Author: Sara Palmer

  • Endings

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    Endings

    Mark 16:1-8

    Shannon Johnson Kershner

    Fourth Presbyterian Church, Chicago, Illinois

    A preacher friend of mine, who is also an accomplished writer, recently reminded me that with stories, endings always matter.1 With that in mind, she stated that if Mark’s version of the Easter story had been screen tested with a live audience, the director would have been sent back to the drawing board. After all, the way Mark leaves things in verse 8 doesn’t exactly get us up on our feet, inspire us to clap our hands at home, or prompt us to break out and sing the Easter alleluias on our couches. Nothing about Mark’s ending even slightly resembles a warm and fuzzy fi nish. That is why if you keep reading past verse 8, you notice that a few sly copy editors actually inserted their own endings to Mark’s version of the Easter story. Apparently, they just couldn’t help themselves. They felt pressure to create a more palatable conclusion. As Rev. Dr. Brian Blount once wrote, “They added some good to Mark’s rather ambiguous news.”2 And yet, I rather appreciate where Mark left off because many of our lives are often fi lled with unclear or ambiguous endings, are they not? For example, some of us desperately want our loved ones to beat back the menace of cancer, so we cheer them on as they go through treatment after treatment, meet with specialist after specialist, deal with side-effect after side-effect. And sometimes, all those medical interventions do the job, and months or years are added to their lifespan. But in other heartbreaking cases, the one with the cancer arrives at a conclusion that the treatment itself is worse than the damage done by the disease. So hospice is called in and everyone tries to shift their perspective to living just one day at a time, trying to get comfortable with not being sure what happens next, confused as to what or when the end will be. They just know it will. And comfort with that truth rarely arrives, especially if you are not the one with the disease. The ending feels unclear, ambiguous, exhausting. Or perhaps the emotional stress of living for over a year in a pandemic has taken its toll on your marriage or another close relationship. It is not that something monumental happened to fi nally break the bond, but you look back over these never-ending Covid days and realize you’ve drifted apart. You don’t take the time to speak of important things because you are too distracted by fi ghting over whose turn it is to do the dishes for the third time that day. After a year of being in the same space almost 24/7, you observe you feel more like a roommate than a partner, sharing logistics but not intimacy. “Is this the end of us?” you might wonder. “What will be next in our story? Do we still have a story?” Everything feels unclear, ambiguous, exhausting. Those are just two examples. I am sure you have your own. For yes, like Mark’s ending to the Easter story, many of our lives are fi lled with unclear or ambiguous endings. And much of the time, we do not like it—all messy and unfi nished, diffi cult to pin down and to control. The women headed to the tomb that day were not going to like it either. But when they fi rst began the journey, that trinity of women logically assumed there was noth-


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    ing unclear or ambiguous about what had happened to Jesus on that Friday before. Nothing at all. No, they had followed him all along the way. They had heard or seen the whole thing. They had heard about the betrayal. They had listened to the stories of his suffering. They had watched with their own eyes as he was hoisted upon that ragged cross, his hands nailed, the crown of thorns thrust down onto his head. They listened as the passersby mocked him and taunted him. And fi nally, after three excruciating hours, they heard Jesus himself cry out a desperate prayer of God-forsakenness before he breathed his last. And though the women’s eyes were clouded with tears and their hearts were pierced with grief, they stood guard over his body, eventually following his corpse when Joseph of Arimethea took it and sealed it in the tomb. No, there was nothing unclear or ambiguous about what they saw happen to Jesus. He had been executed by the Roman state. His end had come. In many ways, that meant their end had come too. For the women, for all his disciples, Jesus had been so much more than a friend or a teacher. He had been the living, breathing embodiment of what could be, God’s promise made fl esh. As Barbara Brown Taylor has preached, Jesus was “their best hope for a new kind of life on earth. [For] when Jesus was alive, it had been possible for them to imagine a world in which poor people were blessed, sick people were healed, and old people did not have to worry about who would care for them when they could no longer care for themselves. When Jesus spoke, [they] could imagine a world in which children led the way, lepers [leapt with joy from their healing], and people with nothing to eat in the middle of nowhere could fi nd themselves at a picnic for fi ve thousand, with twelve baskets to spare.”3 Yes, when Jesus was alive, the women and the others who followed him could even imagine a time when a different kind of politics was practiced. For as philosopher John Caputo wrote, Jesus was always pushing “a politics of mercy and compassion, of lifting up the weakest and most defenseless people at home; a politics of welcoming the stranger and of loving one’s enemies abroad…; a politics not of sovereignty or of top-down power, but one that builds from the bottom up….”4 Sidenote: Can you imagine if that were our kind of politics today? Our national life would be so radically different, disarmed by love. Yes, everything seemed possible when Jesus was alive. He always told them that in him, the reign of God had drawn near and sometimes it was so close the women felt like they could taste it. But now it was over. It was all over. His life was over. What could have been was over. Their hope was over. Dead. Buried. Gone. The only thing to do now was to go and perform their religious duties and go back home to a life marked more by apathy than compassion, more cynicism than hope, more frustration than possibility. We just need to go and do what we need to do and get on with it, the women might have concluded. Yet when they arrived at the tomb on that early morning, any conclusions they might have come to along the way quickly disappeared. And fear and ambiguity took their place. The stone was rolled away. And instead of a body resting on the slab, they saw some messenger dressed in white. And that stranger had the nerve to tell them they did not need to be afraid, and yet the Lord was no longer there. He had been raised and he had moved on, the stranger declared, no, not to heaven—resurrection is not just about what happens after death. The risen Jesus had gone to Galilee, to


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    the place his ministry had begun, to the place of busy, messy, complicated, unclear, ambiguous life. They would see him there, the stranger stated, “So go tell the disciples and Peter that it is not over.” But here is where the story gets even stranger, even more complicated, even more ambiguous and unclear. Mark purposefully ends his Gospel in a very unfi nished way. I realize our translation states, “So they went out and fl ed from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” And that’s fi ne. That is an unsatisfying ending in its own way, one that might get the director sent back to the drawing board. But when we look only at Mark’s struggling Greek and translate the words without smoothing them out, here is what we actually fi nd: “they said nothing to anyone”; it reads, “They were scared, you see, for….”5 And that is how it ends. It ends with the phrase “they were scared, you see, for….” As Taylor asks: “They were scared for what?! Mark doesn’t say, but [I guess] he thinks we [know].” Mark thinks we know in our gut why they would be scared. Do we? What about this: They were scared, you see, for even if Jesus’ ending came far too soon for their liking, even if their journey as his followers had screeched to a halt, even if his death meant their hopes and dreams died too, the reality was that if he stayed in that tomb, their lives became simpler again. If Jesus is dead and stays in that tomb, then they can just go back to business as usual. They don’t have to pay attention to the poor and those without housing. They don’t have to wrestle with hard things like racism or the rise in hate crimes and white supremacist groups. If Jesus is dead and stays in that tomb, then they can keep their money and energy for themselves without constantly wondering how they could contribute to the common good and not just to their own good. If Jesus is dead and stays in that tomb, then it is back into the rat race without a care in the world about becoming one of the rats. They were scared, you see, but also a little relieved. For if Jesus is dead and stays in that tomb, then they are off the hook of living as disciples. Yet, if this stranger is right, if Jesus is alive like he told them he would be, if he has actually been raised like he promised would happen, if he has indeed gone back to the place where his ministry started and was again set loose into their world, then … well how do you fi nish that sentence? If the power of the risen Jesus is still loose in our world, then that means our stories are nowhere near done. That means that the justice of God is stronger and more powerful than the injustice of Rome. That means that we cannot escape the call and the demand that we learn how to love our neighbor, that we learn how to love ourselves. If the power of the risen Jesus is still loose in our world, that means we must double-down on seeing our politics through the lens of the Gospel which compels us to put Jesus’ kind of compassion-driven and justice-insisting politics into practice, that we work on disarming one another with tough, merciful, resilient love. If Jesus is alive, like he told us he would be, if he was actually raised by the power of the living God like he promised would happen, if the risen Jesus is still loose in our world, then that means that, as the Wall Street Journal wrote a few years ago, we l live with the Easter Effect.6 And those who are shaped by the Easter Effect “[are] people who [know] how history [is] going to turn out. Because of that, [we can] live


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    differently… .The Easter Effect impel[s] [us]to bring a new standard of equality into the world.” It’s why we continually try to live out a faith that is wildly inclusive, with an open-arm embrace of all people—just as they are—beloved and claimed, bound and determined to work against any power that would try to keep us apart, that would try to divide this family of faith that God, God’s self, has called together. See, if Jesus is alive, like he told us he would be, if he was actually raised by the power of the living God like he promised would happen, if the risen Jesus is still at loose in our world, then that also means that though our unclear and ambiguous endings are still going to feel both unclear and ambiguous, we can now see them in Easter’s light. And when we do that, we realize we are not alone in moving through them, in wrestling with them, in just enduring them, for Jesus lived that kind of ending himself and has infused all of it with his holy presence, reminding us we are never alone. Yes, the women were scared, you see, for God’s resurrection promise meant they r r would never get back to normal again. And that was terrifying at fi rst. But as they ran from that tomb, perhaps choosing along the way to just skip telling the male disciples and go on to Galilee instead, that initial fear they felt soon gave way to inexplicable energy, renewed imagination, bubbling joy, and breathtaking love. For if the risen Jesus was indeed loose in their world, in our world, well, then death had lost its sting. Normal is never going to be the old normal again. Even ambiguous and unclear endings can sparkle a bit. For the Lord had risen. He had risen indeed.

    Notes 1 The wonderful and brilliant Rev. Dr. Heather Shortlidge. Part of a paper and Well discussion in 2015 here in Chicago. 2 Brian Blount, Preaching Mark in Two Voices (Louisville: WJKP, 2003), 257. 3 Barbara Brown Taylor, Always a Guest (Louisville: WJKP, 2020), 165-166. t 4 John Caputo, https://www.bostonglobe.com/opinion/2015/04/01/jesus-radical-politics/ txdjkQSMn3BWPBgciEbgZP/story.html. 5 Taylor. 6 Wall Street Journal, March 30, 2018, https://www.wsj.com/articles/the-easter-effect-and-how-itchanged -the-world-1522418701.

  • THE CALL, or OF COURSE I MIND: A 5 minute Reimagining of Luke 1:26-38; 46-48 (Commissioned by Fellowship for Performing Arts)

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    THE CALL, or OF COURSE 1 MIND

    A 5 minute Reimagining of Luke 1:26-3 8; 46-48 (Commissioned by Fellowship for Performing Arts)

    Amina S. McIntyre Ph.D. candidate, Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tennessee

    CHARACTERS

    GABRIELLA Ages old woman, stylish Courier Archangel Diva

    MARY Teenage Girl, activist, doing laundry

    GIANNA “Gl Gl” Couriette

    GENEVA “GENNY” Couriette

    SETTING Comer room gathering laundry

    TIME Modem day

    MARY in jeans, an activist hoodie with something like ”Free Assata,” and Tims is gathering her laundry into a bag.

    GIGI is standing a distance away wearing a purple and gold fringed dress similar to the Motown groups of the past.

    GABRIELLA enters wearing a gold dress with purple fringe.


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    GABRIELLA (GABBY) It’s time. Couriettes, we ready.

    GI GI (GIANNA) I’m here. Archangel Gabriella.

    GABRIELLA Where’s Geneva? This is a quick assignment. I have to deliver a message to Michael after.

    GIGI (calling) Genny?

    GENNY (in a flashing light off stage) Here I am.

    GABRIELLA Gì Gì…

    Gl Gl motions “I Got it. ”

    GENNY What now?

    GI GI Your human costume. You know we have too many eyes and wings and things… these humans are jumpy enough.

    GENNY (glitter of heavenly music then she appears in her Purple Couriettes costumes) Ready.

    GABRIELLA Remember the assignment.


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    Gl Gl

    Mary, big reveals, accepts Yahweh’s call, humbled, acceptance.

    GENNY What if she’s like Noah?

    GABRIELLA No one’s like Noah. Positions.

    Trumpets sound. Fog blows. Lights flash. Gabriella approaches Mary.

    MARY Oh, excuse me.

    GABRIELLA Highly favored one! The Lord is with you.

    MARY Who are you?

    GABRIELLA Don’t fear. I’m the Courier, and these are my Couriettes,

    GI GI (singing) Gi Gi…

    GENNY and Genny.

    MARY Nothing to fear here, thanks.


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    You have found favor with God. So, as a reward you get an assignment.

    MARY No, thank you.

    GABRIELLA I said, you found favor with God—

    MARY I heard you the first time.

    GABRIELLA You don’t even want to know what it is?

    MARY The track record is a little tainted. Ruth, Esther, Moses, Jeremiah…Noah.

    GENNY I told you…

    GIGI Shhh.

    GABRIELLA None of the tasks are easy, but they are important, history altering even.

    MARY That’s what everyone says.

    GABRIELLA Yours is even more important.

    MARY Excuse me, I’ve got to get on.


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    But you’ll be carrying… GIGI and GENNY (singing in arpeggios) 0000 0000 0000

    …the son of God. GIGI and GENNY AAHH!

    MARY stops.

    GABRIELLA You will be with child and give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end.

    Lights flash. Feels like a grand announcement. Mary is not impressed.

    MARY I’m already engaged…and we haven’t known each other that way. I have life plans—

    GABRIELLA Well, your course is changing by the Almighty God….

    MARY Who didn’t even come and tell me themselves.

    GABRIELLA I’m the right hand. Look, do you mind doing this favor?

    MARY (Looking Gabriella in the eye, squaring off with no hesitation) Yes.


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    What?

    Yes, I mind. MARY

    GABRIELLA You mind? Pop gospel music cues

    MARY

    OF COURSE I MIND I’M JUST A TEENAGER BETROTHER TO A CARPENTER

    GABRIELLA HOW CAN YOU MIND? GIFT FROM THE MOST ON HIGH SHIFTING THE STORY FOR ALL PEOPLEKIND

    MARY OF COURSE I MIND I’LL BE OSTRACIZED TAINTED THE REST OF MY LIFE GIGI and GENNY are now backing Mary up as well, which gets a look from Gabriella.

    GABRIELLA I see how this is.

    GABRIELLA (cont) HOW CAN YOU MIND? YOU’LL BE

    MARY Excuse me.


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    GENNY Looks like this will take a few more minutes.

    GI GI She ain’t budging.

    GABRIELLA Let’s turn up the urgency. Mary.

    MARY What, Messenger?

    GABRIELLA I prefer Courier Gabriella.

    MARY Okay, Gabby.

    GABRIELLA GIVE IT A TRY. THE STORY IS FORETOLD THERE’S NO ONE ELSE IN THIS MOLD.

    MARY YOU’RE A LIE.

    I KNOW HOW THIS ENDS UP. ALWAYS A TRAGEDY TOO ABRUPT.

    GABRIELLA OH, GIVE IT A TRY. I CAN TESTIFY YOU’LL WIN IF YOU COMPLY.

    MARY I’d prefer helping those nearby.


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    But think of all the good you can do, you’d been a vessel.

    MARY Then I’m already doing. Listen, I appreciate you asking for consent, but my mind is made up.

    GABRIELLA Magnify your thoughts. No prophet ever knew the impact of the task when they accepted it yet they took the risk. You’ll even get confirmation within your own family. Soon.

    MARY How will it happen?

    GABRIELLE gives the cue. GI GI AND GENNY get into formation, more operatic music.

    GABRIELLA HOLY SPIRIT COMES UPON YOU THE MOST HIGH OVERSHADOWS YOU THE HOLY ONE WILL BE CALLED SON OF GOD NOTHING WILL BE IMPOSSIBLE WITH GOD.

    GABRIELLA What do you say?

    Returns to pop gospel.

    MARY IF I DON’T MIND

    GI GI AND GENNY NOT SAYING YOU DO


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    MARY MY SOUL GLORIFIES THE LORD AN HUMBLE SERVANT ON ACCORD

    GABRIELLA IF YOU DON’T MIND

    GI GI AND GENNY NOT SAYING YOU DO

    GABRIELLA THE WORLD WILL CALL YOU BLESSED THEY’LL BE HONORED YOU ACQUIESCED

    MARY IF I DON’T MIND GENERATIONS WILL KNOW THE STORY OF WHAT THE MIGHTY ONE HAS DONE.

    What do you say?

    BUT ONLY IF YOU DON’T MIND.

    GABRIELLA

    MARY Of course.. .1 don’t mind.

    The stage celebrates.

    GI GI AND GENNY SHE DOESN’T MIND.

    GABRIELLA It’ll be glorious!


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    Gl Gl AND GENNY SHE DOESN’T MIND!

    GABRIELLA You’ll be lawded!

    GI GIAND GENNY SHE DOESN’T MIND!

    GABRIELLA Congratulations!!!

    SHE DOESN’T MIND!

    GI GI and GENNY

    Anything else? A blueprint.

    GI GI and GENNY exit, humming MARY

    GABRIELLA You’ll know what to do. Well, off to my next assignment.

    GABRIELLA leaves MARY to her laundry. MARY looks at the laundry, the emptiness of the moment, then her own body. Then she looks up.

    MARY Cousin Elizabeth, I need to come for a visit. You’ll never believe what just happened to me.

    Lights out.

  • Be Careful What You Pray For

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    Be Careful What You Pray For

    Leigh Stuckey

    Westminster Presbyterian Church, Greenville, South Carolina

    You can’t preach a series on the Psalms without its most ubiquitous, most quoted, most beloved psalm—the 23rd. Listen with fresh ears this morning. Our translation comes from Hebrew scholar Robert Alter and is deeply faithful to the original Hebrew:

    The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. In grass meadows He makes me lie down, by quiet waters guides me. My life He brings back. He leads me on pathways of justice for His name’s sake. Though I walk in the vale of death’s shadow, I fear no harm, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff— it is they that console me. You set out a table before me in the face of my foes. You moisten my head with oil, my cup overfl ows. Let but goodness and kindness pursue me all the days of my life. And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for many long days.1

    Children’s songs have a way of quickly becoming earworms. You hear the fi rst three bars and suddenly it is rattling in your brain for days. There’s a particular song I’ve heard around Westminster’s halls that gets me every time: “I just want to be a sheep.” That’s both the title and all the words, or at least all I care to remember: “I just want to be a sheep—baa baa baa baa— just want to be a sheep.” I’d forgotten about “I just want to be a sheep” until February when the world was introduced to Baa-rack, a wool matted sheep who’d been wandering the Australian bush for years—barely surviving under 77 pounds of wool, so thick it obscured his vision, so heavy it affected his ability to walk. Baarack, who had been fi ghting for food and water, was malnourished. His poor health was hidden by all that wool—matted, bulbous, and dirty, more like a camel than a sheep.2 Baarack was spotted by a property maintenance man when he just happened to wander in from the wild. From there he became a sensation. And he got me wondering , do I want to be a sheep? Psalm 23 is one of the best known pieces of biblical literature in American culture. Not only among folks like us, folks who go to church week in and week out, but out


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    in the wider world. Tupac riffed on it, so did Kanye and Coolio. As the ship sinks in James Cameron’s Titanic, the chaplain calls down the comfort of the shepherd. In Clint Eastwood’s Pale Rider, a girl quotes the Psalm over her dog’s grave—asking after God in a time of deep sadness. President Bush quoted it during the darkest hours of September 11, 2001. The Grateful Dead riffed on it, and Pink Floyd too. We sing it week after week in worship: “Shepherd Me O God,” “You Lord are Both Lamb and Shepherd,” “My Shepherd Will Supply My Need.” Over and over we appeal to God our shepherd. But I’m still not sure about being a sheep. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to lie down in grassy meadows. Heck, I’m glad to lie down just about anywhere. Being led alongside a stream, hearing the water trickle between pebbles … the Psalm doesn’t say I get a gin and tonic, but I imagine My Shepherd Would Supply That Need too. It sounds blissful, rosy even. I’ll be the Lord’s sheep if that’s our itinerary. Reading this text today, my mind isn’t far from battered down Baarack. If I’m meant to be a sheep, what exactly does it mean to be shepherded? Where is the Great Shepherd leading? The Psalm sings of green grass and long days dwelling in God’s house. The images linger in our imagination. But the shepherd’s route to the Lord’s house seems counterintuitive, threatening even. Beside the road sits death, right there, along our ambling graze; led by our great shepherd, dark shadows stand ready to enfold us. At the table where the shepherd feeds us, so too sit our enemies. The Lord is our shepherd, so we, sheep, follow. But if God is indeed a good shepherd, why do we so d often fi nd ourselves in vales and valleys? What good shepherd leads us to the edge of our lives? A simple reading of Psalm 23 may approach the shadowed valley as if it is just a hop and a skip to the grassy meadow. That’s how, I believe, we most often read the text. But life teaches us differently. A faithful reading of the 23rd Psalm considers—dwells in—the vales at its center. It asks us to faithfully follow the shepherd, to trust in God’s guiding staff, even as it leads us right up to the vale of death’s shadow. In abstraction, such considerations are a tall task—especially if we fi nd ourselves reading this Psalm on the greener side of the meadow. What good is dwelling on shadows? Keep on the sunny side, I say! But then again, closing our ears to the cries of suffering around us will not protect us for long, and being a sheep means not only being led, but being among our fl ock, hearing, as it were, their warning cries. A vale stands at the center of Psalm 23. The shepherd leads us there. To counter our instincts to brush it aside, I suggest we turn to another Psalm to enfl esh its lament. Listen once more for the word of God in the 22nd Psalm (NRSV):

    1My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? 2 O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but fi nd no rest. 6 But I am a worm, and not human; scorned by others, and despised by the people….


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    11 Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help. 12 Many bulls encircle me, strong bulls of Bashan surround me; 13 they open wide their mouths at me, like a ravening and roaring lion. 14 I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; 15 my mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death.

    “You lay me,” cries the Psalmist, “in the dust of death.” Sit with the contradiction. The very same Psalmist whose poetry confi dently soars with praise in 23 accuses God of being far away, of having abandoned post in 22. The Psalmist fears that God has left standing instead wild animals, mocking neighbors, and an abyss of pain. Still, in the depths of sorrows, in the darkest vale, the Psalmist calls on God. The Psalmist’s faithfulness is not contingent on many long days of goodness. It is grounded in a trust that the Psalmist is led, yoked—by rod and staff—to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, even when death closes in. It may be an editorial accident, Psalm 23 following the cry of Psalm 22,3 but I think they stand in unique relationship. Lest we get too rosy imagining our relationship with God is all streams and meadows, Psalm 22 calls us to give fl esh to its vales and valleys; it gives language to express the fear and longing of our darkest shadows. It provides a model for faithfulness in experiences of forsakenness. “Where are you” asks the Psalmist? More even than “why,” “where” is the cry of the forsaken. It is the cry of Jesus on the cross when he quotes this very text. It is the cry of suffering today, and it links us to the very heart of God. Does the Great Shepherd abandon the fl ock in the depths of the valley? By the middle of March 2021, over 500,000 Americans had been killed by Covid -19. It was then 52 weeks since we had gathered in person without restrictions. We have seen the toll of shadow and death. What we thought would be a short walk through a foreign valley—two weeks, just two weeks—has been a prolonged experience of fear and alienation. “Why” is not the question of this pandemic. Where it has been attempted to be answered, it has fallen to racist tropes, problematic assertions, conspiracy, and unhelpful guesswork. What I have heard as a Pastor of this church time and again is “Where?” Where is God when a beloved family member dies alone? Where is God when we are forced to be apart? Where is God when jobs are lost, when families rage against one another in the midst of bitter political opposition, when another black man is killed for going on a jog or just being at the wrong place at the wrong time? “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” If you know Psalm 22, you likely know it on Jesus’ lips. After betrayal, trials, and beatings, after the shame of a crown of thorns and the long walk to Golgatha, in the midst of being tortured, Jesus


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    cries out to the Father using the fi rst phrase of Psalm 22. Jesus died faithfully experiencing the Father’s far-awayness, experiencing the vale of death’s shadow. In that moment, with that cry, the nearness of the valley pressing in the space where he once so fully felt the presence of the Father, Jesus, himself fully God, takes into the very heart of divinity the all too common reality of human suffering. It is his fullest identifi cation with us, the moment on the cross when he absorbs the depths of forsakenness, of grief, of aloneness, into God’s being, God’s essence. Where is God in our suffering? Does God abandon post? Never. When we watch Jesus’ long walk to Golgotha, when we hear the cry of Jesus on the cross, when we behold his empty tomb, we see the power of the good shepherd who lays down his life for his fl ock, who leads us through grassy meadows, who goes ahead and suffers with us, who knows well the vale of our shadows and leads us through them. When we hear his cry, we hear the cries of our siblings here and across the globe who suffer injustice, who are alienated, mocked, set aside, and whose bodies betray them. And we know that God is near. Christian discipleship—being a sheep, as it were—is not a means of avoiding diffi cult paths, it is not unending prosperity or blissful ignorance, it is not greener meadows. It is following Jesus on the way. There may be weddings and wine on that path, but there will be craggy stretches too. Suffering, even—ours and the world’s. Psalm 22 teaches us faith’s suffering well. But Psalm 23 reminds us that even then—especially then—God our shepherd, the Son who experienced death on the cross, the Father who experienced the death of the Son, the Spirit who bound the two in mystical agony will Shepherd us on. God goes ahead. And for those of us on this side of the Kingdom, that is good news indeed. In Psalm 22, verses 20 and 21a, the Psalmist continues his cry for delivery. He is surrounded by wild dogs and cries out to be saved from the “mouth of the lion.” But then there’s a pause. Something happens. Right there in verse 21 is a sudden change, “you have rescued me.”

    24 For he did not despise or abhor the affl iction of the affl icted; he did not hide his face from me, but heard when I cried to him.

    Jesus died before he could quote these verses. The agony of Friday stretched into the void of Saturday, but then came Sunday. There’s a pause, a space, and there’s the risen Lord bearing the wounds of the way, shepherding us beyond vales and valleys and into the house of the Lord for many long days. Don’t get me wrong, Friday is not simply negated by Sunday. The pain of the shadow does not disappear in the meadow. But our suffering is enfolded into the heart of a God who bears it and redeems it, who leads us and redeems us. Psalm 22 and 23 are of one piece, a brief on life this side of the Kingdom. One is not complete without the other. And they both call us to act more like sheep. We who pride ourselves on our rugged individualism, our wit and wisdom, we who fool ourselves with myths of self-made men and absolute freedom. If God is truly our shepherd, then we are truly sheep. We need leading. And we need our fl ock. Otherwise , in vale, valley, and meadow, we are lost.


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    Poor Baarack. I wonder what happened to him. Was he spooked? Did he fl ee? Was there a green-grass meadow where the food was plentiful that he thought looked better than the fi eld ahead? One way or another he found himself separated. And the weight of his wool, the encircling darkness around his eyes nearly did him in. Until, that is, he found his way back to the fl ock, and his life was restored. If we are going to be sheep, we need to accept some shepherding. We need not run to grassier meadows or strike out on our own. We stand, as did the Psalmist, in the midst of the congregation, bearing the scars of our suffering and proclaiming God’s redemptive salvation. What do the Psalms teach us? Trust God’s leading and stick together, through vales and in meadows. Rejoice with one another, and bear one another’s forsakenness. The table is set. The house is full, the fl ock is returned to its whole.

    27 All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the Lord; and all the families of the nations shall worship before him.

    29 To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and I shall live for him. 30 Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord, 31 and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it.

    And the Lord will be our shepherd, and we God’s sheep.

    Notes 1 Robert Alter, The Book of Psalms: A Translation with Commentary (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2007), 78-80. 2 Nur-Azna Sanusi, “Baarack from the brink: Wild sheep rescued in Australia shorn of 35kg fleece,” Reuters, February 23, 2021,https://www.reuters.com/article/us-australia-sheep/baarack-from-the-brinkwild -sheep-rescued-in-australia-shorn-of-35-kg-fleece-idUSKBN2AO0CW. W. W 3. Walter Brueggemann, From Whom No Secrets Are Hid: Introducing the Psalms (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2014), 100-105. I am indebted to J. Moltmann’s work in The Crucified God and Jesus Christ for Today’s World for his d d consideration of the Trinity’s participation in the moment of Jesus’ death, a theology that permeates my understanding of divinity and influences deeply Lenten and Easter proclamation.

  • Preaching Repentance: Claiming the Gift of Our Humanity

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    Preaching Repentance:

    Claiming the Gift of Our Humanity

    Thomas W. Currie

    Georgetown, Texas

    In his poem “The Shield of Achilles,” W. H. Auden depicts a world unburdened by repentance or its possibility. The scene is a simple one: Thetis, Achilles’s mother, has come to watch Hephaestos forge a shield for her darling son. Overlooking the blacksmith’s shoulder, Thetis hopes to fi nd images of fl owers decorating the shield or dancing girls moving to sweet music. Instead she sees lines of soldiers kicking up dust beneath a leaden sky, trampling weed-choked fi elds beside barbed wire fences enclosing inmates surveying the approaching misery. The penultimate verse of the poem describes a world shorn of any forgiving mercy:

    A ragged urchin, aimless and alone, Loitered about that vacancy; a bird Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone: That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third, Were axioms to him, who never heard Of any world where promises were kept, Or one could weep because another wept.1

    In a world uncradled by a covenant of love, there cannot be any promises because such can be ventured only where the most basic promise has already been kept. And there can be no tears because without the mercy that binds us to another, tears are pointless. One does not weep over statistics. There is only force, power, the grim victories of the strong over the weak. In the world of Achilles, the only shame is losing, the only guilt is in admitting defeat. What passes for repentance in such a world looks more like “show trials,” “struggle sessions,” and “re-education camps.” Such is the world of death, where even “the strong, iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles…would not live long.” This is a world where apologies are as pointless as tears. That is the problem Auden’s poem raises. What if there is no forgiveness? What if the ideologues are right and the only answer is to silence others, dismissing them as “losers”? How does one become human in a world without mercy? Granted, we might fi nd such a world unpalatable, but perhaps not. Nietzsche missed the thin air of heroic deeds and was weary with the claims of a slave religion that undermined what he regarded as true human excellence. And he is far from being alone in a culture like our own that celebrates winning, never apologizing, succeeding, and “just doing it.” Who are we to object to Achilles and his shield? Does the gospel have something to say beyond Thetis’s sentimental disappointment with the brutalities portrayed in Hephaestos’s forge? Perhaps another question will sharpen our thoughts. If Achilles’s world is as grim as Auden makes it out to be, what is there in the gospel that would challenge such a hopeless view of human life? One might think it strange to latch on to the gospel’s word of repentance at this point, but could that word actually direct us to the hope that


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    seems absent from Achilles’s shield? Repentance, after all, has a memory not just of sin but also of grace, and exists only as there is a prior mercy that summons it forth. It can still recall One whose promise was kept according to its crucifi ed terms, and whose tears were wept for friend and foe alike. In death this One engendered life, and it is his mercy that makes tears possible, promises conceivable, our humanity visible even to us. Ave crux spes unica (“Hail to the Cross, our only hope”). In preaching repentance there is a temptation to think that it is a call to some pious virtue of our own that will, like spinach or castor oil, be “good for you.” One must earnestly repent. One must sincerely repent. The matter is up to us. Accordingly , repentance does not seem to be much of a life-giving thing but rather like some stylized posturing that will be both painful and humiliating. That was Nietzsche’s point. Besides, nothing is easier to fake than sincerity, and it is not all that diffi cult to render our penitent words innocuous by qualifi cations and conditions. In so much of popular culture today, “love” is not the only thing that means you never have to say you’re sorry. This righteous cause or that will do just as well. In Achilles’s world, and in ours, repentance remains something of an embarrassment, which is why we are so eager to “move on” and not even attempt to fake sorrow or regret. That way we will at least be more “honest,” we think. Yet such embarrassment ought to serve as a clue to us of repentance’s remarkable power and the humanity it bodies forth. The image of that humanity is what frightens and causes us to belittle and dismiss repentance as some self-chosen hair-shirt or hypocritical pose. That way we do not have to deal with its questions, much less its demands. But just so do we miss its liberating depths and its life-giving hopes. We see only the weakness that we have learned from Achilles and others to dismiss as beneath contempt. So what does that humanity look like? And how does repentance liberate and give hope? Eric Auerbach offers an example in his remarkable book Mimesis. In his chapter on “Fortunata,” Auerbach compares the way reality is depicted in the classical world of Roman comedy (Petronius) and history (Tacitus) with that of the New Testament, particularly the gospel of Mark. In Roman comedy, peasants are either fi gures of fun or objects of scorn. And in the aristocratic history that rehearses the deeds of “great men,” the lower classes merely provide the necessary, if dismissible, background to fortune’s favorites. The gospel, with its stories of Galilean fi shermen, itinerant prophets, and wayward disciples, does not easily fi t into this world. As an example, Auerbach invites particular attention to the story of Peter’s denial of Jesus found in Mark 14. Peter, though a peasant fi sherman, is not depicted either as a fi gure of fun or scorn. Nor is he dismissed as a “mere accessory” to the action. Instead, he “is the image of man in the highest and deepest and most tragic sense.”2 This gospel story concerns him profoundly. Though a peasant fi sherman, he can weep over his own failures. The guilt and shame he evidences reveal a heart in confl ict with itself, a weakness that, rather than diminishing Peter, makes of him a fi gure of immense moral signifi cance. What is depicted here is nothing less than an image of a new humanity, the embrace of the most common of lives in the most everyday of occurrences as objects worthy of our deepest respect and attention. Auerbach sees how revolutionary this depiction of Peter’s inner struggle is for the way we think about what it means to be a human being. In this portrayal of a common peasant’s failure to remain faithful at the point


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    of crisis, a failure that the comic writers and historians of the classical world could never even contemplate, we “witness the awakening of ‘a new heart and a new spirit,’” which will set the “whole world astir” by narrating the impact of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection on all of us.3 Indeed, that is what makes the story of Peter’s denial and his subsequent remorse not just vivid or even compelling, but possible. The gospel tells of God’s entrance into this world in the most humble of ways, of his coming to those of lowly stature in the world’s eyes, and ministering to all sorts of people amidst everyday circumstances, and fi nally suffering rejection and an ignominious death on the cross. The guilt and shame that have ever attended the failures of disciples to bear faithful witness to Jesus Christ are but the residue of his love for sinners and can only be acknowledged and even claimed in light of Christ’s own self-giving. Barth is right: the knowledge of our sin is knowledge of Jesus Christ.4 As the creed reminds us, we do not believe in sin but rather in “the forgiveness of sins.” Our true brokenness and its full extent are revealed only in the light of that forgiveness embodied in Jesus Christ. We cannot even see it otherwise. But even in Christ, our brokenness is not what defi nes us. Rather, it is his love that refuses to be without those whom he has claimed and forgiven that defi nes us. To repent is to claim that love, to risk living with its embarrassing grace, its searching mercy, its adhesive binding to those we have not chosen but who are given to us as fellow recipients of God’s mercy. Far from being some virtuous act of heroic penitence, repentance is the simple(!) act of faith in Jesus Christ as Lord, an admission that we are not alone but live out of his daily grace and mercy, gifts that are ours only as they connect us in him to others. That is why Calvin can think of repentance as a lifelong claiming of God’s mercy, a venture of faith that boldly seeks to live with and into the forgiveness that is ours already and will not let us go.5 Repentance, he maintains, is how we participate in Christ, how we are drawn again and again into his presence. Its very nature, its embarrassing claims, its persistent questions like those of Jesus to his own disciples, serve to cast unwelcome light on our desire to escape such mercy and to embrace the more lethal ways of an “heroic self.” The struggle to believe in the grace of God is always a struggle to believe in God’s forgiveness of us, of me. This is why such faith must be prayed for and such repentance risked even amidst our failures, hypocrisies, and follies. For just so do we bear witness, broken as it may seem and be, to the reality of God’s mercy and the remarkable gift of our forgiven humanity.

    ***** And just so does repentance engender hope. In scripture such hope is sometimes portrayed as a coming home. The prodigal who comes to himself fi nds his way home, and almost before he can put together his little speech of repentance, he is surprised by his father who has run to meet him. In his father’s house there is not recrimination or ridicule, but joy. “Perverse and foolish oft I strayed,” the hymn sings, “but yet in love he sought me, and on his shoulder gently laid, and home rejoicing brought me.” Or as Isaac Watts would have it in paraphrasing Psalm 23, we fi nd the gift of our forgiven humanity not within ourselves, much less in our virtues, but as those who have returned to their Father’s house, “no more a stranger or a guest, but like a child at home.”


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    At other times repentance takes the form of agonized admissions of guilt and desperate pleas to be made whole. One thinks of Psalm 51, “A Psalm of David, when the prophet Nathan came to him, after he had gone into Bathsheba.” What is striking about this psalm is not the sincerity of David’s pleas or the eloquence of his words, but his confi dence that the God, who is quite aware of David’s sinfulness and who will not let that sinfulness pass without judgment, is, nevertheless, the God whose mercy endures forever. David asks for mercy fi rst, before even confessing his sin, acknowledging that his penitent pleas are risked in the knowledge of God’s own disposition : “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love, according to your abundant mercy, blot out my transgressions.” Asking to be washed thoroughly from iniquity, requesting “a clean heart,” makes no sense unless there is faith in the God whose justice knows something of forgiveness and whose mercy is deeper than the idea of every person getting what he or she deserves. Hope emerges out of the grace of a forgiving God, not from the precision of our wins and losses. Scripture also knows that repentance takes time. God’s forgiveness and our need of it are never cheap or easy. The almost novelistic account of Joseph and his brothers makes it clear that just as forgiveness precedes repentance, neither happens overnight and often only after signifi cant burdens of suffering and guilt are carried a long way. The apostle Paul reminds his Galatian friends that his striking reversal from persecuting the church to serving as its chief evangelist to the Gentiles, however sudden that may have been, required him to spend 3 years in Arabia before conferring with Cephas and James in Jerusalem, and then another 14 before returning to Jerusalem to lay his calling before the apostles gathered there. The lifelong repentance which Calvin described as the nature of the Christian pilgrimage has its roots in the story of Israel (40 years in the Wilderness!) and the church. Repentance, as living into the forgiveness of God, is the way disciples are formed. It takes time. Repentance also has a social context. Jesus’s encounter with Zacchaeus (Luke 19:1-10) and his parable of the unforgiving servant (Mt. 18:23 ff.) make that clear. To be forgiven, much is to be given the wherewithal to forgive the small debts owed to us. And if we cannot attempt at least that, then the mercy we have received will look much more like a consuming fi re of judgment.

    ***** Models of Repentance Repentance is hard, a clue to the challenge of living the Christian life. Like the risen Lord who inspires it, repentance asks tough questions. And some of these questions are not easily untangled from the self-interests of others and, it must be admitted, ourselves. For example, what might it mean for those of us who have enjoyed the fruits of others’ labors to acknowledge our debt and address faithfully ways to honor it? If repentance is the means by which we affi rm the grace of the risen Lord, should we not listen to those pressing their claims? One does not have to offer solutions here or pretend that our obligations can be met by dismissing such claims with gifts of money in the hope that we can dismiss the claimants as well. Money may well play a role in such repentance as we are led to make, but the risen Lord who asks us such uncomfortable questions may have even more costly forms of hope to present to us. The Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt, for example, issued by the Evangelical Church


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    of Germany in October of 1945, confessed publicly of the church’s failure to witness faithfully during the Nazi years. The council that issued the declaration repented of the wrongs that had been visited upon other nations and peoples through its own inadequate witness. Left unsaid was anything about the Jews, about the church’s complicity in the policies of the Nazis, about its own failure to support those who opposed the Nazi regime. Nevertheless, this confession of guilt, seen by some as a weak political capitulation to the victorious Allies, seen by others as wholly inadequate, created hopeful space for a vision of humanity responsible before God and accountable to God for the lives under its care. It was well-received by few, an indication that repentance is not to be undertaken to gain popularity or sway public opinion, much less to explain things. It is an attempt, however belated, to tell the truth, however painful. Sometimes repentance is not nearly so public. John Profumo was a high-ranking member of Harold Macmillan’s cabinet in the early 1960’s. A married man, Profumo carried on an affair with a 19 year-old woman, who had previously been involved with a Soviet diplomat. British government offi cials warned Profumo that his affair was compromising him in his role as secretary of war. The affair became public, and Profumo, when questioned in Parliament, lied about his involvement. When it became clear that he lied, Profumo resigned in disgrace. But his disgrace and the lurid details of his affair are the least interesting parts of Profumo’s story. His marriage survived, and he began, quietly, working at a settlement house in East London, at fi rst performing rather menial tasks and then later becoming their chief fundraiser. He worked at Toynbee Hall for the next 30 years. He never wrote about either his failure or his repentance, never gave an interview or sought to capitalize on his story. He served. Later in life he was honored for his service, but such honors were neither sought nor celebrated. As a model of repentance, Profumo said nothing, courted no publicity, and never played the martyr or “good example.” One might wonder, given the course of his life, if in fact he discovered his true calling, even his true joy, through his service in East London. In any case, the trajectory of his years at Toynbee Hall sketched a vision of human life that contrasted sharply with the pursuit of fame and power either as a politician or as a redeemed saint. Repentance can be quite countercultural that way. Some of the best models of repentance can be found in fi ction, which does not mean that they are untrue. One of the greatest novels of the twentieth century is Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair, a story that is almost exclusively about repentance, a very reluctant, angry, and fi nally life-giving repentance. The novel begins with an epigram by Leon Bloy: “Man has places in his heart which do not yet exist, and into them enters suffering in order that they may have existence.”6The suffering that enters Maurice Bendrix’s life is the incipient faith of his lover, Sarah Miles, who in a moment of fear and terror caused by a bomb falling near his fl at in London during World War II, begins to pray to God to spare her lover’s life. His life is spared, and Sarah takes this gift as an answer to her prayer. She begins to struggle with her own faith, to pray, and to bring an end to the affair. Bendrix thinks she has left him for another, which she has, but not in the way he thinks. Eventually he comes to understand that Sarah believes and is attempting to live out in some measure a life of faithfulness to God. Bendrix, who would be quite comfortable in Achilles’ world, comes to hate God for taking Sarah from him, even calling the story he is telling “a record of hate far more than love.” But such hatred is dangerous, because it draws him closer and


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    closer through the strange alchemy of grace to the God in whom he is struggling not to believe. To be sure, Bendrix is no saint and his reluctant journey is fi lled with anger and pain, but by the end of the novel, he recognizes that some part of him will have to die if he is ever to learn to love. How that will work itself out is not told in detail, but in the last scene of the novel, after he has moved in to help Sarah’s husband Henry, whom he formerly despised, to deal with her death, he confesses that his own hate “was as petty as my love.” One night when he can’t sleep, he looks in on Henry: “He was just a man—one of us. He was like the fi rst enemy soldier a man encounters on a battlefi eld, dead and indistinguishable, not a White or a Red, but just a human being like himself. I put two biscuits by his bed in case he woke and turned the light out.”7 Bendrix has discovered a humanity that is able to be kind. The fi ctional account of repentance offers remarkable witness to the strange way that repentance comes as a gift, even an unwanted gift, from God, a gift, however, that has the power to make us more human. That is what happens here: the suffering, the anger, the reluctant repentance enables Bendrix, and in a way, Sarah too, to become human beings. That is the gift into which the God of grace draws sinners and liberates them from the confi nes of Achilles’s shield. The fi nal model of repentance I would offer is not really a model at all, at least not in the sense that we might easily imitate it, but is in fact the whole basis of our repentance: the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world, the one who bears our griefs and carries our sorrows, the one who, according to Hebrews, is our “high priest” who is able “to sympathize with our weakness,” having been tested as we are, even Jesus Christ (Heb.4:14ff.). He has already repented for us, and “for our sake” he who knew no sin “became sin for us” (IICor.5:21). And his repentance is what makes space for ours, what enables us, in Calvin’s words, “to participate” in him. Only Christians can sin, according to Barth, for it is the very faithfulness of the God of Jesus Christ that reveals how often and how far and how deep we fail to follow, all of which makes of repentance a constant companion, and a not unwelcome one on our earthly pilgrimage. Even in our repentance, we are not alone. Christ has gone ahead of us and beckons us to follow.

    ***** In a funeral sermon delivered by Ralph Wood on the occasion of a friend’s suicide, he had this to say:

    The central truth of the gospel is that repentance is the sign of faith. We would not repent unless we were already under the pressure of God’s salvation . What salvation means, I have come to believe, is God grasps us even when we can no longer grasp him, latching onto us even in the depths of our own personal hells. Thus we are right to hope…”that neither height nor depth, that neither principalities nor powers, that neither things present nor things to come, that neither life nor death, not even death by our own hand, can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”8

    Far from being some craven plea, sincere or not, for God’s favor, repentance is the robust claim that Jesus is Lord even over my sinfulness. My task is to deal with the hardness and gift of God’s mercy. Here is no “struggle session,” no “show trial,”


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    no “re-education camp.” Rather, here is that grace that enables us to bear with the mercy of God. That is where the strange democracy of forgiveness leaves us: “with the free confession of our sins.”9

    Notes 1.W.H. Auden, “The Shield of Achilles,” in Collected Poems, ed. Edward Mendelson (New York: Vintage Books, 1991), 598. 2. Eric Auerbach, Mimesis, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), 41. 3. Ibid. 43. 4. Cf. Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics, IV/1, pp.358 ff. 5. John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, Bk.III, iii, 9. 6. Graham Greene, The End of the Affair (New York, Penguin Books, 1975), 6. r 7. Ibid. pp. 182,183. 8. Ralph Wood, “A Grotesque Act of Repentance,” in Preaching and Professing (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans , 2009), 257. 9. W.H. Auden, “New Year Letter,” in Collected Poems, ed. Edward Mendelson (New York: Vintage Books, 1991), 241.

  • Hope on the Road

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    Hope on the Road

    Kristy Farber Mercer Island Presbyterian Church, Mercer Island, Washington

    It has been two years since I have preached an Easter sermon to a room of people. At MIPC, we didn’t begin worshipping in-person until the summer of 2021 after 16 months of pre-fi lming ourselves for worship to post online. The hard truth of life for us, and maybe for many of you, is this: we are nearing the end of 2021, and I still haven’t seen over half of the congregation since before the pandemic began. I’m hoping this fact might change come Christmas Eve (2021) as we are offering both indoor and outdoor service options, but I think it is very likely that this year, Easter Day will come—and maybe go—and there will still be many faces I haven’t looked upon for more than two full years. I am not saying these are people dropping their church affi liation or membership. I just do not know where they are, and I am praying that each of them experiences the radical mystery, hope, and promise of Easter. Seattle, and the Pacifi c Northwest in general, is a place where people have lived fairly cautiously when it comes to Covid-19. But that isn’t all that is going on in our overall lack of community life. There is also something to be said for living in a place that began social distancing decades ago, not out of safety, but as a general way of life. Seattleites have a negative reputation for being unwelcoming, dating back to the 1920’s. One local reporter wrote that while many people experience FOMO (fear of missing out), in Seattle there is something called the JOMO (joy of missing out).1 People hear about a party and politely decline, fi nding joy in the fact that they can stay home and read instead. Clearly this is not everyone at all times in life. At church, before Covid-19, we still drew a great crowd for a potluck or a camping trip. There are regulars at church who love to stay after for coffee hour. At the same time, the pandemic took a community that, as a whole, was skeptical of institutions and community experiences—people who would rather be alone than in a group—and gave them a reason not to show up to the one place where they regularly gathered in community: church. Unfortunately, while everyone was home, happy to miss out on social life, the pain of the world didn’t stop. National, world, and local news has highlighted inequity, pain, and injustice that comes at the hands of greed and fear, and there was no place to process this together. Behind closed doors, often unseen, people have been wrestling with lost jobs, divorces, mental health crises, loneliness, anger, apathy, and all the fear and grief that has come with the pandemic. More than ever, people need the hope and promise of Easter. Everywhere. They need the surprise and awe of the risen Jesus, who sees us no matter where we are and shows us that there is nothing that can separate us from him, not even death on a cross. I can and will write that sermon this year, yet I don’t know where my congregation will be on Easter morning. As I think about Easter 2022, I am drawn to the story of the two men on the road to Emmaus as the primary focus of Easter Day. These are two people who had known the community of faith and yet, when their hopes were dashed, left the group deeply disappointed, and walked away. They were disappointed because they didn’t see justice come to pass, disappointed because they thought Jesus would liberate them, disappointed in their leaders who handed Jesus over to be crucifi ed, disappointed


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    because the story of hope and possibility, as they saw it, was over. Their desperation and their movement away from the larger group is exactly where I see this text meeting the people in my community right now. It is exactly where I pray that Jesus will meet the people in my community and in this world right now, walking on a road, wondering where it all went wrong. In Luke 24:13, we meet these two people, walking and talking, trying to accept the world where what they had hoped for had not come to pass. I am fascinated to know the details of the conversation. I wonder about their history with Jesus and how they fi rst learned about him. I wonder how deeply they knew him, if at all, or if they ever spoke to him or had heard him preach, or what they expected Jesus, this “mighty prophet,” would do in their world and lives. I am curious where they were when he was killed. Luke doesn’t tell us. All we know is that they were talking “about these things that had happened.” One vague sentence to capture the miles of talking. The miles of silence. The miles of refl ection and questions and frustration shared between these two. One sentence to process the depth and pain of all that had happened. Into that conversation, Jesus shows up, as a stranger, and asks them a very pastoral question: “What are you talking about as you walk along?” His question is one I would want to ask dozens of people I haven’t seen over these last many months. What have they been talking about as they walk along in life? Is there a common thread in the stories of those who have walked away from church? Or those who have just fallen out of the habit of coming? What about those who are angry with God? Or are they having major doubts in their faith? “What are you talking about as you walk along?” I wonder. The conversations have to be telling. One of the members of my congregation, Heidi Thiese, wrote this poem in 2020 and shared it with me:

    I wonder at this sudden change A collective loss We must navigate alone

    I hold fragile hearts and big feelings Chase new monsters from Interrupted dreams

    I zoom from classes to calls A perpetual purgatory Willing calm into uncertainty

    I embrace a new Introverts’ paradise Reveling in talk no longer small

    I escape to Hogwarts and Narnia and Pemberley Words dripping magic Unto monotony


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    I watch spring unfold Nature’s undisturbed consistency Bringing resurrected hope

    I wonder what promise Our wilderness wanderings Will deliver

    It seems today that we are all walking along holding fragile hearts and big feelings , those of our own, our kids, our parents, our neighbors. I love the line about living in a world where the talk is no longer small. That happens in times of crisis, especially in a time of social distancing. We have lost the 15 second interactions with people on elevators. No more “I like your shoes,” or “have a nice day” in the grocery store because it’s hard to talk with a mask on, and we have trained ourselves to stand farther away from people. Unnecessary moments with strangers are a memory. We are living in a world where talk is no longer small, which sounds nice in theory but is hard for many of us. Throughout our lives, most of us pad the big talk, the discussions about religion and relationships and worry and fear, with some of the smaller stuff. Because it’s polite. And easy. Because it’s non-threatening and doesn’t require much emotion or thought. Once we move away from the small talk, we dive into a world few of us are ready for, a world limited to silence and deep conversation. At a church retreat with a former congregation, we once asked a man to come speak who was truly brilliant. He was engaging, thoughtful, theological. And as I went with my colleague, Mark, to pick up our speaker from the airport, Mark said to me, “Kristy, just be prepared. Don doesn’t do small talk.” 2 I responded casually, “Oh good. I get really tired talking about the weather.” Mark paused, then said, “No, Kristy, really. You need to mentally prepare because it’s disarming. Don literally does not know how to talk small.” It turns out, even with the warning, I was unprepared to meet Don. Mark introduced us on the curb outside the Asheville airport and, as we put Don’s bags in the car, Don asked, “Kristy, tell me, how has the work you’ve done this year aided in your own spiritual formation?” “Yes…,” I almost responded to this man I had just met, “I grew up in a Seattle suburb with two brothers. And I love to read….” What are you talking about as you walk along? This is Jesus’ question, and when he asks it, the conversation is anything but small. They begin by telling him the big newest news of the day (Jesus’ death), moving quickly into their experience of it all, the possibilities they had hoped for, and then the desperation they experienced. They even shared their struggle understanding some friends back in Jerusalem who had some strange ideas about an empty tomb. Their talk was personal and honest, vulnerable and deep. They shared the views on the state of the world and how it had led to hope, unmet. In 2017, Ta-Nehisi Coates was making the rounds on talk shows and podcasts to promote his book, We Were Eight Years in Power. It was his interview on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert that really stuck out to me. Toward the end of the interview, Colbert commented that he’d seen Coates in other interviews, and it seemed to him that Coates had a hard time expressing hope that things will get better in the United


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    States. Then he asked Ta-Nehisi Coates directly, “Do you have any hope tonight for the people out there (pointing to the audience at home) about how we could be a better country, how we could have better race relations, how we could have better politics?” Without much hesitation, Coates said, “No.” There was awkward laughter in the audience. Then he went on, with great sincerity, “But I’m not the person you should go to for that. You should go to your pastor. Your pastor provides you hope. Your friends provide you hope. In better times the President of the United States provides you hope…; that’s not my job.” This wasn’t the answer Colbert was looking for. “I’m not asking you to make sh– up,” he said. “I’m asking if you personally see any evidence for change in America.” Coates responded, “Maybe, maybe…but I would have to make sh– up to actually answer that question in a satisfying way.”3 I found this interview so telling. Stephen Colbert, like so many of us, was looking for an expert to tell him that the landscape of the world is looking more positive. That is what people are looking for every day, someone with credentials or a unique experience to affi rm the things we wish for, especially when we cannot see it for ourselves. We want a visible sign that the moral arc of the universe is bending toward justice. We want those who are scholars of race and politics to tell us that there is hope. We want the statistics to point to better outcomes. We want David Attenborough’s voice, at the end of the documentary Our Planet, telling us that “it doesn’t have to be this way.” We are looking for evidence of change for the better. In the Seattle area, where I serve, people do not frequently begin their search for hope with a faith community. For the most part people are not anti-church. They simply don’t take church or faith into consideration. Instead, Pacifi c Northwesterners seek hope based on what we observe and on what makes sense. We look for hope in statistics and polls and expert reviews. We look for hope in our own abilities, in all that we can accomplish. I serve and am a part of a community that reminds me a lot of the two men on the road to Emmaus. They had high hopes that they would see a world changed. They heard the stories of Jesus and thought he could be the real deal, the one to redeem Israel. They believed liberation was at hand…right up until the moment it wasn’t. I do not know the reason they stuck around Jerusalem after Jesus’ death for three days before heading toward Emmaus. Maybe they were in shock. Or maybe they thought someone else might take Jesus’ place, thinking that Peter or James could step into the role of prophet. Whatever it was, they were around long enough to hear the women when they came back from the tomb early on Easter morning. These women came back with the most miraculous and incredible story—they had found an empty tomb, and then angels told them that Jesus was alive! Yet their words were like a dream that didn’t make sense. Clearly, they thought, these women were speaking nonsense. They were not the authority on this topic. And an empty tomb was not anywhere in their limited imaginations. These two followers of Jesus had very little capacity to envision the mystery, hope, and promise at hand. They could not look beyond their own experiences and expectations to see the miracle of the day. Jesus’ death destroyed all their hopes. For


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    them, when Jesus died, so did the promises of the Kingdom. They heard this tale of an empty tomb and set out on their way, fi lled with disappointment because the world they were living in, the one they understood, was too small for the miracle of Easter. Walking a road of disappointment is a theme in our common life. This pandemic has been a crash course for people of all ages in disappointment—everything from not being with loved ones when they die to a child desperate for a chance to have recess when school is closed. Those who have been working toward social justice for a lifetime are disappointed in the slow change, and those who have just begun the world are realizing the long, hard work it takes to move the needle a small amount. We are disappointed in our political system, our economics, our ability to care for the planet. We are disappointed in ourselves and what we haven’t done. We know disappointment. We have looked for ways that this world could be better, signs that it is improving, ways we can make it better, and we have come up empty. As Jesus approached these disciples, he did so as a stranger. “What are you talking about as you walk along?” he asked. The question brought stillness to the moment. They didn’t know it, but they were in the presence of the resurrected Christ. The risen Jesus entered into their world, changing the landscape of the story completely. “What are you talking about as you walk along?” From the stillness they went on to share their story of grief. Jesus didn’t interrupt them. He didn’t correct them. He gave them room to name what they were feeling. And then he spoke with a great amount of authority about himself, about the things they did not see because their vision of the world and of scripture was too limited. His words must have been compelling because the two on the road begged him to stay, even as he was about to leave. He wanted them to believe. They were compelled, but they didn’t get it. They couldn’t open their eyes to life out of death, to hope that came in this way. They remind me of Alice in Through the Looking Glass when she is talking with the White Queen. At some point, the Queen tells Alice that she is 105 years old.

    “I can’t believe that!” Alice says. “Can’t you?” The queen responds in a pitying tone. “Try again: draw a long breath, and shut your eyes.” Alice laughed. “There is no use trying,” she says. “One can’t believe impossible things.” “I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” the Queen tells her. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes, I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast!”4

    These men had practiced hoping in the things they could know and see. They had very little experience, very little practice hoping and believing in impossible things. The message of Easter is an impossible message. Jesus died and then God raised Jesus from the dead. Jesus is alive, now, sharing with all the impossible, mysterious, hopeful promise that death will never have the last word. That new life is possible in every place we look, on every road we walk, in every disappointment, and in all despair. This message is what we need today, and we need it not just in church, but on the road. We need it in our pain and our apathy. We need it because, as hard as we look, we aren’t fi nding this hope anywhere else. Our vision is skewed by our own


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    limitations rather than opening our eyes, together, to the movement of God. This day. In this world. Breaking in to bring life in all the places where we are looking and all d the places where we have given up. Jesus broke bread with these two, and their eyes were open. They understood it all in the table, in the blessing, breaking, and giving in love. They had expected none of this. They didn’t see it coming. It was thrilling and terrifying, and it had them changing directions, heading back to Jerusalem. Their world opened up to a miracle that cannot be explained in any rational way. Their eyes were opened because Jesus walked with them in their pain, listened to their story, and made himself known to them as they broke bread and opened scripture. Jesus found them. The two who couldn’t fi nd hope, even when it was right before their eyes, Jesus found them. Jesus invites us along with the early church to see the radical mystery, hope, and promise of Easter. A world that God makes bigger through power beyond our rational seeing and our best statistics. Beyond our best efforts and our own work. We need the inbreaking of Easter for this kind of hope for everyone who gathers and everyone who is out on the road this year. The beauty of Easter is how Jesus fi nds each of us, wherever we may be.

    Notes 1 Christine Clarridge, The Seattle Times, “Seattle Freeze: Forget Making Friends – half of Washington residents don’t even want to talk to you,” May 28, 2019. 2 The name of the person in this story has been changed. 3 Ta-Nehisi Coates and Stephen Colbert, “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert,” October 03, 2017, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-xssa4BHuI. I heard this story referenced in an Advent sermon entitled, “Yet,” by Amy Miracle as well at Broadstreet Presbyterian Church, December 3, 2017. 4 Carroll, Lewis, Through The Looking Glass. United States: Macmillan, 1901), 88-89.

  • Beauty as an Evangelical Invitation in Secular America

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    Page 32

    Beauty as an Evangelical Invitation in Secular America

    Michael Pasquarello Beeson Divinity School, Samford University, Birmingham, Alabama

    The beauty of preaching is a gift of God, addressed by Augustine in the language of prayer and praise, “Late have I loved you, Beauty, ever so ancient and ever so new.” I want to propose that a theological aesthetic is “fitting” to invite secular people to perceive and wonder at the evangelical beauty of Christ, the image and expression of God’s glory in human form (Heb. 1, Col. 1). In Christ, the image of God which for Israel is humanity and the glory of God which for Israel is God himself come wondrously to coincide in the incarnate Word, the scriptural Word, and the proclaimed Word for the sake of the world.

    Now to him who is able to strengthen you according to my gospel and preaching of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery which was kept secret for long ages but is now disclosed and through the prophetic writings is made know to all nations, according to the command of the eternal God, to bring about the obedience of faith—to the only wise God be glory for evermore through Jesus Christ! Amen. (Romans 16:25)

    There is a kinship between a preacher’s aesthetic and ascetic sensibilities and the relation of beauty to goodness and justice. These sensibilities are active in the capacities of judging, discerning, recognizing, and perceiving what is visible, as well as apprehending what is real or illusory.1 Spiritual and moral wisdom, which are necessary for maturing as a preacher, are as much a matter of love, imagination, and perception as cognitive knowing and technical skill. We are drawn by desire and delight to what we “see” as beautiful. Goodness embodied in beautiful form evokes the power of imagination and stirs the affections to perceive its reality. Mark McIntosh suggests the Christian life requires training in aesthetic vision for speech that is true, good, and beautiful, possessing a “gener­ ated depth, freshness, and vibrancy.”2 This also requires freedom from visions of controlled, managed, flattened truth that captivate our homiletical imaginations and desires. McIntosh identifies this freedom as “loving attention,” an apprehending of the beauty of God shining within the world. “This is in some ways the most difficult act of discernment, the recognition that the great truth we so long to grasp, to make appear as beauty, to display, is more likely to make itself felt in a new quality of our regard for others, or reverence for life, our courage and loving perseverance in the face of suffering and death.”3 Aesthetic vision is conditioned in love, by love, and for love. But there is also an ascetic requirement for discerning the intelligible beauty that awakens hearers to behold God’s generous self – sharing. “Once we realize that everything is sheer gift, we begin to notice the radiance and glory of the universe shining with the divine life that gives it being.”4 This is the “evangelical beauty” that invites the world to see what it truly is: creation known, loved, and delighted in by the Creator. Illumined by the wisdom of Christ’s self-giving love, the church is freed to reimagine the world in


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    “lifting up those existing things into the flowing of giving and receiving, praise and delight that is the life of God.”5 Speaking the truth of God, humanity, and the world in Christ is indeed a “beautiful thing.” Such beauty springs from attentive, receptive listening, faith that comes by hearing and is manifested in love. “By lifting up all things in praise, the mind is able to translate them, so to speak, back into their native tongue, which is the language of pure giving and receiving. In so doing, believers receive these things as gifts, know the deepest truth of them, and delight God who created them to be enjoyed.”6 The astonishing event of the gospel and the preaching it generates invites us to consider the significant re-turn to aesthetic and affective ways of knowing in Western cultures. William Dryness refers to this turn as “post-Romantic.”7 He advocates for recovering an understanding of how people are moved by causes, practices, agendas, and activities that are the object of affection and desire and not just reason and will. Such “movements of the soul” that drive and move us as human creatures, if nurtured more deeply, would lead them to God (Poetic Theology, 5). The beauty of creation and created things, the actions of human creatures, are to be taken seriously as ways in which God is deeply involved and already in communication with them. While the things of creation are not ultimately satisfying in themselves, when seen in light of the story of Scripture and faith of the church, “they are places where, because of God’s continuing presence in Creation and God’s redemptive work in Christ and by the Spirit, God is also active, nurturing, calling, and drawing persons—and indeed all of creation—toward the perfection God intends for them” {Poetic Theology, 5-6). Dryness calls attention to the “picture” that limits faith to the knowledge of bibli­ cal topics and facts, right doctrine and morality, which means the affections and the emotions are perceived as unreliable at best. Image, metaphor, figure, and poetry are therefore suspicious, seen as deceiving, misleading, or even idolatrous. He points to the current recovery of classical devotional practices, particularly among younger Christians, seminarians, and pastors, as giving more weight to being embodied creatures dwelling in special places and times {Poetic Theology, 8 – 9). “Indeed, all the practices of corporate worship—prayer, song, preaching and service—creative actions which necessarily have emotional and aesthetic dimensions to them.” Rather than celebrating or lamenting such sensibilities, Dryness suggests these developments may “provide opportunities for Christian engagement and witness—indeed, that many betoken the attracting presence of God’s Spirit” {Poetic Theology, 9 – 10). We should welcome this desire as an invitation to rediscover deep roots, espe­ cially for the practice of preaching. The concern for style, beauty, love, passion, and good form may actually be correlated with an increased desire for God. As Dryness notes, what is needed is a renewed “theology of desire” {Poetic Theology, 11 – 13). Our listeners need to see how we are shaped more by what and whom they love and adore than what they know and do, a “therapy of the affections.”8 They want to be attracted, invited, and drawn out and beyond themselves by something or someone that is perceived as gracious, “glorious,” and disruptive of our ordinary ways, and thus capable of awakening their imaginations and eliciting love and desire {Poetic Theology, 19-21). This is not a turn more deeply into the self, but rather a kind of joy, pleasure, and delight that is both true and good, a vulnerable receptivity to God’s self-sharing in wonder and gratitude {Poetic Theology, 25). Our great need as human creatures is to be awakened to the astonishing power


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    of divine love which is able to illumine the “eyes” of hearts to perceive the beauty of God’s creative and redemptive works.9 Dryness points to the spiritual exercises practiced by Christians, “It is telling that all the spiritual exercises—prayer, medita­ tion, and reading of Scripture—involve focusing our attention outside ourselves and, eventually to God” (Poetic Theology, 33). Attentiveness to the “otherness” of God does not take us out of the world, but rather situates the church as a social reality that occupies a social space and historical path representing, albeit incompletely, God’s Trinitarian purposes for creation. “The church should be in the business of reflect­ ing, visibly and concretely, the ‘desire of the nations,’ not just because that answers to contemporary longings, but because that best represents this Triune God” (Poetic Theology, 243). The amazing newness of the world generated by the gospel story is rendered beautifully by the paradigmatic performance of Spirit-inspired apostolic preaching in the Book of Acts: Peter’s breath-taking proclamation during the observance of Pentecost, an annual festival during which Israel remembered and gave thanks for God’s faithfulness. At the heart of Pentecost was the joyful acknowledgement of God’s generous provision in the ordinary cycles of planting, tending, waiting, and harvesting. Moreover, Pentecost also marked the remembrance of the events at Sinai, of God’s giving of the Law to Israel in fire and loud thunder. Peter’s announcement of Christ as Lord is situated within the story of a pilgrim people gathered to remember the future of God’s faithfulness in a mighty outpouring of God’s Spirit as the endtime arriving “today.”10 Pentecost marks the origins of evangelical preaching as speech generated by the action of God’s Spirit. Peter is receptive and responsive to the Spirit, his sermon an act of worship proclaiming God’s mighty action in the past and unveiling God’s astonishing activity in Christ’s presence. Peter turns back to the Scriptures of Israel, particularly the poetic speech of the prophet Joel, to declare the delightfully disruptive beauty of God’s Spirit poured out in abundance on all flesh. Michael Welker describes Peter’s preaching well: “The ‘frank’ proclamation—an open and public proclamation, unafraid and borne by joyful confidence—of God’s ‘ deeds of power ’ is just as much the result of the pouring out of God’s Spirit as is a new community of diverse persons and groups of people.”11 Exercising a practical wisdom akin to that of the prophets, Peter’s attentive­ ness to the Spirit and the narrative of Israel’s Scripture reframes the experience of his listeners within the story of the gospel. Peter boldly testifies to God’s action which has generated a remarkable new state of affairs for both Israel and the nations through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. There is a timeliness and “fittingness” about this proclamation. The grand narrative of Israel’s Lord and his faithfulness through the life and ministry of Jesus is of such cosmic scope that it generates a multitude of languages for “gospelling” the mighty works of God to the nations.12 A reading of Acts 2 conveys the sense of such evangelical beauty. God is already here, for, with, and at work in the world, inviting listeners to a change of mind and heart in joyful response to the way things are now that Jesus, as Israel’s Messiah, has been raised from the dead and has poured out the Spirit on “all flesh.” This is both God’s conclusive revelation of himself and beautiful expression of God’s design for the world: the creation of a new heavens and a new earth. Peter describes the appropri­ ate response to the announcement of this new state of affairs, the blessed freedom of


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    allowing one’s self to be taken up by the Spirit into the beauty of living in the world ruled by the risen crucified Jesus over all created rulers, authorities, and powers.13 This proclamation of good news evokes the gift of repentance, or change of mind, as an intellectual, affective, and volitional turning, a remaking of the self in relation to God and others by the power of the Spirit. And while this re-turning is not the cause of salvation, it is the fruit and consequence of God’s saving beauty enjoyed with neighbors from all nations, peoples, and cultures. What this looks like for the life of the church in the world shines brightly through the whole narrative of Acts. The astonishing announcement that God rules heaven and earth through the risen, crucified Jesus takes beautiful form as the Word advances in the Spirit’s power and through the joyful obedience manifested by the church in its inviting evangelical witness to the Roman world.14 Peter’s preaching springs from and enacts the good news announced by Jesus in Luke 4 at a synagogue in Nazareth. The proclamation of good news by Jesus an­ nounced an astonishing “reversal of norms and values” in which the empowerment of the Spirit joined with the prophetic word of Isaiah 61.15 “Peter’s speech at Pentecost thus functions for the narrative of Acts much the way in which Jesus’ inaugural speech at Nazareth functions in the Gospel narrative.” In both instances, proclaiming good news in the power of the Spirit is programmatic for a narrative of prophetic speech and its enactment by a people that manifest God’s advent in intensely personal and social ways.16 “When the Spirit is received and given room in the church, the world will be created anew—toward its perfection.”17 Rowan Williams comments on the power of Christian speech to open the imagination:

    We speak because we are called, invited and authorized to speak, we speak what we have been given, out of our new “belonging,” and this is a “dependent” kind of utterance, a responsive speech. But it is not a dictated or determined utterance: revelation addresses not so much to a will called upon to submit as to an imagination called upon to “open itself’. …The integrity [and beauty] of theological utterance [including preaching].. .does not fall into line with an authoritative communication, but in the reality of its rootedness, its belonging in the new world constituted in the revelatory event or process… .God “speaks” in the response as the primary utterance: there is a dimension of “givenness,” generative power, and the discovered new world in the work of the imagination opening itself.18

    I hope this brief description of Pentecost makes clear how many contemporary strategies of evangelical preaching are often substitutes for the gospel and a departure from Peter’s astonishing announcement of Jesus, the crucified and exalted Lord who speaks in the Spirit’s power “today.” Speaking in a manner that echoes the narrative of the Prophets and Jesus, Peter’s announcement of Christ as Lord must be seen as the work of nothing less than being taken up and filled by the joy of God’s Spirit. Much “evangelical” preaching today appears to be devoted to topics, ideas, principles, rules, programs, and partisan political positions. However, if the primary emphasis of preaching is what people need to know and do, the timeliness of God’s “evangeli­ cal beauty”—descending in the Spirit here and now—recedes into the distant past and remains enclosed within an ancient text.19 The underlying assumption is that


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    becoming Christian entails the acquisition of knowledge, and that the right applica­ tion, self-awareness, and sufficient motivation lead to effective living and influential action in the “real world.” This popular approach, however, fails to take into account the attractive and compelling nature of the gospel by which the Spirit awakens listeners to the astonish­ ing reality of God who speaks and acts through the announcement of Jesus the risen Lord “today.” God takes the initiative; God fulfills God’s promises; God creates faith; God empowers response: “Faith always includes knowledge; it includes recognition. It responds to the other, surrenders itself to the other, and adopts the other’s view of reality.”20 It is faith in the risen crucified Lord that illumines the “eyes of the heart” to perceive the beauty of the gospel that is a summons to rejoice in giving God glory “today.” This, then, is the paradox of evangelical beauty, that both preachers and their listeners find their true selves by losing themselves in responding to the beauty of Christ in their midst. Beauty as an evangelical invitation may still “entice and enchant us not only to desire but also to fall in love with God the Trinity, and thereby love our neighbors.”21 As Mark McIntosh notes, because the church is a life of grace, it may itself be a “di­ vine speaking” or “word of God” within the world a sign of the possibility of a new creation appearing in the midst of this old creation, a provisional yet visible sharing in the reign of God which even now anticipates the hope of attaining our true end in the joy and delight of the Trinity.22 Luke testifies to the beauty of the church created by the Spirit of Christ. “All who believed were together and had all things in com­ mon; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. Day by day, as they spent much time together in the Temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of the people” (Acts 2:44 – 47a).

    Notes 1 Charles Mathewes, A Theology of Public Life (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 285 -296. 2 Mark A. McIntosh, Discernment and Truth’. The Spirituality and Theology of Knowledge (New York: Crossroad Publishing Company, 2004). 3 McIntosh, 204 – 5. 4 McIntosh, 245. 5 McIntosh, 247. 6 McIntosh, 248. 7 William A. Dryness, Poetic Theology: God and the Poetics of Everyday Life (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2013), 13. Hereafter cited in the text as Poetic Theology. 8 See here the excellent discussion of desire, the affections, exegesis, and beauty in Jason Byassee, Praise Seeking Understanding: Reading the Psalms with Augustine (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 115-48. 9 Nichols, The Art of God Incarnate, 136 – 152. 10 Stone, Evangelism after Christendom, 100-03. 11 Michael Welker, God the Spirit, trans. John F. Hoffmeyer (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1994), 230. Willie Jennings’s comments are worth repeating here. “If this is the first Christian sermon, then we must take note of several of its moments. First, it exists only within the Holy Spirit. It begins only after the Spirit has come. It is a second word after the words of praise have been given by God. Before the Spirit came, Peter had little to say. His words will now and forever be only commentary on what the Spirit is doing, and God has done for us in Jesus. Second, he does not stand alone. As he stands, the other disciples stand. As he stands and speaks, Israel’s prophets are echoing in his words. It is a life-draining deception to ever believe that one preaches alone. Of course, one voice speaks in the preaching, yet


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    at every moment, at any given moment when a speaker speaks, many preachers past and present, are speaking. The preacher is always a company of preachers.” Jennings, Acts, 34. 12 William H. Willimon, Acts: A Biblical Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1988), 28033. 13 See here C. Kavin Rowe, World Upside Down: Reading Acts in the Graeco – Roman Age (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 91 – 138. 14 Stone notes, “The church, far from being one more social organization within civil society … is in­ stead the eschatological sign, the living demonstration that the end of time has come. Its very existence is a witness to the resurrection of Jesus, and this means that believers are now to live together before the world as ifhe end has come. Stone, Evangelism after Christendom, 104 (italics in the original). 15 Russell Mitman writes, “The approach of the … interpreter is that of a servant who allows the texts of Holy Scripture to take over so that, through the working of the Holy Spirit, these encounters with the texts may become communal experiences of the presence of God in Christ…. What constitutes the community and community’s conservation is the one Word, Jesus Christ, becoming enfleshed in the body of Christ through the conversation with the Scriptures that occurs in the worship event.” F. Russell Mitman, Worship in the Shape of Scripture (Cleveland: The Pilgrim Press, 2001), 26. 16 Luke Timothy Johnson, Prophetic Jesus, Prophetic Church: The Challenge of Luke – Acts to Con­ temporary Christians (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011), 87- 89. 17 Lohfink, Jesus of Nazareth, 306; See also the discussion of the Spirit and beauty in Patrick Sherry, Spirit and Beauty: An Introduction to Theological Aesthetics (SCM Press, London, 2002). 145-7. 18 Rowan Williams, On Christian Theology (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 2000), 146 – 7. 19 “Preaching tells us who God is and what he does: it is about God” … “Preaching that is about us is not gospel preaching; in fact, it is not preaching at all. That would be bad news, not good news.” Peterson, The Jesus Way, 163-4. See here the extended argument in James K.A Smith, Desiring the Kingdom: Worship, Worldview, and Cultural Formation, Vol. 1, in Cultural Liturgies (Grand Rapids: Baker Aca­ demic, 2009). “The telos [or end] to which our love is aimed is not a list of ideas or propositions or doctrines; it is not a list of abstract, disembodied concepts or values. Rather, the reason a vision of the good life moves us is because it is a more affective, sensible, even aesthetic picture of what the good life looks like. A vision of the good life captures our hearts and imaginations not by providing a set of rules or ideals, but by painting a picture of what it looks like for us to flourish and live well.” 53. 20 Gerhard Lohfink, Jesus of Nazareth: What He Wanted, Who He Was, trans. Linda M. Maloney (Col­ legeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2012), 21. 21 Bryan D. Spinks, The Worship Mall: Contemporary Responses to Contemporary Culture (New York: Church Publishing, 2010), 216. 22 Here I have benefitted from the insight of Mark A. McIntosh, Divine Teaching: An Introduction to Christian Theology (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2008), 187; See also Jennings’ helpful comments, “What is at stake here was not the giving up of all possessions but the giving up of each one, one by one as the Spirit gives direction, and as the ministry of Jesus may demand. Thus anything they had that might be used to bring people into sight and sound of the incarnate life, anything they had that might be used to draw people to life together and life itself and away from death and end the reign of poverty, hunger, and despair—such things were subject to being given up to God. The giving is for the sole purpose of announcing the reign of the Father’s love through the Son in the bonds of communion together with the Spirit.” (Jennings, Acts, 40-1.

  • On Breaking the Silence

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    On Breaking the Silence”^

    Walter Brueggemann

    Traverse City, Michigan

    Therefore the prudent will keep silent in such a time; for it is an evil time. Amos 5:13

    This odd verse is clearly a misfit in the Book of Amos. It is a misfit because it counsels silence in such an evil, dangerous time, whereas Amos evidently refused to be silenced and continued to speak out in his dangerous, evil time.

    -He refused silence because a prophet must speak when God has spoken (3:8). -He refused silence condescendingly urged by the royal priest at Bethel (7:10-17). -He refused silence until he had surveyed, in Yahwistic fashion, the inescapable destiny of neighboring nation-states (1:3-2:3). -He refused silence until he had anticipated the divine ruin of both Israel and Judah (2:4-5,6-16). -He refused silence until he had moved through divine judgment and arrived at affirming constructive hope (9:11-15). -He refused silence until he had likened the chosen people, Israel, to every other people (9:7).

    It appears that our verse 5:13 is a scribal note added to the work of Amos in order to counter the danger of his relentless utterance by urging readers of Amos not to imitate his boldness. The key word in the verse is skl it means to act wisely or knowing to bring forth advantage or gain. In the scribal insistence of this verse, one can readily observe that keeping silent is an advantage in a dangerous time—^better not to call attention to one’s self. Conversely, speaking out is unwise, dangerous, and risky, and unlikely to bring one any advantage or gain. This new advice, based on observation, helps us to see that Amos, in his relentless utterance, is taking huge risks that cannot possibly produce wellbeing for him. This is not, I suspect, a new insight for Amos from the scribe. Amos knew very well that it would cost less to be ‘prudent.” He knew, likely from the outset, that his searing speech could only bring him trouble. But he spoke anyway. Indeed, he had to speak. He was compelled to speak by what was deepest in his faith and in his identity:

    The lion has roared; Who will not fear? The Lord God has spoken; who can but prophesy? (3:8)

    It is easy enough to transpose this conflict between Amos and the more cautious scribe into our own “evil time.” The benefit of safe silence is well known among us. Ì6


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    Political leaders know not to comment unnecessarily on dangerous risky issues and regularly find safety in “no comment.” Church leaders know, from hard experience, that it is easier and safer to keep silent about vex questions of church and society, justice and gender, not to say anything about economics. The collusion of silence in the face of great issues is roughly vote for the status quo, resistance to change, and rejection of the newly emergent that might indeed be the gift of God. But not so Amos, who had no interest in being “prudent”! Not so the brave leaders who run risks and make newness possible. Not so the prophetic tradition of covenantal faith. Thus Amos is not unlike the later Jeremiah who found that he could not keep silent, or he got severe heart bum (Jeremiah 20:8-9). I had this verse from Amos in purview as I read the brief memoir of Roy Bour­ geois, a long time Roman Catholic priest of the Maryknoll order. I got a copy of his memoir Male Supremacy in the Roman Catholic Church: An Insider’s View, sent to me by my irascible friend Wendell Franklin Wentz. As a young man. Bourgeois volunteered to go to Vietnam where he served a year as a naval officer: “In my fourth year of military service, the leaders of my country and church told us we had to go to Vietnam ‘to stop the spread of godless communism.’ I did not question them. I volunteered for duty in Vietnam, believing that the cause was noble and I would be doing God’s work” (vi). During the war he saw the violence and suffering that produced a great number of orphans in Vietnam that “opened my eyes to the concept of solidarity” (vii). After the war, he enrolled in the Maryknoll seminary in Ossining, New York, and was or­ dained as a Catholic priest in 1972. Upon graduation he was given a mission assign­ ment by the Maryknoll community serving the poor in Bolivia. In his fourth year in Bolivia, he “made a decision to break my silence and join the poor in their resistance against the violence and brutality of the military dictatorship” (20). He was arrested and deported. Upon the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero in 1980, Bourgeois joined the human rights delegation to El Salvador. He became acutely aware of the way the US military supported the local wealthy elite against the poor. He learned of “the School of the Americas” at Fort Benning, where soldiers from Central America were trained for combat against their own poor. He protested mightily and cunningly against the School at Fort Benning, was arrest­ ed, and after protest in prison was given solitary confinement, first in Terre Haute and then in Sandstone, Minnesota. After serving his sentence and after a stint as a Trappist monk, he was again sent to prison for his protest against military violence against Central American peasants. But then, after such a long ordeal on the political front, he began to break the silence closer home concerning the practices of the Roman Catholic Church that pro­ hibited the ordination of women. He noticed the patriarchal monopoly in the church and in his own Maryknoll order. He spoke about the matter; it did not take long at all for the Vatican to notice him and his protest. He was promptly expelled from the


    Page 43

    priesthood and soon after expelled as well from the Maryknoll community. While he received tacit support from many of his priest-friends, he was appalled at the general refusal to break the silence against the zealous exclusivism in the church. While he had protested governmental policy, it was breaking silence about church policy and practice that proved most costly to him. But he spoke out! And before he finishes his book, he speaks out concerning sexual abuse and ignorance in the church concerning homosexuality. His book, however, does not end with an accent on the critical, as urgent and important as that is. Rather he speaks and writes of hope. He finds hope in a letter signed by fifty-one members of his Maryknoll community asking that he not be dis­ missed from the order. He finds hope in a letter of support from one hundred and thir­ teen nuns. He finds hope through his rich, energizing correspondence by a number of folk who write to him. He finds hope in his capacity, after the manner of Nelson Mandela, to relinquish his anger and move on in hope:

    I find great hope and joy in knowing that men, no matter how hard they work at it, cannot keep doors closed forever.. ..In the ongoing struggle for justice and equality in the Catholic Church, my hope is in women and youth. I am grateful for the women in the church who have educated and empowered me to break my silence about the hypocrisy and corruption of the all-male priesthood. And I am grateful to our young people, including my own family, who refuse to belong to any church or organization that does not treat all of its members as equals. (89, 91)

    The finish of Bourgeois in hope is not unlike the finish of the prophet Amos who did not linger in “prudenee”:

    On that day I will raise up the booth of David that is fallen, and repair its breaehes, and raise up its ruins, and rebuild it as in the days of old, in order that they may possess the remnant of Edom and all the nations who are called by my name, says the Lord who does this. The time is coming, says the Lord, when the one who plows shall overtake the one who reaps, and the treader of grapes the one who sows the seed; the mountains shall drip sweet wine, and all the hills shall flow with it. I will restore the fortunes of my people Israel, and they shall rebuild the ruined cities and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and drink their wine.


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    and they shall make gardens and eat their fruit. I will plant then on their land, and they shall never again be plucked up out of the land that I have given them, says the Lord your God. (Amos 9:11-15)

    Breaking the silence and evoking intense hostility did not, for Bourgeois, lead to despair. It rather led to anticipation for time to come, because God’s power for life will not finally be shackled or controlled by fearful ideology. We do not know, finally, how breaking the silence ended for Amos. But we may imagine that Amos finished, not unlike Bourgeois, full of anticipation for time to come, because the God of the gospel is not yet finished. Thus I write partly as a grateful salute to Bourgeois for his steadfastness and courage. Beyond that, however, I pose the question of the “prudence” of keeping si­ lent as it may pertain to the rest of us. We are, in our society, set in a long and durable practice of white, male, heterosexual hegemony. Any loss or apparent loss of that hegemony evokes fear and hostility, often couched as virtue for old time values. The retrenchment to preserve white, male, heterosexual domination is operative every­ where among us, everywhere from thuggery that welcomes violence to dark money that is easily allied with thuggery. The success of the combination of thuggery and dark money depends upon the tacit support of an unthinking public that is readily won to the status quo. In such an environment, prudence is useful, practical, and roughly profitable. Conversely, breaking the silence about racial matters challenges white suprema­ cy; breaking the silence about gender challenges the hegemony of patriarchy; break­ ing the silence about gender difference evokes violent hostility. All of these acts of silence-breaking are markedly upsetting, inconvenient, and costly. We may be alert that there is a widespread inclination to keep things as they are, without change, by silencing alternatives as dangerous, unwelcome, unpatriotic, un-American, or un­ christian. Given that reality of social fear and social control, here we are as a community of truth-tellers linked to the God of all truth. It is no wonder that Jeremiah, the prophet most closely attuned to our context, at the break-point of his society, found himself deeply situated in falsehood that carefully distorted social reality:

    From the least to the greatest of them, everyone is greedy for unjust gain; and from prophet to priest, everyone deals falsely. They have treated the wound of my people carelessly, saying, “Peace, peace” when there is no peace. (6:13-14; see 8:10-11)


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    The prophets are prophesying to you a lying vision, worthless divination, and the deceit of their own minds. (14:14)

    I have heard what the prophets have said who prophesy lies in my name, saying, “I have dreamed, I have dreamed!” How long? Will the hearts of the prophets ever turn back—those who prophesy lies , and who prophesy the deceits of their own heart? (23:25-26)

    In such an environment, the need for honest truth-telling is urgent concerning race, gender, sexual orientation, and finally economics. Such speaking out need not be confrontational or dramatic as has been the case with Amos and with Bourgeois. It can be quiet and practical, but nonetheless insistent. Silence is a collusion with hidden barbarism and exploitation. It is time now for speaking. The familiar words of Martin Niemoeller, from his own experience under Nazism, have become almost a cliché among us:

    First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out— because I was not a Socialist. Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out— because I was not a Trade Unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

    The fact that these words are familiar to us does not keep them from being true and pertinent for us. The repeated admission “I did not speak out,” is readily at hand for almost all of us. This time it will not be different.. .before it is too late, before they come for us. In the very long run, “prudence” may not be as prudent as it read­ ily appears. As we all saw and heard, one of the rioters at the capitol insurrection on January 6 said boldly, “We are coming for you.”

    *“Breaking the Silence” appeared first in “The Church Anew” blog.

  • A Final Word: Transitions for the JP

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    A Final Word: Transitions for the JP

    Erskine Clarke

    Montreat, North Carolina

    I This Pentecost issue marks forty-five years of publication for the Journal for Preachers and its transition to splendid new leadership. Mark Ramsey, executive director of The Ministry Cooperative, becomes the new publisher, and Ted Wardlaw, retiring president of Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary, becomes the new edi­ tor. Both bring deep pastoral experience to their leadership of the JP, and both bring wide contacts and personal friendships with pastors from many different backgrounds. The Ministry Cooperative will assume ownership and responsibility for the journal. Mark and Ted are assembling a wonderful group of young associate editors, diverse pastors from a variety of congregational settings, who will help to guide the JP in the years ahead as it seeks to be a faithful and rich resource for the preaching ministry of the church. Under Tom Long’s leadership, the JP received a generous grant from the Calvin Institute for Christian Worship to help with the transition. The grant will allow us to gather in April (I am writing in February.) a group of pastors, half of whom subscribe to the JP and half of whom do not, to rethink the mission and shape of the journal. Among the questions to be addressed by the consultation are

    1. Is there a need among pastors for a journal like Journal for Preachers, one that brings to the practical ministry of preaching solid biblical, theo­ logical, and social scholarship? 2. Are there other preaching resources beyond a print journal that pastors desire but currently do not have available? 3. What does the current journal do well and do not so well? Is there a desire for different features and content? 4. Are the current format and publishing schedule of the journal still the best options for pastors? 5. Is the current plan of delivery in both print and digital versions the best option?

    The consultation’s discussions will help to shape the future character and direc­ tion of the JP. Because the consultation takes place after this Pentecost issue goes to press, subscribers will receive in late spring a letter from Mark and Ted about the results of the consultation and the plans that flow from it. And they will provide in the Advent issue, 2022, a more extended take on what is in the letter. Because this transition is a significant moment in the history of the JP, I have been asked to write a brief history of the JP, and Walter Brueggemann has been asked to write his reflections on the work and character of the journal. What follows below is not an attempt to inflate the importance of our little journal. It is rather an attempt to tell a brief and simple story of a publication intended to be a resource, in its time and place, for the preaching ministry of the church. The story embraces and gives hints


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    of many stories of many people who, during the last four and a half decades, found that a part of their Christian vocation was to support the theologians of the church, those preachers who week by week announce to gathered congregations the good news of Jesus Christ.

    II The journal grew out of a gathering of pastors when Jimmy Carter was president. At Joe Harvard’s invitation, we began meeting twice a year at the North Decatur Presbyterian Church in Atlanta. We called ourselves the Young Pastors Group, think­ ing, I suppose, that we would be young forever. There were maybe twenty-five of us who gathered, talked about what was going on in our ministries, and listened to papers delivered by colleagues on some biblical or theological theme. We were white southerners who had been in college and seminary during the Civil Rights Movement of the sixties and in our first parishes during the Vietnam War of the early seventies. We were men and women who were convinced out of both our theological stance and personal histories that there was an integral relationship between our ministries and the great issues of our time. The question we wondered about was how to be good pastors and responsible public theologians during the social, cultural, and economic dislocations we thought likely to occur in the coming decades. Shortly after one of our meetings, I called Cam Murchison, then a pastor in East Tennessee, and asked if he was interested in our working together on a new journal intended for preachers. He said “yes.” In the Foreword to the first issue, the editors wrote:

    This journal is based on the conviction that there is a special and indis­ pensable theological genre and task that is found in the preaching ministry of the church and nowhere else—to interpret for congregations, week by week, the Word of God as it confronts our particular history. We hope this journal will encourage preacher-theologians to accept and affirm, without apology, this important task in the life of the church. In a very basic sense, these persons are the theologians of the church. That fact is at once awe­ some and exciting. It is awesome because it is always humbling and often frightening to believe that as preachers and pastors something as important as the theological integrity and health of the Church is entrusted to our care. It is exciting because it gives a larger significance to what might—more easily than we wish—become merely a routine of preparing and preaching sermons for the people of God.

    We began by asking friends and associates to write essays for the journal. They received no honorarium, only a year’s free subscription—a policy we have continued, allowing us to keep the subscription price low, starting with six dollars a year, in order for the journal to be available for pastors with modest salaries. We soon began seeking writers beyond our little circle of associates, and that search resulted in our beginning to have writers of genuine distinction, from various places and backgrounds, who were willing to contribute essays or sermons for publication in the journal. At the same time, the number of subscribers grew steadily, reaching a peak in the first


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    decade of this century. After the recession of 2008, the subscriber list began to shrink until it stabilized a few years ago. At the same time, the number reading the JP online began to soar, especially through the free articles offered on our website and through the link to theological libraries in this country and Canada. In 1983 Tom Long joined Cam and me as an editor. His growing reputation as a preacher and professor of homiletics with extraordinary gifts was a huge boost for the journal as he helped to shape and nurture the work of the JP. In 1990, Walter Brueggemann, who had been serving as an associate editor, became editor. Cam and Tom, with other pressing responsibilities, became associate editors, joining Joe Harvard, who had been from the first a part of the spirit behind the journal. Cam, in recent years, has taken responsibility for the deep mysteries of digital publication, and Tom has continued to add not only many brilliant essays but also his guidance, encouragement, and friendship. It is hard to exaggerate the contributions Walter has made to the JP. I suspect that every reader of the journal has quoted Walter Brueggemann in a sermon, most likely in many sermons. For over thirty years, he has contributed article after article for our readers, and he has been willing to ask distinguished theologians—ones I did not have the clout or courage to ask!—if they would contribute an article. Through all of this, he has become a generous friend, seen perhaps most clearly in his exag­ gerated comments about me in his reflections in this issue. I am sure that it is not hard to imagine what a gift it has been to me personally to have him as a colleague, and what a remarkable gift his work has been to the church. Walter reflects in his essay on those who have written for the JP, and I can only add my deep gratitude for their contributions. I remember especially those who over many years have responded to one appeal after another for another essay or ser­ mon — Catherine and Justo Gonzalez, Agnes Norfleet and Ben Sparks, Will Willimon and Jim Lowry, Sam Wells and Mary Hinkle Shore, and too many others to name but who know the important contributions they have made. The work of publication also involves, of course, the work of many “behind the scenes.” And they too have done their work as a part of their Christian vocation. Many have worked for decades for the journal, and gratitude insists that they be named at this moment of transition. Betty Cousar, Dana Campbell, and then Rosemary Raynal, as editorial associates, not only did the hard work of proof editing with care and grace but also perhaps the harder work of hounding writers who had missed their deadlines. For several decades Juliette (Jet) Harper Bullock has served as production manager, getting with patience, perseverance, and good humor each issue ready for the printer. Subscription secre­ taries Robin Dietrich, Joan Murchison, and Anna Louise Murchison have collected subscriptions from the post office and more recently PayPal and kept the subscrip­ tion list in wonderful order. And it must be said once again that Cam Murchison has handled with great care the challenges of the digital age. As can be seen in his essay in this Pentecost issue, he did such work not only as a competent “tech guy” but also as a serious theologian committed to theological education and the pastoral ministry. It obviously takes many people, working together amid many other responsibilities, to produce even a small journal. Regarding my own work for the JP, I can only say that it has been an enormous privilege for me to be a part of this effort in support of the theologians of the church, faithful preachers of the Word, who week by week proclaim the Good News to gathered


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    congregations. I have learned so much from our writers and have had my Christian faith nurtured and strengthened by their sermons and essays. And what a gift it is, having run this race with the JP, to pass it on to Mark Ramsey and Ted Wardlaw and the young associates they are gathering. Ted was my pastor in Atlanta and Mark my pastor in Asheville. They are themselves wise and faithful preachers who know that they run their race looking to the One who goes before them and who beckons us all to follow Him in hope and obedience.

  • Easter Preaching in Secular America

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    Page 3

    Easter Preaching in Secular America

    David A. Davis

    Nassau Presbyterian Church, Princeton, New Jersey

    A long time ago I was sitting in a coffee shop in Princeton talking to a visiting scholar who was in town for the year on sabbatical. The professor was joining our congregation for worship each Sunday, so I was looking to offer a pastoral welcome of sorts. What I didn’t expect was a conversation that changed how I thought about preaching resurrection hope. Our casual get acquainted conversation turned challenging and intriguing for me as I listened to the scholar’s stingy critique of the church’s proclamation on Easter and at most funerals. The gist of the argument was that preaching resurrection should not sound like the content of a greeting card. Examples given ranged from preaching that denies the reality of death to sermons full of kitschy illustrations that promote the concept of immortality of the soul. Something along the lines of “he is not dead; he’s just gone to the other side of the lake to fi sh” is what comes to mind. I think about that conversation while writing most funeral homilies and every time Easter rolls around. Every time that scene in the coffee shop comes back to me in my study, the professor’s concluding remark both inspires and haunts me a bit in my sermon writing: “Resurrection hope has to be more than whether you and I get to heaven!” I know I am not the only pastor preparing for an Easter Sunday sermon this year having preached the last two Easter mornings in an empty sanctuary. Resurrection proclamation via livestream with no worship participants in the sanctuary was certainly not unplugged, but it was unadorned. No standing room only. No brass quartets. No choir. There were fl owers that only worship leaders could smell, but there was no array of Easter hats and children in bright colored new clothes. As diffi cult as it was for preachers (yes, it was very diffi cult), the opportunity to preach Easter unadorned resulted in the unexpected opportunity to homiletically ponder the promise of resurrection hope and power liberated from the church’s piety. Yes, the conviction that the promise of the resurrection of Christ is far beyond our Easter morning fi nery is not new. It’s just that the last few years, preachers have had the chance to lean into it. Easter preaching that expands the listening congregation’s understanding and experience of resurrection hope and power is not simply optional. These days it is required. That old Easter morning sermon from fi fteen years ago just doesn’t preach anymore. Our world, our nation, our communities have been redefi ned by the magnitude of suffering and death amid the pandemic. The vitriol, hatred, and bitter division have left a stain from school board meetings to the rhetoric of the public square. The rise of Christian nationalism wedded to white supremacy in the land has elevated the term “culture war” to a frightening level. Families and congregations have been divided, and pastors have been driven out of congregations or have left ministry completely. So yes, on Easter morning the followers of the risen Christ will come craving a timely comforting, expanding, liberating word of resurrection hope. And once again the preacher will rise to speak. The preacher will dare to rise and speak to the broken world because, as Karl Barth often put it, God has spoken. God has spoken in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The world must thrive on Easter preaching in the church that serves up greet-


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    ing card poetry and relies less on content and more on the festival worship of the morning. It is not because the powers and principalities pay much attention to the church at all. Rather, such tepid resurrection proclamation by defi nition nurtures the unfaithful view that separates the church from the world, faith from politics, and the life of discipleship from life in secular America. So the demand for the preacher to expand the resurrection imagination comes with a strong sense of urgency. Yes, Easter preaching in the world and the nation these days has to be about more than whether we will all get to heaven. The place for the preacher to start this Easter is the place where the preacher was taught to start. The opportunity to preach a more robust resurrection hope begins with the biblical text and the narratives that tell of that fi rst Easter morning. Weary pastors know these same biblical texts come around on Easter year after year, whether we want them to or not! Yet, the power and the wonder of proclaiming the Living Word comes when the preacher brings the world to bear on unsuspecting, sometimes time-worn biblical texts. In a season when so much of the sermon listeners’ context seems to be imploding in so many ways, the preacher can also seize the opportunity of bringing the oh so familiar biblical text to bear on the world. Faithful Easter preaching doesn’t come from fi nding a fresh illustration or retelling an old story one hopes the congregation has forgotten. Faithful Easter preaching starts with the text—yes, even these gospel texts that really never get old. According to the Gospel of John, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb “while it was still dark” (John 20:1). The other three gospels are very clear that Easter starts at the break of day. Each refers to the dawn or the sun rising. But in John, when Mary gets to the tomb, it is still dark. Really dark. Darkness in John’s gospel has little to do with the time of day. Darkness has everything to do with all that is opposite to the mighty works of God, all the powers and principalities that work to destroy life or at least life in its fullness. Mary came to the tomb when it was still dark. In John’s gospel darkness is death. Tomb. Dark. That is death squared. This is not dark as when a theater or concert hall is empty for the evening with nothing scheduled. “The hall is dark.” This is not dark as in attending a Chekhov play and listening to the characters shout at each other about the misery of the human condition. “This play is so dark.” No, the darkness of Easter morning in John is the kind of dark that comes amid the bright lights of a hospital waiting room as you wait for the doctor, trying to tell yourself it is all a bad dream. It is the kind of dark that comes as the person you love most starts to fade before your eyes, dark like that walk from the car to the grave in the cemetery that no one can avoid because of the absolute fi nality and boundless reach of death. It was dark, and Mary was alone. Peter and the other disciple had come and gone. Mary was alone again. There is no mention of other women in John. In all that darkness, Mary stood alone outside the tomb weeping. She was not full of fear and great joy. There was no terror and amazement. She was not perplexed. Four times John tells the reader Mary was weeping. Mary’s tears were the kind of tears you can hear. She didn’t bend over to look into that tomb. She must have been doubled over in grief, anguish, and lament. Humanity’s brutal force had killed Jesus and taken him away, too. He was gone. Everything was gone. It was fi nished. Mary weeps not just for herself, but for everyone, for every single one who has stood alone, surrounded by death and darkness and who has wailed in the face of the utter absence of God.


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    After the Risen Jesus calls her by name, Mary recognizes Jesus and reaches for him. It had to be more than grabbing a hand. It certainly would not have been a pandemic elbow bump. With tears still in her eyes and running down her cheeks, Mary had to be going in for an embrace. Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God’” (John 20:17). He doesn’t tell Mary to go and tell that you have seen the Lord or to go meet him in Galilee. Jesus tells her to tell them he is ascending. Careful readers of the Gospel of John will note that John doesn’t privilege the resurrection. The glorifi cation of Jesus in John comes through his suffering, his death, his resurrection, and his ascension. They all go together. The sequence is the total package, which means when Mary reaches for the Risen Jesus and goes for the embrace, Jesus’ work is not done yet. His salvifi c work is not complete. The victory over death and the world’s darkness comes when John’s Jesus is seated at the right hand of God in all power, honor, and glory. Mary wants to hold on to the way things were. She wants to touch the Teacher who healed the sick, sat with outcasts, welcomed sinners, and both taught and modeled what a faith-fi lled life should be. But Jesus says, “No, it won’t be the same.” Mary wants to cling to the Jesus of her world, that world of an Easter morning when it was still dark. But the Risen Jesus wants to usher in a new world. As Barbara Brown Tayler put it, “He was not on his way back to her and the others. He was on his way to God, and he was taking the whole world with him.”1 With Christ’s departure comes the promised presence of Christ redefi ned: the Advocate, the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth. His ascension brings his presence: the presence of Christ in and through the lives of those who follow him; the presence of Christ unleashed in a world as the poor are cared for, the grieving are comforted, the powerful are brought low, truth is proclaimed, and love carries the day; the presence of Christ alive in the world as life conquers death, light shines where there once was darkness, generosity squelches greed, swords are smashed into plowshares, forgiveness stomps out hatred, and the hungry push away from the table now full; the presence of Christ made known to the world in and through the Body of Christ—Christ’s resurrection people. Easter preaching in a secular world is the call to the resurrection people of God to stop clinging to that world that seems to never change and start pointing to that which God knows is yet to come. It is a liberating word challenging the listeners to stop clinging to the world as they want it to be and start working for the world God promised it would be. Preaching on Easter morning offers the chance for the congregation to rise together, put a fi nger in the world’s chest, and shout “No, No, No! There is a more excellent way!” It is in the Gospel of Matthew that the Risen Jesus tells the women who came to the tomb to tell the disciples to go to Galilee and meet him there (Matt. 28:10). If the disciples had raced to the tomb in Matthew after hearing from those fi rst Easter preachers, one could presume that the Risen Christ would not be there. No, they would not see him until they went back to Galilee. Scott Hoezee has pointed out the signifi cant and often overlooked shift in location from Jerusalem to Galilee. He points out it is a distance of about eighty miles and concludes it would be at least a two to three day trip on foot and probably longer.2 So the disciples would not have seen


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    the Risen Jesus until long about Wednesday. In John, it is the evening of the day of resurrection in the Upper Room. In Luke, the two walking along the Emmaus Road see Jesus later that same day. In Mark, well in the shorter ending of Mark, no one sees the Risen Jesus. Here in Matthew, if you defi ne the New Testament experience of Easter as an encounter with the Risen Christ, then for the disciples, Easter was on a Wednesday! “Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshipped him” (Matt. 25:16). Matthew doesn’t name the mountain where the Easter encounter and the ensuing Great Commission happened. It could have been the same mountain that Jesus climbed when the devil showed up. It could have been the Mount of Transfi guration where Jesus took Peter, James, and John when Elijah and Moses showed up. But it must have been the Mount of Beatitudes where Jesus preached the Sermon on the Mount. After all, in the Great Commission, Jesus tells the disciples to teach the baptized of all nations “to obey everything that I have commanded you.” It just makes sense that they would meet back at the teaching mountain with the disciples remembering everything Jesus taught them even as they are told to remember “I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matt. 28:20). The Easter encounter for the disciples in Matthew brings together the eleven, the Risen Jesus, and his entire body of work that is the kingdom of God. His resurrection shines now through all his teaching, every healing, every touch: letting your light shine, turning the other cheek, laying aside your worries, and doing unto others. The exhortations now come with access to resurrection power, death stomping courage, and a life-giving, life-sustaining hope. Trusting in God, seeking fi rst the kingdom of God, shouting hosanna, save us, losing your life in order to save it; it is all undergirded, infused, founded on, nudged along by Christ’s resurrection spirit. It is one thing to preach in a secular America on Easter Sunday. But it is all the more important to proclaim resurrection hope on Wednesday. This place and time in the nation are demanding that preachers help listeners to see the Risen Jesus long about Wednesday—yes, his presence, his strength, his death conquering, sea calming resurrection power on Wednesday. That spirit of the Risen Jesus that lifts the soul and fi lls the heart, that teaching of the Risen Jesus that inspires and commands and lights the way, that grace of the Risen Jesus that offers salvation, that love of the Risen Jesus that will not let us go, we are going to need it on Wednesday. Because life in the nation these days feels a lot less like a Sunday morning of Easter brass and fi nery and lot more like a month of long, never-ending, gut-wrenching Wednesdays, preachers of this generation most likely agree that preaching on Sunday mornings has never been more diffi cult. But giving witness and pointing to a resurrection hope that the followers of the Risen Jesus can claim and experience on Wednesday has never been more important, for Jesus Christ and the promise of his resurrection power is so much more, so much bigger, so much better than one Easter Sunday. The women who fi rst preached Easter said, “Christ is Risen! But he is not here! He is in Galilee and he will meet us there.” This means, yes, the Risen Christ will meet us right in the thick of all…this. All of the disciples of Jesus do not experience resurrection joy fi rst thing in the morning in the Gospel of Luke, either. According to Luke, later in the day, two of the disciples “stood, still looking sad” along the road to Emmaus (Luke 24:17). It is


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    more common for preachers to preach the Emmaus Road text on one of the Sundays following Easter. So, it is easy for folks in the pew to forget that the conversation the two disciples had with the Risen Jesus happened “on that same day” (Luke 24:13). They did not recognize Jesus until he broke bread and gave it to them. Their discussion of all that had happened in Jerusalem left them in despair. It is, however, still the Day of Resurrection. This walk, talk, and be sad moment occurred on the fi rst Easter Day. It was Easter Day, and they had not heard. They still did not know that Christ had risen from the dead. In Luke, joy does not come until the end of the day. If one follows the timeline of the day in Luke 24, the word joy does not show up until the Risen Jesus stood among the disciples as they heard what happened to the two of them along the way. “While in their joy,” Luke writes, “they were disbelieving and still wondering” (Luke 24:41). Easter joy in Luke is a joy delayed, a joy that comes later, a joy that comes down the road, a joy that has a future. The fi re in Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris in 2019 happened on a Monday. It happened on the Monday of Holy Week. Many people tried to make the fi re all the more upsetting because it happened in Holy Week. That seemed more than a bit ironic in a world that pays little attention to Easter, let alone Holy Week. The truth is that fi re, destruction, and devastation happen somewhere, someplace, pretty much every Monday. Every Monday there are folks whose lives are turned upside down, whose world is rocked, who are standing knee deep in ashes far away from any Easter morning trumpet blast. Every day some of the followers of the Risen Jesus fi nd the joy of Easter hard to fi nd and wonder if joy has a future. That Holy Week in 2019, there were other church’s that burned as well. Three historic African American Churches in Louisiana’s St. Landry’s parish were burned to the ground. The houses of worship were burned to the ground not by an electrical problem, but by an evil act of hatred, bigotry, racism, white supremacy, and terror. I remember seeing a news story that told of the congregation of the Greater Union Baptist Church. That story included a photo of the thirty members of the congregation and their pastor all gathered in front of the ashes. All of them were looking right into the camera, and in the middle of the group was a young girl holding a bouquet of white fl owers. The reporter told of the congregation standing together as a body, unbroken and undamaged, as a witness to the force of love in a time marred by hate. In other words, the congregation gave witness to a resurrection faith with a future. While doing some research for this article, I read that the pastor of Greater Union Baptist Church died suddenly in January of 2020. An article described members of the congregation once again pointing to that resurrection faith. One of the church’s deacons is quoted: “Reverend Richard’s legacy is going to be one for the nation. His legacy is going to be leading us in the right direction when the world tried to tear us apart.”3 Put another away, the preacher was pointing the congregation to the future God intended for them as the world was trying to rip it away. More often than not, resurrection proclamation doesn’t come with an Easter morning trumpet blast. Preaching Easter to the world shouldn’t always come as an all dressed up, victorious, triumphant fanfare. Sometimes the resurrection promise of God shows up in the vigil of companionship with a friend of forty-fi ve years now a widow. Or maybe it comes in the dinner every couple of weeks with an old college roommate whose marriage crumbled away, who cannot fathom what the future will


    Page 8

    hold. Living resurrection promise in the world often comes without words. It also often comes later in the day. Resurrection hope comes with the kind of forgiveness that surprises the world and defi es human understanding. Resurrection joy comes in the peace that the world does not give, a peace that comes deep in the soul of one who has reason to be anxious. The most meaningful and powerful witness to resurrection promise, hope, and joy doesn’t come with a trumpet blast. It comes at the end of day, and it comes with a future. At a time when the nation’s future seems bleak to so many, maybe the best Easter preaching ought to come not with a shout, but in the whisper of the lives of God’s resurrection people. Maybe it could be left unmentioned, but Easter preaching is every Sunday preaching . Every Sunday preachers stand before their congregations to proclaim the hope and promise of the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the church and to secular America all at the same time. In a sermon given at Union Presbyterian Seminary, Brian Blount persuasively argued that when it comes to preaching that expands the listener’s resurrection imagination, pastors really have no choice. “Live resurrection in the present like you are certain resurrection is coming in the future. Fight the resurrection fi ght. Paul declares that the resurrection fi ght is a fi ght we have been given the ability and the obligation to join.”4 Joining the resurrection fi ght by defi nition includes preaching to the secular nation in and through the lives of God’s resurrection people. Secular America will never listen to this preacher or that preacher. But the church, the body of Christ, empowered and inspired by bold Easter preaching can bring change, work for justice, and sow seeds of righteousness in the land. The resurrection infused followers of Jesus unleashed on the nation praying for and working toward the world God intends. Or as Martin Luther King Jr. proclaimed at the very end of his sermon “The Drum Major Instinct,” working to “make of this old world a new world.”5

    Notes 1 Barbara Brown Taylor, Home By Another Way (Cowley Publications, 1999), 111. 2 Scott Hoezee, “Matthew 28:1-10 Commentary, Easter Day A,” Center for Excellence in Preaching, cepreaching.org. 3 Megan Wyatt, “After church set ablaze, Obelousas congregation unexpectedly loses pastor,” The Acadiana Advocate, theadvocate.com. 4 Brian Blount, “Raise the Dead” in Invasion of the Dead: Preaching Resurrection (Westminster John Knox Press, 2014), 103. 5 Martin Luther King, Jr., “The Drum Major Instinct,” Ebenezer Baptist Church, February 8, 1968, kinginstitute.stanford.edu.

  • Three Key Moves toward White Extremism

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

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    Three Key Moves toward White Extremism

    Walter Brueggemann

    Traverse City, Michigan

    Christian extremism, a.k.a. “white extremism” is widespread in our society. It comes in two forms. On the one hand, white Christian extremism is of the thuggish popular variety that tilts toward and is tempted by violence (with the rhetoric of anger and hate). This variety was on full exhibit in the capitol on January 6. On the other hand, it is of a legal variety that operates by regressive measures concerning voting rights and immigration policy (with the rhetoric of “The Constitution.”) Both forms of Christian extremism aim at protecting white Christian privilege and excluding non-whites (non-Christians) by circumscribing rights, privileges, and entitlements of US citizenship. Mythic propulsion of this extremism is the imagined threat of being “replaced.” Both forms of Christian white extremism have long depended on white supremacy that requires exclusion by both legal means and by means of thuggish intimidation.1` It happens that such Christian white extremism is currently aimed at African Americans, Islam (“radical Islam”), and Asian-Americans, but it is the same force and energy that have been directed toward other populations that constitute a threat of “the other.” The combination of thuggish and legal action has served to protect and maintain or recover white Christian monopoly. It is my judgment that we cannot fully understand white Christian extremism if we do not consider white Christian supremacy, that is, white Christian superiority. Here I will consider three important historical moments in the long-term emergence of superiority and supremacy that regularly issue in extremism.

    I. At the outset, the early Christian movement was a Jewish sect within Judaism. The early highly contested decision to open the Christian community to Gentiles opened the way for growth and expansion beyond the confi nes of a Jewish sect (Acts 15). The transport of Christian faith and Christian community west from Jerusalem to Rome is laid out in the career and epistles of the apostle Paul, in the Book of the Acts of the Apostles (see Acts 28:11-14), and in the legends of St. Peter. It was inevitable that this early movement would be transposed into a Gentile phenomenon. Even given the rapid expansion and growth of the movement, the Christian Church remained an illicit, subversive movement in the Roman Empire that was subject to abuse by imperial authorities.2All of that was changed by the “Edict of Milan” in 313 CE. The exact details of that historical turn are unclear; what is clear is that in these years, Emperor Constantine encouraged a policy and practice of toleration toward the Christian movement that was confi rmed and sealed by Licinius, emperor in the East. While the “Edict of Milan” in 313 was of a general confi rmation of religious freedom, its clear intent was to make space for the Christian movement to which Emperor Constantine became an adherent. While the “Edict of Milan” only gave “toleration” for the freedom of the Christian movement, it did not of itself confi rm Christianity as the religion of the empire. But it did not, on the other hand, preclude the political effect whereby the “religion of the


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    Emperor Constantine” became “the religion of the empire.” That is, making space for its legitimacy promptly led to the establishment of Christianity as the imperial religion in the West. Thus a ready case can be made that this moment of legitimation established Christian domination that took a long while to implement in practice. The effect was to join power to chosenness, this replicating the practice of ancient Israel that joined chosenness to power in the Davidic-Solomonic dynasty, a joining r that was only terminated by the end of the dynasty with the destruction of Jerusalem. In Jewish tradition the convergence of chosenness and power has come to belated r expression in the Zionist doctrine of the state of Israel. From the outset, the Christian movement understood itself as “the chosen of God,” but that chosenness did not until now convert to power (see John 15:16; I Corinthians 1:27-28; I Peter 2:9-10). When chosenness is linked to power, however, it is predictable that a sense of superiority and supremacy will soon follow.3 Christians (white Christians in the west) were on their way to being both supreme and superior.

    II. The long term development of the new Christian West solidifi ed into the domination of the Roman Church through the authority of the Pope, coupled with the establishment of a variety of “Christian princes.” While the relationship between and interaction among the Vatican and these several princes were complex and endlessly contested, the growing assumption of dominant Christian tradition, Christian authority, and Christian power was settled, established, and unquestioned. The tacit assumption is that these established powers (church and states) by right and by obligation should extend their authority to the entire known world so that Christendom should be conterminous with the known world. The ground for such a claim is that Christian truth was without challenge or rival, and that truth could be extended and expanded by Christian governance and the combination of business expansion, missionary effort, and where necessary, coercive military action. It was of course inevitable that such universal claims would collide with other theo-political claims, notably those of Islam in the East. Alexius, emperor in Constantinople , appealed at the end of the eleventh century to Rome for assistance and relief from Islamic political pressure. In 1095, Pope Urban II responded to that urgent appeal for help by proclaiming a crusade that would mobilize a political military force of Christian powers in the West against Muslim power in the East, and specifi cally in the context of Jerusalem:

    Urban now proclaimed the Crusade in an appeal of almost unexampled consequence. The enterprise had magnifi ed in his conception from that of aid to the hard-pressed Alexius to a general rescue of the holy places from Moslem hands….The real work of the First Crusade was accomplished by the feudal nobility of Europe….The complete defeat of an Egyptian relieving army near Ascalon on August 12, 1099, crowned the success of the Crusade.4

    Thus the barbaric assignment of the First Crusade consisted in a military assault on Muslims in the East propelled by the religious authorization of the Pope as the fi nal authority of Christendom. While the venture played out in political military ways,


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    it implied at every step the duty and obligation of Christendom to extend its reach to the East and the right to eliminate Islamic power. It is highly ironic that Saladin, Islamic ruler in Syria and Egypt, a primary adversary for the Crusaders, conducted himself with generosity that was in sharp contrast to the ruthlessness of the Christian crusaders. For our purpose, it is suffi cient to notice that the Pope and the Christian princes simply assumed the legitimacy of Christian military force to extend the presence, infl uence, and political power of Christendom to the East. Those who opposed the Crusaders, on religious grounds, were dismissed as illegitimate agents who were rightly eliminated by whatever means necessary. Thus the superiority of the Christian West, the primacy of Christian theological claims, and the propriety of Christian power were all treated as settled legitimacies. Remarkably the great historian Williston Walker can celebrate the gains of the Crusades as contributing to the “highest theological development,” yielding “great popular religious movements,” and evoking “great artistic development,” that for him allow the verdict: “Admitting that the Crusades were but one factor in this result, they were worth all their cost.”5 Such a remarkably myopic verdict is fully contained within the rights and privileges of white Western Christians without any notice of the blatant dismissal of the claims of Islam or the residue of resentment that would continue to fester for foreseeable futures. That verdict is an example of the sheer disregard of the “other” when evaluating and appreciating the gains made for the “superior” historical reality of Christendom. The Crusades performed white Western Christian superiority toward the external “other” of Islam. Within a century of the proclamation of the First Crusade (1095), the same performance of superiority was offered toward the internal “other” by the Synod of Toulouse in 1229. That Synod initiated an investigative Inquisition into a variety of “heterodoxies” that departed from the teaching of the Catholic Church and that challenged the monopoly of faith taught by the Roman Church. Thus the Inquisition can be seen as the internal expression of the same impulse to which the Crusades gave external expression. Both externally in the Crusades and internally in the Inquisition, the unquestioned authority of the church provided the warrant for aggressive action. In order to maintain that unchallenged authority, the church via the Inquisition did not hesitate to enact harsh violent measures against heterodox tendencies. The history of the Crusades and the Inquisition is, to be sure, enormously complicated . It is not complicated, however, to discern the singular claim that is championed through all of the complexity, namely, that Christian faith of a particular kind, codifi ed in a particular form, deserves to be dominant and justifi es the use of violence to enforce and maintain that claim. We have here come a very long way from the “Edict of Milan” in 313. That edict only allowed Christian faith; it did not establish it. From the fi rst, however, that “toleration” was tied to the power of the empire. As a result, what was allowed at Milan was de facto established and soon placed beyond question or challenge. When tied to power as it was in the horizon of the Christian princes, it was an easy step toward exclusive legitimacy that would not and could not tolerate the “other,” not the “other” of Islam and not the “other” of heterodox Christian teaching.


    Page 10

    III. The modern world arrived with the theological revolution of Martin Luther and the scientifi c reasoning of Rene Descartes. In that same moment, with the work of Columbus, Balboa, Magellan, Pizzaro, de Soto, and Cortez, the princes of the Christian empire readily “deserved” a whole new world of the Western hemisphere that was fi lled with both compelling resources and a population of the “other” who fi t none of the categories of imperial Christendom. That “discovery” of the New World by these daring explorers, backed by the rights, greed, and legitimacy of nations states, led to enormous energy in the claim and occupation of western lands and, not surprisingly, to intense competition for control among the European powers. In order to adjudicate such competing claims and in order to assert the authoritative reach of Christendom into “the new lands,” the Vatican in 1493 issued its decree, “The Doctrine of Discovery.”6 It is impossible to overstate the importance and long-term impact of this papal edict. It declared, in tight and comprehensive legal reasoning, the right and duty of the Spanish king to control and administer vast lands in “the new world,” the freedom to occupy the land, to possess its rich resources, and to convert or eliminate its indigenous populations. While the decree was to the immense advantage of the Spanish state that was closely allied with the papacy, we should not miss the astonishing assumption of authority by the pope and the high-handed reasoning that the “new lands” are waiting to be “discovered,” occupied, and exploited by European princes. The entire project smacks of an assumption of cultural-political superiority and of religious supremacy. The Doctrine of Discovery served to dispossess native peoples of their lands and resources, and was especially important in the colonial practices of the Englishspeaking world. The doctrine illuminates our theme of superiority and supremacy, for as Ruru, Lindberg, and Miller can assert,

    The Doctrine of Discovery has its origin in the notion of superiority. The Doctrine is built upon this largely racialized philosophy: those who were superior had superior rights to those who were inferior. “Infi del” inferiority was predicated upon notions of correspondence with the imperialist defi ned notions of humanity. Finding the basis in religious theology, the Old World was understood to exist by virtue of the theology which defi ned colonizing nation inhabitants as possessing direct relationship to the Supreme Power through his representatives on earth. Those who were unrelated to the representatives were understood to be opposed to and confl icting with the authority. They were also understood to possess less humanity. This understanding led, further, to the supremist understanding that those who did not share imperialist religious beliefs and who did act in accordance with those beliefs, were lesser humans. Lesser humans had, as well, lesser rights: to liberty, to property, to life. This list of infi dels included Indigenous peoples within the “New World.”7

    As we draw our attentions closer to the superiority and supremacy in the United States, we are able to see how the “doctrine of ‘discovery’” has come to serve white supremacy. Thus Lindsay Robertson has traced the way in which the Doctrine was incorporated into US law by Chief Justice John Marshall, and how the Doctrine be-


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    came the basis for Andrew Jackson’s displacement of the Cherokee Indians in order that whites in Georgia could secure the land as their own.8 Thus the land is claimed not by conquest but by “discovery.” A recent echo of possession “by discovery” is narrated by Patrick Phillips (Blood at the Root), who reports on the way in which African-Americans were forcibly dispatched out of Forsythe County, Georgia, in the twentieth century.9 The displacement of the black population of the county featured a combination of white extremism in both thuggish and legal types. The thuggish way consists in forcibly removing all blacks under pain of death. The legal aspect was that when blacks had abandoned their homes and property in fear, whites paid tax on the property for seven years and thereby became the new owners. The dramatic expulsion from Forsythe County is only a recent example of the long term enactment of Christian white superiority and supremacy that eventuates in extremism in both thuggish and legal modes. It takes no imagination at all to see the linkage between this displacement and the ancient displacement of the Canaanites by the chosen who were entitled to the land. We come now, in the wake of Donald Trump, to the mantra “Make America Great Again.” The phrase is shot through with racist nostalgia for the occupation of the land by those who are superior and supreme. I am bound to conclude that President Trump himself is only the point person and means of expression of that misguided sense of supremacy and superiority. That sense of superiority now receives legal expression in immigration restrictions, voter repression, and militarization of police authority, all of which aim to delegitimate the “other” that embodies threat and alternative to white domination. Thus the adrenalin behind the mantra is yet another expression of a superiority and supremacy that is deep and long-standing in white Western Christendom. Trump’s own deep and defi ning commitment to this ideology is evident, for example, in his dismissal of congresswomen with whom he disagrees, that they should all “go back to where they belong,” even though they are all and each US citizens!

    IV. The matter is much more complex than this simple enumeration. I suggest, however, that when we read backward, we are able to see the long line of development that has eventuated in Christian white extremism. One recent articulation of such extremism, of course, is the current anti-Muslim fad that concerns both a new “crusade” against Islam and an exclusion of Muslims from the United States on religious grounds. That anti-Muslim white extremism is of a piece with long-term, anti-black extremism that yields harsh reaction against any black gain in politics or economics.10 But behind that extremism toward blacks and toward Muslims and AsianAmericans (or toward any other challenging group) is the deeply rooted “doctrine of discovery” that assumes the legitimacy of white Western European control over native peoples who are incapable of self-governance. The action of “discovery” has given ground for endless land appropriation. But that “doctrine” would not have been possible had not the authority of the church and its administration of all Christendom been articulated and performed in the Crusades and the Inquisition. That enormous ecclesial assumption of authority, in turn, would not have been possible without the establishment of Christian faith as the true religion of imperial Europe and of the entire known world. The thuggish and legal means of extremism are only possible because of the long term claim of supremacy and superiority that has no capacity for


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    positive engagement with “the other.” I may add a coda that will indicate that such extremism is not simply the work of thuggery but in fact is a compelling conviction of much of the intellectual class as well. Tomoko Masuzawa has detailed the way in which “world religions” developed as a nineteenth century project in Europe.11 While the project was concerned with the fi ve world religions (Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism), the hidden but powerful agenda was to exhibit the superiority of Western Christianity. Masuzawa shows that for all of its urbane scholarship, in fact “world religions” was shot through with racist assumptions. Davis Hankins and I, moreover, have shown how this assertion of white European superiority was bootlegged into our discipline of Old Testament study in the form of “the Documentary Hypothesis” that purported to trace “religious evolution” in the Bible from “primitive Semitism” to the sophistication that culminated in Western categories of faith.12 I cite this remarkable insight from Masuzuwa to indicate how racist proclivity has permeated into the domain of critical scholarship that makes a pretence of objectivity. The current fruit of this long-term trajectory of racial superiority is the war on “radical Islam” that is readily taken to be characteristic of all Islam. This articulation of cultural reality has been given classic and effective formulation by Samuel Huntington in The Clash of Civilizations.13 That model of cultural reality now appeals with great weight not only in popular US opinion but in the high councils of learned experts. It is clear enough, in my judgment, that this current preoccupation with “radical Islam” is simply another manifestation of Western white supremacy that has shown up in opposition to Muslims in the Crusades and more broadly in the Doctrine of Discovery with the extravagance of colonial exploitation. It is of immense importance that Huntington’s well-known thesis has been effectively answered by Martha Nussbaum who has shown that it is the inability to honor the other that is the key issue in Huntington’s formulation and in the doctrine of discovery.14 (Nussbaum offers a close reading of the Hindu-Muslim confl ict in India as a case study for her compelling thesis.) It is clear that “the other”—nonChristian , non-white, non-Westerner—does not need to be honored if and when Christian white Westerners are in all cases and circumstances superior. The entire trajectory of superiority serves to diminish and dismiss “the other” as an important and defi ning presence in the world.15 Nussbaum has proposed, to the contrary, that the “clash” of which Huntington writes is in fact a “clash within.” She sees that in each of us there is a clash between fear of the other and r r welcome of the other. How we work that clash is decisive for our common human future. Because the clash is “within,” it is clear that pastors have important and quite distinctive work to do in making that clash available to our own awareness and then providing processes and venues in which the clash can be appropriately dealt with. Without such processing, it is no wonder that demagogues fi nd it easy to mobilize that great fear of the “other” in popular, violent, and dangerous ways. It is not likely that there is much thuggish supremacy among our church constituency. But it is for sure that there is much legal, polite white supremacy within the confi nes of the church. For that reason this is an urgent task for pastors. We will do well to let people in on this long term history of supremacy and how we ourselves are on the receiving end of that trajectory, much to the betrayal of evangelical faith. There is, I judge, a straight line from the Edit of Milan through the Crusades,


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    through the Doctrine of Discovery to the violence of January 6 that sought to block the proper functioning of our multi-racial democracy. All of this cannot be blamed on or credited to President Trump, because it is thick, deep, and systemic among us. There is no doubt, nevertheless, that Donald Trump has served to legitimate that long lingering destructive sentiment. It is evident, of course, that the gospel contradicts this trajectory of fear. But the undoing of its power among us will require careful, intentional, sustained teaching in order to unlearn our dominant historical-politicaltheological tradition.

    Notes 1. See James Cone, The Cross and the Lynching Tree (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2011) and the astonishing work of Ida B. wells in Paula J. Giddings, Ida: A Sword among Lions: Ida B. Wells and the Campaign against Lynching (New York: Amistad, 2008). 2. See Rodney Stark, The Triumph of Christianity: How the Jesus Movement became the World’s Largest Religion (New York: Harper One, 2011). 3. Peter Brown, Through the Eye of the Needle: Wealth, the Fall of Rome and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350-550 AD (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012). This work has traced the dramatic altering of Christianity in the fourth and fi fth centuries when wealthy persons joined and came to dominate the church. 4. Williston Walker, A History of the Christian Church, Revised edition (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1959), 220-221. 5. Walker, 224. 6. For a contemporary critical assessment of the doctrine of discovery (Inter Caetera), see Yours, Mine, Ours: Unravelling the Doctrine of Discovery, a special edition of Intotmak edited by Cheryl Woelk & k k Steve Heinrichs, published by the Mennonite Church Canada (2016). 7. Jacinta Ruru, Tracey Lindberg, and Robert J. Miller, Discovering Indigenous Lands: The Doctrine of Discovery in the English Colonies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 94. 8. See Lindsay G. Robertson, Conquest by Law: How the Discovery of America Dispossessed Indigenous Peoples of Their Lands (Oxford; Oxford University Press, 2015), and Steven T. Newcomb, Pagans in the Promised Land: Decoding the Doctrine of Christian Discovery (Golden, CO: Fulcrum, 2008). 9. Patrick Phillips, Blood at the Root: A Racial Cleansing in America (New York: Norton, 2016). 10. See Carol Anderson, White Rage: The Unspoken Truth of Our Racial Divide (New York: Bloomsbury USA, 2016). 11. Tomoko Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions: Or, How European Universalism was Preserved in the Language of Pluralism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005). 12. Walter Brueggemann and Davis Hankins, “The Invention and Persistence of Wellhausen’s World,” CBQ 75 (2013) 15-31. 13. Samuel P. Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order (New York: r Simon & Schuster, 2011). 14. Martha C. Nussbaum, The Clash Within: Democracy, Religious Violence and India’s Future (Cambridge : Belnap Press of Harvard University Press, 2007). 15. Even in the Edict of Milan, the language was only the rhetoric of “tolerance” that regularly turns out to be patronizing and condescending. Signifi cant honoring of the “other” requires much more engagement than what is indicated by “tolerance.”