along with that of all who have gone before them in similar fashion, does not atone for sin, it does give witness to the way of God’s ultimate victory. Cross, then resurrection.

To demand or desire another way, to insist upon a more palatable way of using the name of Jesus will continue to draw the response that must have stung in Peter’s mind: get out of my way, Satan. Perhaps it’s because we really don’t grasp the depth of our sin problem that we think we can have this champion Jesus without his cross. It’s our problem, and it’s the world’s problem, and it is ours as much as it is the world’s. Whenever we prefer another Lord or kingdom, no matter how good and just it might seem, over the one that comes by way of crucifixion, we are in great peril. And we should repent.

On Earth–All of It: A Lenten Post

And when you pray, pray like this: “. . .Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

How many times have we prayed those words, with varying degrees of sincerity? Those who worship in congregations given to greater use of forms for prayer have said them more frequently than those in supposedly “free” church congregations. But we all know them. This midweek Lenten post focuses on repentance in prayer. Not repenting as a part of our prayer, which is surely to be done, and not repenting for not praying more than we do, but for praying unfaithfully. What is meant by that?

As I have listened to countless calls for prayer requests, the response is almost always the same, no matter where one goes, especially but not exclusively in the evangelical world. Someone’s illness, someone’s surgery, perhaps a bereavement, and maybe even a need for employment or housing for someone known to us. And there is the rub–someone known to us. How often are our prayers limited to requests to God to procure for ourselves or for someone close to us the blessings of health, comfort, and security? To the extent that these good gifts do indeed come down from the Father of Lights, and to the extent they exhibit the kingdom in our midst, we should so pray. But we cannot stop there.

Our prayers will inevitably display the content of our hearts, our dreams, and our desires. They will also make manifest the limits of our vision. The dire straights in which Christians in the Middle East find themselves have begun to shock some people into recognizing that we have it “pretty good” here in the security of the west. And we pray that God will keep it that way, and go on our way, absorbed by the life that is ours in a relatively cozy culture, where we become oblivious to the dangers of that coziness. Meanwhile those whom our Lord declares his brothers and sisters, and who are therefore ours as well, suffer mightily. They are deprived of home, work, and of life itself in all too many cases.

When we pray for the inbreaking of God’s kingdom, do we really ask for it to come to earth, or to our little corner thereof? Does the rule of other powers and authorities bother us if it is not visible to us where we live? Do we desire his rule of to be made manifest where it is most antithetical to what is currently the case? When you pray, when I pray, when our churches pray, let us look with a broader vision of God’s desire for all people, all nations, and especially for those of the household of faith. And let us repent for praying only for the protection of our comfort in a broken world. The next time someone asks for a prayer request, what aspect of “Thy kingdom come” will burn in our hearts so that we must share it with those present?

Lord, I repent of praying unfaithfully. I haven’t meant the whole world when I’ve asked for your rule to come to earth. Enlarge my heart, increase my vision, I pray.

Repentance: Thoughts for the First Sunday in Lent

The Gospel text for the First Sunday in Lent (Mark 1:9-15) doesn’t come from the Passion account of our Lord’s final week before the crucifixion. It comes from the beginning of his public ministry. “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”

Many of us are accustomed to reading this text as saying that there is further good news, that the gospel is something other than what Jesus announced here–the kingdom of God has come near. As a result, we are prone to thinking that the we must supply the missing information, which we do by telling people to confess their sins and ask Jesus to forgive them so that when the kingdom does come, or rather that we go to the kingdom (somewhere) when we die, we will be part of the throng, among the citizens. Well, yes, and no to that idea.

As Scot McKnight has explained quite clearly in The King Jesus Gospel, we haven’t always distinguished between the good news itself–the kingdom of God is coming–and the means by which we enter that kingdom and the nature of our participation therein. The good news, the gospel, is that God’s reign is at hand. And because it is, the only response we can make is enter that reign by way of repentance. Literally, this means a change of mind. I’m reminded of the preaching of Paul on the day of Pentecost, culminating in the declaration that this Jesus whom they had crucified God had been raised and made both Lord and Christ. When the listeners were struck to the core by this fact, they wanted to know how to respond: repent and be baptized.

Just what is it about which we are to change our minds? Our sins? Yes, of course. But that relates to the saving work of Christ; it’s how we enter the gate to the kingdom. But what about the reign of Christ? To refer to Jesus as “Lord and Christ,” terms which relate the reign of Christ differently to Jews and Greeks, is to announce something larger than the forgiveness of individual sins. It says that he is now the king, fulfilling what Jesus had begun announcing in the beginning of his ministry. So what? Glad you asked.

To say that Jesus is Lord, or that Jesus reigns as king, or that he is above all rule, power, and authority is to call every other ruler, power, or authority to task. He relativizes each and every one of them. And sooner or later we come to recognize that we have offered submission to lesser lords, lesser powers. And we must repent. We must learn anew to live in the kingdom not of this world, even while it rages around us, threatening to undo us.

Who are these other lords, powers, rulers, and authorities? There are many possible answers. They include governments, to be sure; and many a believer has refused to bow to them when allegiance to the true Lord would be compromised thereby. More frequently, however, are we all tempted and occasionally held hostage by other powers, forgetting or not learning in the first place, that Christ is above them. Economics; politics; public opinion; fear; doubt; disease; hardship; pain; mourning; entertainment; leisure. All of these are very much a part of the world we live in, and all threaten at times to climb beyond their appointed boundaries and ultimately convince us to serve them, offering our best energies, gifts, and resources to their service.

Could it be that our giving of allegiance to these inadequate rulers is what leads us to commit the “personal” sins we usually think of with calls for repentance? Do we make our decisions in life in deference to them instead of to the kingdom of God?

That is the call for repentance on this First Sunday in Lent. I suspect it is one we must always be alert to hearing and heeding. But to declare “Jesus is Lord” is to continually keep all others in their place beneath him. The good news is that his kingdom has come near; his rule above all these can now be made real in our lives and in our world. It really is the good news, the gospel: God reigns over all.

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

Is it really what we do in life? Hold hands, dance around the flower and eventually fall into oblivion? It does happen to everyone equally, does it not? Qohelet, the mysterious author of the biblical Book of Ecclesiastes, took such a view of things. No matter who we are, regardless of our fortunes in life, the fate of one is like the fate of the other, rich or poor, favored or despised, oppressor or oppressed, male or female. We know not what comes after us or what will become of our legacy, provided we are audacious enough to believe there will be such a thing. My brother recently pointed out to me that the vast majority of adults cannot come up with the names of their great grandparents. Sobering. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Today many people will submit themselves to the imposition of ashes upon their foreheads, symbolizing their recognition of both mortality and the need for repentance. We are frail flesh; we are reminded of this when we recognize that our sin makes us ill-suited for eternal life. Throughout the next six weeks—the period of time we know as Lent—Christians will be encouraged to take the hard looks at self that we’d rather not take, reflect on things that we’d rather not think about, remind ourselves of things we’d prefer to forget, and generally to come to agree with our loving God that we don’t make very good candidates for sainthood when left to our own devices. Only after this reflection, can we be prepared to really receive the promise held in waiting on Easter morning.

Confessing, literally, means speaking together with someone in agreement. When we confess our faith, we are speaking with others what it is that we believe; when we confess our sins, we are speaking in agreement with God our failure to follow what we know to be the right way and our insistence upon an alternative in its place. Repentance means we change our minds and turn around to take a new direction. It’s what lies behind the tradition of fasting for Lent, whether through abstaining from food or some activity that we perceive as having ordered our lives in ways that are harmful to self and others. It’s not the giving up that becomes somehow meritorious, offering thereby the true spiritual benefit; it’s the new ordering of life, directed more consciously toward God that provides lasting benefit.

There are many Christians for whom liturgically set dates and times for such intensely personal activities as confession and repentance do not resonate. I understand that. As Paul said, some hold one day to be special, others hold another. To observe times and seasons is not a requirement he placed on any of his young churches or upon their converts, and I’m not so sure that we should, either.  On the other hand, there is value in the reminder that the calendar brings. We’re not generally prone to slowing down enough to give confession and repentance the time they require to do their work in us. We let them go until there is something entirely too daunting in front of us, something which might have been removed before taking on such proportion as to threaten to undo us.

We all fall down. Some with a misstep, some with a stumble, and some with a thud. Perhaps the most dangerous of them is the prideful deeming of confession to be something irrelevant to us. Being reminded that even at our best we fall short of God’s glory is something we all need. We will always stand in his righteousness, not our own, even while being molded more and more closely into his image. Whether one physically receives the ashes today or not, we should all consider ourselves as called to examine our lives, our thought patterns, our assumptions, and our hopes through the next six weeks leading up to the glorious resurrection promise. I don’t really want to. Which is why I must.

Making Sense of the Marriage Debate. Part One.

Yes, I know. It’s either totally foolish or terribly audacious to suggest that one blog post from a barely known pastor-theologian will do what many have begged for and few have actually provided. So let me begin by saying I am not claiming to have the final solutions to anything, least of all how we should handle the questions surrounding what is described as same-sex marriage. And I acknowledge that I approach the matter as a Christian committed to the integrity of the biblical narrative and to the definition of Christianity provided by the ancient creeds; these are, after all, summaries of the doctrines implied by that narrative.

One of the most difficult tasks in an emotionally laden controversy is to separate the questions and the positions the questions imply. That is what I propose to do in this post. It will say too much for some readers and too little for others; it will ask as many questions as it will answer, but it will hopefully do so in such a way as to generate less heat and more thought. If any readers find that those with different answers to some of the questions do have a point to consider, we will have moved forward. As a Christian I want to honor Christ in the way I engage others in hard conversations just as much as I want to honor him by speaking the mind of the Holy Spirit. The first of those is always under my control; the latter is something about which I can be mistaken, strive as I might and shall to hear his voice through the scriptures, through reason, and through history.

What Are We Talking About?

On the surface, this seems a silly question. We’ve already stated that we are speaking about same sex marriage. But that’s just the problem for many people in this debate. What is marriage? And, more importantly, how do we know what it is, and who gets to say what it is? What are the grounds for saying it is one thing and not another, or that it can or cannot be different things for different people? We cannot be deceived on this latter point. To say that the nature of marriage is such that it can be different things simultaneously is to make a claim to know the truth about marriage.

This is a philosophical issue, something for which our culture has little time or training. And because we have not been taught how to think or reason well, we have fallen prey to a philosophy that says things only become something when we name them, and that the naming is arbitrary, performed as an act of power by those who have the upper hand. In other words, there is no true identity to anything, no essence to the things and even (or especially) the values or ideals by which we measure human actions and purposes. Beauty, truth, justice, goodness are just ideas we have created. They don’t actually exist. When it comes to something like marriage, or families, or pets, or humans themselves the same is true. There are no definitions until we supply them; in fact, they can’t exist until we make up words to apply to them.

If this is the case, there can be no debate. If we say marriage is anything we want it to be, and there is no question of whether it is true or not, then if we want two people of the same gender to have the same status as two of different genders, then so be it. Who could argue?

 

Nominalism, which is the position just described, can be adequately understood as name-only-ism; our values and our descriptions, our definitions of terms, our understandings of concepts, etc., have no grounding other than in the words we use to name them. There is no real or true answer, description, or standard against which to measure or assess what we call things. And the question before us then is a question of whether there is anything that can be true or false about what we decide what marriage–or anything else–is.

The Christian concept of revelation challenges nominalism. It tells us that all things exist in, through, and because of God; they have their meaning in God. And the concept further suggests that there are ways in which God communicates the nature of the things that have been created. While some people would limit revelation to the words of the Bible as God’s “special” revelation, even the Bible itself suggests that the nature of the world and our reflection on it gives us some insight into the true nature of things. It is my strong inclination to believe that reason, properly employed and honestly pursued, will not undo the picture of things which the Bible paints–provided that it, too, is honestly and properly understood. I say this because it is one thing to claim that there is ultimate truth, grounded in God; it seems a position Christians are bound to adopt. But it is quite another thing to say that we fully and finally comprehend that ultimate truth; that is something we should not say. That is, we cannot allow ourselves to deny the possibility of our being mistaken as individual persons or even as a corporate church. But our susceptibility to error does not invalidate the idea that there really is truth. All of this may seem a to be a tangent from what I first proposed to write about. But God’s revelation, if such there be, must be the starting point for Christian reflection on the nature of the world and the things in it, most importantly regarding the nature of human life.

When we seek God’s perspective on human nature from the Bible, we learn a few things very quickly from the first two chapters of Genesis. Let’s list them for simplicity and in order to refer to them at later points:

1. We are created in the image of God.
2. We are created male and female.
3. Man and woman are united by leaving parents and, at least in potential, creating offspring.

What we learn in these few simple statements from the opening chapters of the Bible is corroborated in many ways through human history and anthropology. All cultures have some way of recognizing and protecting the relationship between the parents and potential parents of the next generation; it is essential to the survival of the culture into the future, the protection and continuation of what they have made into a future beyond their own lifetime. In all cultures, a man has left father and mother in order to be united with his wife and create a family of their own.

With respect to the second statement, human psychology and physiology concur. There is difference within the bearing of the image of God. Male and female bodies are different; the brain chemistry is different, as science has repeatedly demonstrated. Yet these differences between male and female are complimentary; and both male and female characteristics have their origin in God. Some conclusions follow from this. As designed, humans are to be God’s image-bearers, that is, the icons of God. And since this image is born jointly by male and female, it is through their difference and in their combination that children born to them are to see God represented to them. It is how they learn of God. This is an idea primitively stated in Adam’s having a helper (better: compliment) suitable for him; it is one more sophisicatedly stated by research that demonstrates that children of two-parent (male-female) households thrive better than those in other situations. It is the reason all cultures, with or without the Bible, with or without the research, have protected in some significant ways the relationship between man and woman. It’s in our nature as created to do so.

Things have diverged from this creation pattern in many ways. That’s why we have controversies. But as we consider the challenges and brokenness of our lives in this world, we cannot do so without some strong sense of the place from which we have fallen. It is for that reason that I have begun this series of posts in this vein. What to do about our fallenness, what Christians do and should say to the culture at large, and how they should think of the matter of same-sex unions in their own company will be considered in subsequent additions to the blog. Thanks for listening.

Only the Lonely

I wonder if Jesus would have tweeted or updated his status when he faced the certainty of his pending ordeal. To whom would he have reached out? From whom might he have expected a reply? Who would have responded?

In spite of social media–or in some cases because of it?–there seem to be plenty of lonely people in today’s world. Ever notice how many of your friends post a status on Facebook to which no one responds; and the only way to deal with it is to post more desperate, meaningless details of the day, or even the life? Or have you taken note of the people truly lost in the crowd, walking with a mob yet by themselves, with no conversation partner? Or the ones who almost never venture out any longer for fear of so many things, such as non-acceptance, isolating ridicule (almost always less real than imagined), the pain of watching so many others having the enjoyment of companions, or even the fear of losing the one piece of identity they are sure of–that they are lonely. The Beatles’ song from long ago haunted me even then:

Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

Eleanor Rigby
Picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window
Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Father McKenzie
Writing the words of a sermon that no-one will hear
No-one comes near
Look at him working
Darning his socks in the night when there’s nobody there
What does he care?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

Eleanor Rigby
Died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie
Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No-one was saved

All the lonely people (Ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people (Ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all belong?
Lyrics from eLyrics.net

The Eleanor Rigbys and Father McKenzies are all around. Whether the original lyrics intended to mock the faith or not, they apply to many in ministry, who die in the church and dig the graves with no one coming. Jesus knows them all by name. Jesus knows them all by experience because he was willing to become one of them.

Early in his public ministry Jesus submitted to the baptism of John, a baptism of identification with humanity in all its faults and frailties. By doing so he was declaring, “I’m with them.” In referring later to the baptism he would yet undergo, that identification was made complete as he suffered humiliation, abandonment, misunderstanding, injustice, physical pain–and loneliness. No one came, no one got it, no one sat with him, no one prayed with him.

Because of the things he suffered, he is able to come to the aid of those who suffer, as the writer to the Hebrews declared. It is difficult to imagine the intensity of the loneliness, the isolation that the fully human Jesus experienced, so that he might come to the aid of those who find themselves outside the fold of any meaningful human interaction. Perhaps only the lonely ones can begin to grasp how much it matters that the Lord knows; and in spite of the lyrics above, he does come.

The Unimaginable God?

I am frequently asked by students how best to talk about God with atheist friends. Atheists, of course, come in all shapes and sizes, and from every direction. Some have not thought seriously about what the claims of Christian faith really are, and are happy to dismiss them as insufficiently sophisticated for people as bright as they; some have given a more serious hearing to the real claims, but have difficulty connecting the god they hear about with the unpleasantness of the real world. Some simply do not want there to be a god, thereby removing the daunting presence of one who might judge their attitudes and conduct. One of my customary responses to the question is suggest asking the atheist to tell them about the god in whom they do not believe; almost without fail, the answer can then be given: I don’t believe in that god either; let me tell you about the I do believe in.

But where would you begin with that descriptive task? It’s a question theologians/apologists have debated for a very long time: where does God-talk begin. Sometimes it’s with the philosophical arguments that appeal to the mind, hoping to demonstrate that God is the only sufficient explanation for why there is something rather than nothing. At other times one might point experiences which only an all-wise, all-powerful, yet loving God could possibly have arranged. While these may have their time and place, along with other approaches, the Passion of Christ suggests something else.

On two occasions during that holy week, Jesus invited people to interpret God on the basis of what they saw in him. The first time (John 12:44-46) was to those wavering between intellectual assent and life investment into the claims of Jesus. “When a man believes in me, he does not believe in me only, but in the one who sent me. When he looks at me, he sees the one who sent me.” Later, in the privacy of his small group of close friends, he declared again, “anyone who has seen me has seen the Father” (14:9). So what is it someone sees when looking at Jesus? What does that glance do when one asks who God really is?

I would suggest that what is recorded between these two statements of Jesus has much to do with the answer. And it is related to yesterday’s post about the centrality of Holy Week for grasping authentic Christian faith. After his more public description of his relation to God, Jesus washes the feet of his disciples, announces the betrayal he will soon experience, and then humbles the boastful Peter with the unthinkable idea that he, too, will deny his Lord. As the next few days would unfold, the glance at Jesus would be enough to turn the heads of virtually anyone in any other direction; it would be too ugly to behold. Do you want to know who God really is? Look at Jesus. Here. Now. Stooping. Washing. Accepting betrayal. Then dying.

It is often suggested in today’s world that while the idea of God is useful to us, in grounding morality, in providing some measure of hope and purpose, the supposed truth is that every construction of what God is really like is nothing more than God made in our image. We imagined Him as we would like to think He is, or so it is alleged. And it would be difficult to deny that there are ways we prefer to think about God, all of which are irrelevant to who he truly is. But it is very difficult to pretend that any of us would imagine the God revealed by looking at Jesus, particularly the Jesus portrayed in the climax of every gospel account. And when we find ourselves among the betrayers, as all of us must at times, we’d rather turn our heads, as Isaiah predicted centuries earlier. Maybe we don’t pay as much attention to Holy Week because we don’t want to have to look at this suffering God. To think that this is “the real” is, well, unimaginable.

Holy . . . What?

It started yesterday. And it ended yesterday for all too many Christians and non-believers alike. It started with an impromptu parade and will end with a tepid celebration of an event many people believe didn’t really occur. To an extent that last point is understandable, given the hidden nature of the most significant moment in human history. But I’m getting ahead of myself, which is just what today’s pep rally Christians tend to do so easily.

If we cannot find it within ourselves to observe the approximately six weeks of Lent, one might hope that surely we could be more aware of what once went by the name of Holy Week, that period throughout which our attention is to be keenly focused on the identity of Jesus with virtually every form of human suffering, whether emotional, mental, psychological, or physical. Even spiritual. When we fail to so focus we are in danger of losing our story, and the story loses its grip on us. What I sometimes dreaded as a child and even into teen years I now recall as a significant shaping of how to see the world. We called it Holy Week.

It wasn’t just a name in that small country church where faith was formed after its generation from my parents. We would observe the special week by having worship every night through Good Friday, each night recalling something about the Passion of our Lord. I don’t recall a single sermon, though I heard many. What I recall is our community of faith gathering to be reminded of who we are and what God in Christ did about it. By the time Thursday evening and Holy Communion came, it was a meaningful observance because of the honesty with which we could see our need and God’s sacrificial provision. By Friday folks were broken at he sight of the cross. By Sunday we were ready to celebrate life. Really ready.

It’s not just about nostalgia for a by-gone tradition. When one looks at the gospels recorded in the New Testament, one should be struck by the amount of space each of the writers devotes to the events between the Sundays of Jesus’s final week among the disciples. Matthew has 28 chapters, 8 of which describe events beginning with Palm Sunday; Mark has 16 chapter, with the final week beginning in chapter 11; Luke begins the Triumphal Entry in chapter 19 of his 24. John is more concentrated than any of the so-called synoptic gospels, with chapters 12-21 occurring on or after Palm Sunday. Even if one were to argue that some of the events and sayings, if they occurred at all, were relocated from their true chronology and placed into this week by the writer, one would have to conclude that doing so only reveals an authorial strategy that intends for the reader to see all of what is described in the light of this week.

There are some implications of this heavy emphasis on what happened in one week of history. Obviously, the movement of those events toward the cross cannot be ignored. This alone argues against any interpretation of the Christian faith that by-passes the crucifixion. Perhaps we betray our discomfort with the necessity of the cross when we skip the climax of Jesus’ life and ministry in order to say the nicer, more hopeful aspects of his teaching. But are they really as hopeful if they are not seen as the teachings of the crucified one?

I’m interested in responses to a couple of questions raised here. For one, are there reasons for which the Holy Week traditions have been largely abandoned? Should they be renewed, perhaps in different fashion? What sort might you suggest? Do you think our telling of the story is compromised by not acting out liturgically, in some fashion what that story really is?

Missing the Point? Lent Post.

There’s a theory in the philosophy of science that at first seems unduly skeptical. It says that scientific discovery is determined less by the truth about the physical world than it is by what we are looking for. In other words, we define what we expect to see, and by doing so we also place limits both on what we will find and how we will describe what we find. Could it also be that we face the same issue when we look at the Bible?

John 5:36-47
36 But the testimony that I have is greater than that of John. For the works that the Father has given me to accomplish, the very works that I am doing, bear witness about me that the Father has sent me. 37 And the Father who sent me has himself borne witness about me. His voice you have never heard, his form you have never seen, 38 and you do not have his word abiding in you, for you do not believe the one whom he has sent. 39 You search the Scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life; and it is they that bear witness about me, 40 yet you refuse to come to me that you may have life. 41 I do not receive glory from people. 42 But I know that you do not have the love of God within you. 43 I have come in my Father’s name, and you do not receive me. If another comes in his own name, you will receive him. 44 How can you believe, when you receive glory from one another and do not seek the glory that comes from the only God? 45 Do not think that I will accuse you to the Father. There is one who accuses you: Moses, on whom you have set your hope. 46 For if you believed Moses, you would believe me; for he wrote of me. 47 But if you do not believe his writings, how will you believe my words?”

Jesus had some very interesting exchanges with the people the gospel writer simply refers to as “the Jews.” The particular Jews in view, of course, are the spokesmen for the religious life of the Hebrew people, including a significant number of the teachers of the Law–the biblical scholars of the day. One might reasonably assume that they were good at what they did–dissect the received writings to uncover every detail and nuance of the text that might provide clues for what it is that God requires. Over time this endeavor turned into a way of maintaining a grip on the people whose spiritual lives rested in following the conclusions at which they arrived. The text became the data out of which their science of law discovery would operate. They “saw” what they were looking for. Their expectations of the text were met and satisfied. And as success in this endeavor continued, the guarding and revering of this text continued apace.

In my more skeptical moments, I wonder how different some of our Christian approaches to the Bible really are from those of these soon-to-be miffed “Jews.” Is it possible that we, like they, are prone to see only what we want to see when reading the inspired Word? The difficulty of standing back from previous interpretations, previous purposes for which to study yet again, previous conclusions is a decidedly difficult task. Conservative believers are especially vulnerable to the danger of thinking that it is the text that gives life, proving a kinship with the Jews and a similar susceptibility to rebuff for missing the point the Bible really makes: Jesus, the Christ. If we argue our interpretations more than we value Him, we’re guilty.

During Lent Christians are encouraged by the Great Tradition to reflect on the sufferings of Christ, and to examine their own lives in light of those sufferings being born for us and necessitated by our sinfulness. We then are called to repent, to turn away from the particular sins we have contributed to his agony. As we do so, our thoughts must always be less on the descriptions than on the person of that Suffering Servant. The Bible points to Him, or it has no value at all. And it is on him that we should focus our meditations, him that we hide in our hearts, to use the phrase from the Psalmist, that we might not sin against Him. The written word cannot save us any more than it could save “the Jews”; the Living Word, crucified, risen, and ascended can and will do so.