Author: Sara Palmer

  • Psalm 91: Confidence in the Face of Terror

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    Psalm 91: Confidence in the Face of Terror

    Brennan W. Breed

    Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, Georgia

    I. Counteracting Power of Anxiety Let’s face it: the world is a scary place. For many of us, it feels like the further we venture into the twenty-hrst century, the more ominous it gets. We are witnessing the rise of climate chaos and resulting natural disasters, international fascistic move­ ments, unapologetic racism and sexism, militarized law enforcement, the constant threat of war, an economic structure that funnels ever more money to a vanishingly small elite, the debt burden necessary for young people to join the workforce, the breakdown of institutional norms and safeguards, and much more. Some of us may have enough political, social, and economic insulation that we do not notice these trends, but the news every morning provides ample evidence that danger lurks all around. As truth-telling ministers of the gospel, it is important to let people know that they are not merely paranoid. The growing crisis of mental health in the LInited States is not only the result of imbalanced brain chemistry and improper treatment. We are responding to real events ongoing in the world. This situation, however, is not entirely new. Life in the ancient Near East, for example, was always precarious. While the psalms were being composed, the aver­ age life expectancy was somewhere around twenty-five years.1 If people were lucky enough to live past ten years of age, they would likely live to thirty-five. Only a precious few survived longer than that. Childbirth in particular was a source of both infant and maternal mortality, but disease and malnutrition were ever-present threats to all who were fortunate enough to survive their hist few hours. Political instability, war, and pillaging, all common yet unpredictable, were also constant threats to human life. At any moment, one’s life could be overturned or lost. And yet, in the midst of this terrifying instability and uncertainty, someone wrote Psalm 91—a poem voicing unwavering trust in God’s absolute protection. For many of us today, our anxieties and fears make it difficult to speak about the future without inserting a cautionary phrase about whether or not there will actually be a future. It feels strange, perhaps false, for many today to declare boldly that God is “My refuge and my fortress; my God, in whom I trust” (Ps 91:2). Yet our ances­ tors in the faith knew well that saying something out loud did something. Speech has the performative power to change the events of the world. It can create (“I now pronounce you… ”), it can destroy (“I hereby dissolve… ”), it can re-frame (“We need to talk… ”).2 The Old Testament thematizes the creative power of speech, starting with the creative speech of God in Genesis 1:3. As Walter Brueggemann argues, “In a practical way, speech leads reality in the Old Testament. Speech constitutes reality.”3 Speech acts such as the priestly blessing in Numbers 6:24-26 recall the creative word of God and so yield “a new creation again being wrought out of chaos.”4 Likewise, the act of uttering the prophetic imagination is a “world-making” act that opens up the possibility of a new creation emerging where it was not possible before.5 Psalm 91 participates in this theology of “world-making speech” that struggles against the forces of chaos and death. And it is this aspect of the psalm that might best help


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    contemporary Christians understand its function in our lives. According to verse 1, the addressee of the psalm is “the one who dwells in the protection of the Most High.” Psalm 91 is, then, an individual psalm, addressed to someone who already trusts in YHWH and yet keenly feels the presence of existen­ tial threats. The speaker of vv. 1-13 teaches the addressee how to respond to distress without giving in to fear. At the end of the poem, God speaks an oracle of salvation directly to the addressee (vv. 14-16). The assumed setting of the psalm seems to be the temple in Jerusalem, and thus the implied speaker is a priest and the implied ad­ dressee is a terrified worshipper who has come to the temple for help.6 Other psalms of trust (see Pss 23; 121) lack the oracular and didactic setting of the psalm; from these elements of Psalm 91, we can infer that priests would recommend Psalm 23 and 121 to be recited by those who were in need of comfort. Thus, Psalm 91 provides a fairly unique insight into ancient pastoral care. In Psalm 91, the speaker refers to God several times as a provider of shelter, refuge, and defense (91:2, 4, 9); God offers this protection in the form of walls, shields, and wings. These images are reminiscent of the Jerusalem temple, where the wings of the cherubim on the ark were a symbol of YHWH’s powerful presence (Exod 25:20-22). Even the names of God used in v. 1 are ancient Canaanite names found in relation to the Jerusalem temple (Gen 14:19-20). This psalm, then, addresses someone who has already committed himself to the love and care of YHWH, the God of the temple in Jerusalem. Yet even though this individual trusts in God, mortal danger surrounds on all sides (v. 7). This individual is threatened by a wide array of evils that take vari­ ous shapes and work around the clock (night, day, dark, noontime; vv. 4-5). These descriptions are reminiscent of someone who struggles with anxiety (something that nearly a quarter of the world’s population deals with on an annual basis). While fear is “an alarm response to present or immanent danger,” anxiety is “a future-oriented” state of “preparation for possible, upcoming negative events” that are not present.7 In other words, anxiety is a generalized fear that dangers exist everywhere, constantly threatening, but hidden just outside of view. For these individuals, it is important to address patterns of thought that focus on perceived dangers by re-framing their situ­ ation. Among the most recommended treatments for those suffering from generalized anxiety disorders are conversations with trusted interlocutors who can re-create the sufferer’s world with their words, and practices of meditation and prayer that can refocus the individual on what is actually present. These practices seem to align with vv. 1-2 of Psalm 91: namely, the speaker re-frames the sufferer’s world by calling to mind the sufferer’s true identity and the actual state of affairs, (namely, that the suf­ ferer is in the protection of God Almighty), and the speaker offers words of meditation for the sufferer to repeat in times of need that constantly reaffirm this frame.

    II. Counteracting the Forces of Evil In the history of the interpretation of Psalm 91, the vast majority of Jewish and Chr istian readers have assumed that the terrors referred to in vv. 4-5 are, at least in part, demonic powers. For example, the phrase “noontime demon,” a monastic ex­ pression for depressive episodes assumed to be the result of demonic attacks, derives from the Greek translation of v. 6. Contemporary mainline Christians in the United States, however, are often reticent to discuss demons and spiritual warfare. Perhaps surprisingly, most of the authors and editors of the Old Testament seemed to share


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    their concerns (the authors of the New Testament, on the other hand, held a very dif­ ferent conviction). Whereas their ancient Near Eastern neighbors discussed demons often and performed rituals to both appease and repel them, ancient Israelite scribes minimized the discussion of demonic forces. Instead of sacrificing animals and ma­ nipulating their blood to scare away demons, as the Babylonian rituals surrounding their Akitu festival prescribe, Israelites are told to sacrifice in order to atone for their own sins (see Lev 4:23-26; 17:7).8 Instead of blaming their misfortunes on demons, as ancient Hittite soldiers did, Israelites were generally instructed to see YHWH as the source of both fortune and misfortune alike (see Job 1:21) and even “evil” spirits (1 Sam 16:14; 1 Kings 22:23). The authors and editors of the Old Testament were trying to shape a tradition that focused on one God alone, and constant references to demons—who were recipients of sacrifice throughout the ancient Near East—would have complicated this message. Yet Psalm 91 contains some of the most obvious references to demonic powers in all of the Old Testament (vv. 5-6). The poem suggests that the enemies that threaten us are greater than merely human political opponents, natural disasters, and illness. It is no coincidence that, in the New Testament, both clear references to this psalm are found in contexts that have to do with demonic powers (Matt 4:6//Luke 4:10-11; Luke 10:19). And throughout the histories of Judaism and Christianity, Psalm 91 has been understood to possess apotropaic powers that could protect the speaker from evil. The Greek, Syriac, and Aramaic translations of Psalm 91 all use the word for “demon.”9 Also, an unusual version of the psalter from Qumran includes Psalm 91 in an exorcistic appendix (11Q11). More than eighty anti-demonic objects from the ancient world have been discovered with inscriptions of at least part of Psalm 91.10 Many of these were worn as amulets to keep the wearer safe from demonic attack. Even today, many Christians around the world use Psalm 91 as an incantation or in amulet form.11 Most ancient Israelite scribes involved in the construction of Old Testament texts seem to have believed that mention of demonic forces would distract from the message of “YHWH alone.” Yet there remained a wary fascination with demons that emerges in biblical texts on occasion (see Lev 16:10; Isa 34:14), suggesting that even the most ardent Yahwists suspected that evil powers did roam the earth. Eventually, Israel encountered an event so traumatic that its theologians revisited their him belief that all good and evil came from God—namely, the persecution of Antiochus IV in 167 BCE (see Daniel 8:9-14), which led to the formation of new explanations for the existence and occasional victories of evil in the world. Ultimately, groups of Jews such as the Dead Sea Scroll community, the followers of John the Baptist, and the followers of Jesus developed a robust theology of spiritual warfare. Perhaps modern Christians who are troubled by nonspecific anxieties can sympathize with the ancient belief that evil forces lurk in the world, since it seems that the chaos surrounding us cannot be easily localized and controlled. While Leviticus teaches that sin comes from the human heart, Frederick Buechner suggests that “to take the Devil seriously is to take seriously the fact that the total evil in the world is greater than the sum of all its parts.”12 For its part, Psalm 91 suggests that evil is an active power in the world that op­ poses both God and the living. Yet the psalm does not prescribe the creation of a magic amulet or a spell to counter the power of evil.13 Instead, it recommends speak­


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    ing your faith out loud. In verse 2, the one who has put trust in YHWH is directed to say to God, “My refuge and my fortress; my God, in whom I trust.” While this may sound like an incantation, it functions as a declaration of trust. And if one’s trust is faltering in light of overwhelming threats, perhaps this speaking out loud will create precisely that which one lacks. Who are we to stand against the forces of evil, let alone pestilence, natural disasters, and misfortune? We are the ones who have put our trust in the one who delivers (v. 3). Speaking out loud may help the sufferer who imagines threat to be dispersed throughout the world, constantly “out there” without reprieve. Psychologists, psychoanalysts, and pastors have long recognized the power of speech to address internal crises. One recent study shows that when people of faith doubt their ability to meet their goals, their commitment fails—yet when they are reminded of their already-expressed faith in a powerful God, they regain their confi­ dence and recommit themselves to achieving their goals.14 The act of speaking one’s commitment does not just remind one of its existence—it quite literally reconstitutes it and gives one the confidence to press on in the midst of substantial obstacles. Perhaps this is why Psalm 91 incorporates the metaphor of the way—namely, that life is a journey we all undertake. In verse 11, the speaker reassures the addressee that God will command the divine host to watch over our “ways,” or any path that we happen to take. We are protected from stubbing our toes when traveling (v. 12) and from dangerous animals that we may meet on the path (v. 13). These proclama­ tions are metaphorical, just as the setting in the temple functions as a metaphor: God protects us throughout the journey of life, and all the dangers that have threatened us so far have come to naught because of God’s saving presence. We are all here right now because nothing yet has overcome us. At every minute of every day, we owe our existence and persistence entirely to God (see also Ps 104:27-30). Yet Psalm 91 might make some Christians feel uncomfortable because of what seems to be the transactional nature of this psalm. It might appear that if you say these precise words, then you will see this positive result. The extreme confidence of vv. 7 and 10 might feel a bit like magic (which is condemned in Deut 18:10, for example). Since God is sovereign, we have no ability to force God to respond to our personal crises with saving help, and all of us have witnessed times when God’s saving help did not arrive. How can saying some words give us total confidence that we will not succumb to the world’s threats? Here again, Psalm 91 speaks in specific ways that people in extreme duress might understand. According to recent research, people in a low state of confidence (often resulting from perceived insecurity) process information differently from those in a position of high confidence (derived often from their perceived security15). Those with low confidence focus on concrete information, whereas secure individuals better process abstract and nuanced information. Yes, it is indeed shocking to me, someone with a rather secure life at the moment, that Psalm 91:11-13 tells us that we will walk on poisonous serpents and not be harmed. Yet Psalm 91 speaks in a concrete language that fearful people understand, just as Psalm 1 tells us that the wicked will face justice and the righteous will succeed—even in the face of evidence to the contrary. It is undeniably true that I will die, and in that moment Psalm 9l’s braggadocio will seem to have failed. But until that very moment, the optimistic encouragement of Psalm 91 will do more to motivate and sustain me through life’s trials than all the carefully


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    nuanced theological treatises about God’s sovereignty. This is, incidentally, how I understand Romans 8:28-39, which reads to me like an exegesis of Psalm 91. Moreover, we have millennia of proof that this reading of Psalm 91 works: in Christian liturgy, for example, Psalm 91 has consistently played a key role in bring­ ing comfort to vulnerable worshippers, particularly those who were getting ready to sleep—notably the most restless time for sufferers of anxiety. Both Caesarius and Cassiodorus (6th c. CE) describe Psalm 91 as a daily evening song, and Benedict of Nursia (6th c. CE) added Psalm 91 to the nighttime prayer ritual of Compline.16 In rabbinic midrash, for example, one finds the opinion that Moses crafted Psalm 91 while ascending to heaven in order to defend himself against demonic assault (Num. Rab. 12:3; Midr. Teh. 91). The Talmud refers to R. Levi’s practice of praying Psalm 91 before sleep every night, while the important thirteenth-century CE commentator R. Meir of Rothenburg and the fifteenth-century Talmudist Jacob Weil even said it before naps. 17

    III. Counteracting the Dominating Powers of This World In the Gospels, references to Psalm 91 appear three times. Two of these references are Synoptic Gospel parallels (Matt 4:6//Luke 4:10-11) concerning Jesus ’ temptation in the wilderness. Perhaps ironically, it is the Devil who quotes this anti-demonic psalm, showing that scripture can be used for evil purposes. The Devil (called “the tempter” in Matthew) tells Jesus to jump from the Jerusalem temple, because God’s angels will save him, referring to Psalm 91:11-12. Yet Jesus responds that this would be a forbidden testing of God, likely since Jesus would be putting himself in inten­ tional danger simply to see if God would save him (Matt 4:7//Luke 4:12; cf. Deut 6:16). It is possible that the Gospels are implicitly arguing against the common use of Psalm 91 as a magical or exorcistic incantation, which existed even in Jesus’ own day (as in 11Q11). In Matthew and Luke’s reading of Psalm 91, it is a peoples’ lived and professed faith that will remind them of YHWH’s salvihc protection; the psalm emphatically does not, however, counsel one to show off one’s power by command­ ing YHWH to save whenever one feels like it (91:1, 9, 14-15). 18 Yet, some interpreters who focused more closely on verses 13-16 than verses 5-6 have come to slightly different conclusions. While vv. 1-11 promise divine protection for the faithful in light of troubles of many kinds, v. 13 describes the addressee tram­ pling on various dangerous animals, and in v. 15 God promises to honor the addressee. Thus, in addition to divine protection, the end of the poem promises that the faithful will themselves be triumphant and made worthy of esteem. Several biblical scholars have argued that the image of trampling upon serpents and lions participates in a larger ancient Near Eastern royal motif of kingly power over the powers of chaos.19 Psalm 91 may have served as a cubic blessing for a king heading into battle. In this context, the references to armor (v. 4), arrows (v. 5), thousands of casualties (v. 7), an encampment (v. 10), and trampling predators (v. 13) cast the entire poem as a discussion of a pitched battle. Jesus himself refers to Psalm 91 in his reaction to the testimony that the seventy disciples sent ahead of him exercised power over demons (Luke 10:17). Jesus claims that he gave the disciples this authority “to tread on snakes” and “the power of the enemy,” thus interpreting the disciples’ newfound power in terms of Psalm 91:13. While the reference to demonic powers seems very similar to the apotropaic readings


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    above, Luke’s Jesus draws a connection between the power to subdue evil spirits and the legitimation of those who have been divinely entrusted with authority. While Jesus’ message is meant to validate the power of those who are preaching the message that “the Kingdom of God has come near to you” (Luke 10:9), it has unfortunately been co-opted many times in history by those who understand the Gospel in a triumphalist, nationalistic, and militaristic fashion. Emperor Constantine, for example, used imagery drawn from Psalm 91 to adorn imperial imagery and to demonize his political opponents.20 Constantine’s use of Psalm 91:13 combines the political authority of the emperor with the spiritual authority of Christ, and likewise identifies the military enemies of the empire with the spiritual enemies of God. Those who oppose the emperor are explicitly in league with the Devil, and those who support the emperor support Christ. Similar examples of the abuse of this psalm abound: a Byzantine emperor trampled his opponents to death in a stadium as the crowd chanted Psalm 91, crusaders prayed Psalm 91 to protect them as they set out on their path of terror, and Chuck Norris wrote an Islamophobic book based on his idiosyncratic connection between September 11th and Psalm 91: l.21 It is important to note that these misreadings are common, and we must be wary lest we fall into the same trap. Yet the oracle of salvation, spoken with God’s voice, in vv. 14-16 does not need to be interpreted in such a fashion. In Jesus’ description of the Kingdom of God, there is no singular nationality that dominates others, nor is there a human political structure hellbent on enforcing hierarchies. If read as an address to someone strug­ gling with feelings of helplessness in the face of seemingly overwhelming obstacles, the statement “When they call to me, I will answer them; I will be with them in their distress” offers pastoral care rather than a political will-to-power. And for some modern readers, such as Max Horkheimer, a twentieth-century German philosopher and sociologist, Psalm 91 functions as a critique of the urge to dominate others. Throughout his life, Horkheimer struggled to understand the pow­ ers of oppression and the potential for emancipation, but near the end of his life, he rediscovered the Jewish faith of his youth. His renewed outlook led him to focus on the idea that a “wholly other” world consisting of perfect justice not only existed, but constantly beckoned to become a reality. On his deathbed, Horkheimer wrote a meditation on the power of Psalm 91. Horkheimer remembered that it was his mother’s favorite psalm, since she would pray it continually as she struggled to survive under Nazi occupation. As Horkheimer writes, “It was the expression of her certainty of a divine homeland in the face of the misery and the horror in reality…. Such confidence prevailed throughout her life in spite of a full consciousness of the disaster on the European horizon.”22 Horkheimer realized that the psalm did not excuse his mother as she whistled past the graveyard, ignoring the real dangers of the world, nor did it give her the illusion that trouble would never impinge on her life. Rather, in spite of real danger and true fear, the psalm offered Horkheimer’s mother a utopian vision of a world where justice reigns. It offered her the courage to face a world that truly did consist of dangers all around. In his reading of Psalm 91, Horkheimer followed in his mother’s footsteps, urging his audience to trust in the Almighty as a means of opposing the injustices that are rife in this world. As Horkheimer writes, “The thought of refuge as it expresses itself in Psalm 91 awakens not merely obedience, but the love for that which is other than the world and which gives meaning to life and the


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    suffering in it. Despite everything.”23 Upon his death, Horkheimer had a phrase from Psalm 91:2 (“In you Eternal One, alone I trust”) inscribed upon his gravestone in the Jewish cemetery in Bern, Switzerland, the home to which his family had fled from Nazi Germany. His parents’ gravestone, nearby in the same cemetery, had long since been engraved with the words of Psalm 91:1. Or in other words: in life and in death, we belong to the LORD.

    Notes 1 See Andrea McDowell, “Legal Aspects of Care of the Elderly in Egypt to the End of the New King­ dom,” in The Care of the Elderly in the Ancient Near East, ed. Marten Stol and Sven Peter Vleeming (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 199. 2 See Walter Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy (Minneapo­ lis: Fortress, 1997), 703-705. See also J. L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962). 3 Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament, 65. 4 Walter Brueggemann, “Kerygma of the Priestly Writers,” TAW 84 (1972): 403. 5 Walter Brueggemann, The Prophetic Imagination, 40h Anniversary Edition (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2018), 69. 6 This assertion is debated. Various scholars have suggested that the psalm originally functioned as a purification ritual, a general blessing, an oracular promise of military victory given to aking, or thanksgiv­ ing for a recovery from illness, while others argue that it represents a temple entrance liturgy, a request for asylum in the temple, an enthronement ceremony or even a song of conversion to Yahwism. Most of these proposed functions do involve a priest addressing an individual in the Jerusalem temple. See overview by Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Psalms 2: A Commentary on Psalms 51-100, ed. Klaus Baltzer, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 428-432. 7 G. Fink, “Stress, Definitions, Mechanisms, and Effects Outlined: Lessons from Anxiety,” in Stress: Concepts, Cognition, Emotion, and Behavior: Handbook of Stress, Volume 1, ed. G. Fink (London: Elsevier, 2016), 5. 8 See Christopher B. Hays, Hidden Riches: A Sourcebook for the Comparative Study of the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near East (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2014), 147-160. 9 See Breed, “Reception of the Psalms”: example of Psalm 91. 10 Thomas J. Kraus, “‘He That Dwelleth In the Help of the Highest’: Septuagint Psalm 90 and the Iconographic Program on Byzantine Armbands,” in Jewish and Christian Scripture as Artifact and Canon, ed. C. A. Evans and H. D. Zacharias (London: T&T Clark, 2009), 137-47. 11 See David Tuesday Adamo, “Decolonizing Psalm 91 in an African Perspective with Special Refer­ ence to the Culture of the Yoruba People of Nigeria,” OTE 25 (2012): 9-26; Brennan W. Breed, “The Reception History of the Psalms: The Example of Psalm 91,” in The Oxford Handbook on the Psalms, ed. William P. Brown (Oxford: Oxford University, 2014), 297-308. 12 Frederick Buechner, Wishftd Thinking: A Theological ABC (New York: Harper & Row, 1973), 19. 13 As Patrick Miller writes about the priestly blessing in Numbers 6, “One must not assume that what we have here is some sort of primitive magic… despite the clear signs that blessing in the Old Testament has an effecting power.” Miller, “The Blessing of God,” Int 29 (1975): 249. 14 Jamel Khenfer, Elyette Roux, Eric Tafani, Kristin Laurin, “When God’s (Not) Needed: Spotlight on How Belief in Divine Control Influences Goal Commitment,” Journal of Experimented Social Psychol­ ogy 70 (2017): 117-123. 15 Echo Wen Wan and Derek D. Rucker, “Confidence and Construal Framing: When Confidence Increases versus Decreases Information Processing,” Journal of Consumer Research 39 (2013): 977-992. 16 Celia Martin Chazelle, The Crucified God in the Carolingian Era: Theology and Art of Christ’s Pas­ sion (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2001), 260. 17 Joshua Trachtenberg, Jewish Magic and Superstition: A Study in Folk Religion (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2004), 116. 18 Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms 2, 430. 19 Artur Weiser, Psalms, OTL (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000), 611. 20 Breed, “Reception of the Psalms,” 304-308.


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    21 See Breed, “Reception of the Psalms,” 305-306. 22 Max Horkheimer, “Psalm 91,” in Marx, Critical Theory and Religion: A Critique of Rational Choice, trans. M. Ott, ed. W. Goldstein (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 115-120. 23 Horkheimer, “Psalm 91,” 119.

  • Alternative to ‘the Bread of Affliction’

    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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    Alternative to “the Bread of Affliction ”

    Isaiah 55

    Walter Brueggemann

    Traverse City, Michigan

    I want to tell you about a biblical phrase, “the bread of affliction.” The phrase refers to a social condition in which you eat your bread and live your life under great pressure, because there are deep demands on you, quotas to fill, deadlines to meet that may break your heart or your back (see Deut. 16:3, Isaiah 30:20). That pressure may sour your taste for bread and squeeze your life into despair.

    I. In our text in Isaiah the Israelites are exiled into Babylon. They are displaced persons under duress. They are outsiders who must hustle to measure up, who will never be good enough to be accepted. Their lives were bitter and their bread was tasteless in their mouths. They had to live a life they did not want to live under the pressure of Babylonian power, and Babylonian culture, and Babylonians expectations that were uncompromising. These displaced Israelites were no strangers to the bread of affliction. They could remember all the way back to the days of slavery in Egypt under Pharaoh. Pharaoh imposed heavy demands on them, making more bricks while they had to gather their own straw. Their lives back then were bitter and hopeless, and the bread they ate tasted like cardboard at best. Or if we fast-forward from Babylon, later on the Jews under the Roman Empire ate the bread of affliction. Their land was occupied by Roman soldiers and Roman tax collectors, and their cultural, religious identity as Jews was under assault. It is no wonder that they lost their appetite for the bread of affliction served up by Rome. It turns out that the story of God’s people is a story of the bread of affliction… right now in Isaiah in Babylonian exile, back then in Egypt under Pharaoh, and later on under the Roman Empire. Every time it was the bread of affliction, everywhere af­ flicted by bread that does not nourish! Surely it is true: everyone knows about the bread of affliction. Everyone knows about impossible quotas to fill, impossible deadliness to meet, impossible tasks to perform, impossible expectations to meet. It might be the expectations of one’s family. It might be the pressure and hassle of work. It might be the vexation caused by one’s children. It might be money worries or unbearable debt and the trap of poverty. It might be the endless vexation of premiums and copayments and deductions. Or it could be worse, no health coverage at all, or no home, or no food, life in a food desert without a grocery store. But of course the bread of affliction is not evenly distributed.

    Poor people eat more bread of affliction than do wealthy people. Women eat more bread of affliction than do men. Blacks eat more bread of affliction than do whites. Gays and lesbians eat more bread of affliction than do straights. Palestinians eat more bread of affliction than do Israelis.


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    But the bread of affliction is everywhere. It must be chewed and swallowed and ac­ cepted when we have no capacity or leverage to do otherwise. That was how it was back in Babylon, and how it is every day among us.

    II. So imagine the displaced Israelites in Babylonian exile, unhappy, sad, humiliated, in despair. And then, right in the middle of the bread of affliction comes this poet Isaiah. He came, as our best poets do, out of nowhere. Maybe he was sent by God as some poets are. Maybe the unbearable circumstance of his people evoked him. Or maybe he had an irrepressible urgency and he had to speak. What we have from him is his abrupt, staggering, disruptive utterance. He called out to his displaced people fed up with the bread of affliction: “Yo, you hungry; yo, you thirsty.” In his poetry he asked them some questions that he intended to get their attention: “What are you doing? Why do you let the Babylonians feed you such bad stuff? This is what he said:

    First question: Why do you spend your money on that which is not bread and does not nourish? Why do you eat the junk food of the empire? Why do you let the dominant economy shape your appetite and propel your life in distorted directions? Second question: Why do you labor for that which does not satisfy? Why do you use your energy and intelligence toward goals that when you achieve them are empty of meaning and purpose? Why do you let the dominant economy of Babylon send you on wild goose chases for no good reason?

    These are not really questions. Isaiah is not waiting for them to answer. These are in fact reprimands. The poet is scolding his people for letting the junk food of the empire propel their life and energy for the purposes of the empire and not for their own good.

    III. And then—take a deep breath! — the poet offers an alternative:

    Come buy and eat; Come buy wine and milk, without money, without price.

    He offers free food that is quite unlike the costly junk food of Babylon. It is Godgiven food unlike the offer of Babylon or of Pharaoh or of Rome. He uses “bread” as an image of an alternative life, no longer governed by the fake bread of affliction. He invites these vexed, sad exiles to recover their faith and live with the abundance and the freedom given by God. It’s all free! This is the news to the exiles. God offers alternative bread and alternative milk and alternative wine and alternative life. The poet says, “Listen carefully to me and eat what is good; delight yourselves in rich food.” No more bread of affliction! This offer of alternative is what the God of the gospel has been doing all along. Way back in Egypt with Pharaoh and his bread of affliction, the alternative was the


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    sweet taste of manna, the inexplicable bread of the creator God. The story goes like this in the wilderness:

    Some gathered more, some less; those who gathered much had nothing over, and those who gathered little had no shortage; they gathered as much as each of them needed (Exodus 16:17-18).

    This is what the same God of the Gospel will do later on when Jesus comes to a hungry crowd in the wilderness. They were hungry because they had been fed the bad food of Rome. And now Mark reports:

    Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, an blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to his disciples to set before the people… .All ate and were filled; and they took up twelve baskets full of broken pieces and of fish (Mark 6:41-43).

    There was enough free bread left over for all twelve tribes of Israel. In the work of Jesus, God offered these desperate folk an alternative life of abundance. This is how God works:

    Against the parsimony of Pharaoh, God sent abundant manna; Against the imperialism of Babylon, God sent free bread and. free milk and. free wine. Against the predatory power of Rome, God sent the surplus bread given by Jesus.

    That same bread is on offer outside the zone of the greedy system of fear. But, says the poet Isaiah, to receive that alternative abundant bread, we have to leave the empire. So Isaiah imagines a great procession of God’s people marching out of Babylon back to their identity of faith: “You shall go out in joy; You shall be led out in peace” (55:12). And all along the parade route of those who will leave the pressures of empire, like the parade crowd on Front Street, they will be gathered to watch the parade home. The mountains and the hills and the trees, all of creation; they will sing and dance and clap their hands in joy. They will celebrate God’s people coming back to their true identity and their sanity. But in order to get the bread of life, we have to leave the demands and the rewards of the empire and its 24/7 rat-race.

    IV. So we have this text in Lent. This poetic text is an invitation to people like us to recognize how much we have gotten comfortable with the bread of affliction, how much we take as normal the mighty pressures of consumerism, the empty promises of convenience, and the insatiable demands of the 24/7 rat-race into which we induct our kids and our grandchildren, all in the name of wellbeing, the assurance of suc­ cess through the rat-race, and the hint of our superiority through our race or ethnicity or nationality, all of which comes with the junk food of empire. Lent is a chance to notice. But also a chance to depart from too much fear, too much anxiety, too much anger, too much rush, too much greed. It is not about giving up chocolate for Lent,


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    even if that is good for our bodies. It is about giving up our taste for the bread of af­ fliction and receiving the better bread of God’s abundance. Well, I suspect that some of you are like me. You do not any longer eat much bread of affliction, because you have arrived at the abundant blessings of God’s goodness. So have I. If that is true for you as it is for me, then consider this. Some among us know mostly the bread of affliction and do not know of the abundance, abundance in health care, abundance in housing, abundance in food, abundance in good schools. Those of us who no longer have the taste of the bread of affliction in our mouths are invited in Lent to share that good bread of abundance with those who dwell in affliction by ministries of charity and compassion, by the good work of justice, by the embrace of the neighbor, all of whom have entitlements to good bread. We have entrusted to us the free bread of God’s abundance; it will defeat the bread of affliction every time it is shared. Lent is a time to repent of our taste for the bread of affliction, even if we have gotten used to it. So Isaiah can say in this poem:

    Seek the Lord while he may be found… for my thoughts are not your thoughts.

    God has other thoughts and other intentions of wellbeing for us. “My ways are not your ways.” God has other ways for you and me than the bread of affliction. And now we arrive at this dramatic moment when we taste the alternative bread at this table. This alternative bread offered to the exiles is given again. It is the bread of deliverance. It is the bread of emancipation. It is the bread of joy and freedom. It is the bread that defeats the bread of affliction. It is the same bread that he gave when he took, he blessed, he broke, he gave! With a surplus of life-giving nourishment! As we eat this bread, remember the bread of affliction that seduces us. Savor and chew and swallow, and imagine us on our way out of the rat-race of empire. Savor and chew and swallow and remember those who know only the bread of affliction. Keep them in mind as they are invited along with us. This is an amazing offer at this table. Like the poet said to the exiles: you who are hungry and thirsty, come without money and without price, delight yourself in God’s newness. Savor and chew and swallow along with your neighbors. This is an invitation for all of us who are hungry and thirsty for God’s newness!

  • Preaching in a Pluralistic World

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    Page 17

    Preaching in a Pluralistic World

    Bryan Stone

    Boston University School of Theology, Boston, Massachusetts

    At multiple points, the text of the book of Acts highlights the conviction of the early apostles and lifts up the confidence of their preaching. In one instance, they prayed for boldness, and it is recorded that the place where they were gathered started shaking as they were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to preach God’s word with the boldness for which they had prayed (Acts 4:29-31). When preaching today, however, in contexts shaped by religious diversity or the kind of social and ideologi­ cal divisions that permeate contemporary culture, we may be tempted to shrink from bold proclamation and to exercise reserve and caution in the things we say, qualifying every claim so as not to offend or cause division. Preachers know this quandary well: we have something to say, but we’re not interested in dividing our congregations or alienating those we are trying to reach with polarizing rhetoric. Paul tells the Ro­ mans, “I am not ashamed of the gospel.” But what exactly does being unashamed of the gospel look like for those who value diversity and embrace a healthy pluralism of ideas, beliefs, and religious views in our world —and in the church? If we seek a world where all persons can exercise their faith traditions freely and with respect, shouldn’t we temper our evangelistic overtures and restrain the assertiveness of our preaching? Admittedly, not all Christians are tempted by restraint in pluralistic contexts; instead the temptation runs in the opposite direction. Centuries of Christendom have taught us to think we are supposed to win, that what it means to evangelize in a pluralistic context is to defeat religious rivals, whether through apologetic arguments designed to prove the truth of the gospel and defend it against objections or by legislating the superiority of Christianity politically and culturally. Especially in a pluralistic context, the Christian desire to triumph is powerful. We are not ashamed! Yet Paul’s words need not be taken as a provocation to “in-your-face” evangelism or a justification for the kind of loud, wordy, and monological approach that treats the gospel as a brick to be thrown at people, who are then judged unforgivingly if they fail to catch it. It is quite possible to be assured and confident in our witness without taking a triumphalist and competitive approach to communicating the gospel in con­ texts of diversity and pluralism. But there are obstacles to achieving this balance. One of the common denominators in contemporary approaches to preaching in the context of pluralism is a presumption that most religions are functionally similar or oriented toward the same object or end (salvation, or some “ultimate concern”), even if we might judge them differently as to their adequacy in attaining that end. Even the fact that we can use the singular word religion to describe phenomena as diverse as Christianity, Buddhism, Confucianism, and Native American spiritualities reveals (or perhaps conceals) a prior confidence that they are all pretty much doing the same kinds of things and can each be taken as individual species of the same genus. How we proceed on the basis of this assumption, of course, varies greatly. On one end of the spectrum, Christian “exclusivists” consider other religions as their rivals and are thus led to profess the absolute truth of Christianity as excluding the truth of those


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    other religions. Adherents of other religions must be evangelized and converted. On the other end of the spectrum, so-called Christian “pluralists” likewise interpret other religions as functionally similar. But in this case, other religions are not perceived as rivals, nor do their adherents need to be evangelized and converted. Rather, we are all traveling up the same mountain, albeit along different paths. The pluralist position is often taken to be the more generous and tolerant of the two (especially by pluralists!). But by examining pluralism through a postcolonial lens, we can see how it refuses to allow the other to be other and instead presupposes sameness and uniformity in the way it constructs the various religious traditions and their relationships to one another. This it does, as Kathryn Tanner has argued, by pretending to speak from a neutral vantage point that comprehends a totality, thereby perpetuating a colonialist outlook in ways that diminish differences in favor of tran­ scendent unities or abstracted commonalities.1 As Tanner puts it, “Commonalities, which should be established in and through a process of dialogue, are constructed ahead of time by pluralists to serve as presuppositions for dialogue; pluralists thereby close themselves to what people of other religions might have to say about their ac­ count of these commonalities.”2 This focus on similarities and commonalities not only diminishes the extent and importance of the differences among the religions; it disguises the particular starting point, social locations, and perspectives of the plural­ ists themselves. Lesslie Newbigin made a similar observation with respect to the famous story of the elephant and the blind men. In the story, the king summons a group of blind men to his palace where they are then asked to touch an elephant and describe what they have encountered. Each man can only feel one portion of the elephant (the trunk, the tusks, the tail, the side, the legs) and so, based on their limited experience, they each describe their encounter with radically different descriptions, and come away thinking they have encountered very different objects. As Newbigin observes,

    The real point of the story is constantly overlooked. The story is told from the point of view of the king and his courtiers, who are not blind but can see that the blind men are unable to grasp the full reality of the elephant and are only able to get hold of part of it. The story is constantly told in order to neutralize the affirmations of the great religions, to suggest that they learn humility and recognize that none of them can have more than one aspect of the truth. But, of course, the real point of the story is exactly the opposite. If the king were also blind, there would be no story. The story is told by the king, and it is the immensely arrogant claim of one who sees the full truth, which all the world’s religions are only groping after. It embodies the claim to know the full reality which relativizes all the claims of the religions.3

    While pluralism of this sort is quite different from the exclusivism I previously mentioned, the two approaches to religious diversity (and others that lie on a con­ tinuum between the two) presuppose a shared starting point that understands and compares the religions through generalizations about what they hold in common. For the exclusivists, Christianity is the only true way to salvation, and, for the pluralists, the various quests for salvation are complementary. But both accept that religions are


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    functionally doing the same kinds of things. Preaching in the context of pluralism is then shaped and defined by this widespread and overarching set of assumptions. At one extreme, the presence of other religions contradicts the singular and exclusive truth of Christianity (precisely because the other religions are doing the same kinds of things as Christianity), and so preaching takes on an evangelistic cast, pursued as a competitive practice focused on defending the truth of Christianity, defeating its rivals, and pressing for conversion. At the other extreme, the preacher affirms the interchangeability and equivalence of the religions and substitutes dialogue for evangelism, which is necessarily ruled out from the start. Karl Barth, in his famous commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, set the relationship of the Christian gospel to other religions and philosophies within a very different framework than the competitive one engendered by standard approaches to religious diversity, whether from the right or the left. For Barth, “anxiety concerning the victory of the Gospel—that is, Christian Apologetics—is meaningless, because the Gospel is the victory by which the world is overcome.”4 As Barth says,

    The Gospel neither requires [persons] to engage in the conflict of religions or the conflict of philosophies, nor does it to compel them to hold them­ selves aloof from these controversies. In announcing the limitation of the known world by another that is unknown, the Gospel does not enter into competition with the many attempts to disclose within the known world some more or less unknown and higher form of existence and to make it accessible to [people]. The Gospel is not a truth among other truths. Rather, it sets a question-mark against all truths. The Gospel is not the door but the hinge. The [person] who apprehends its meaning is removed from all strife, because [he or she] is engaged in a strife with the whole, even with existence itself.5

    It follows, for Barth, that Christian apologetics is not only unnecessary; it is mean­ ingless. If the gospel is not a truth among truths, then it does not need to be defended against other competing truths over against which it is set as a rival. Indeed it cannot be so defended. Nor does the gospel need evangelists who attempt to “make a case” for Christianity or to insure its triumph from within a closed world of competing options. On the contrary, the gospel is itself a question mark addressed to the whole of our existence and “against all truths.” As Barth says, the gospel “does not require representatives with a sense of responsibility, for it is as responsible for those who proclaim it as it is for those to whom it is proclaimed. It is the advocate of both.”5 From the foregoing, it is clear that Barth’s approach stands decidedly against the exclusivist position that views non-Christian religions as rivals to be defeated and their adherents as in need of conversion. But Barth’s understanding is not quite the pluralist one either. As with the pluralist, Barth views all the religions, includ­ ing Christianity, as essentially doing the same thing: seeking to disclose within the known world, and on its terms, a relatively “unknown and higher form of existence” and to make it accessible to the world. He thereby distinguishes religion, which is human activity, grasping, and striving, from the authentic proclamation of the true God whom we would not know, and could not know, were it not for God’s gracious


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    revelation in Jesus Christ. Even Christianity itself, as a religious system, falls under this judgment.6 The task of the Christian preacher is not to offer some sort of stairway to heaven or to fan into flame a residue spark of the divine that is held to reside within each of us, but to announce the utter impossibility of salvation as an achievement or a reward. In this way, while Barth may agree with pluralists that the various religions are all different paths up the same mountain, he would retort that the proclamation of the gospel requires a resounding “no” to all such mountain climbing. Despite Barth’s indiscriminate lumping together of disparate human phenomena under the single heading of religion (much as we all do), he grasps that in a pluralistic context, what authentic Christian preaching offers the world is not a word that is merely different from other words, but a question mark posed to all such words. In several respects, Barth’s approach is echoed by Rowan Williams in his insight­ ful book Christ on Trial, where he explores the various accounts of Christ’s trial in each of the four gospels. What all four gospel accounts reveal—and especially Mark’s gospel, which stresses Jesus’ silence before both the Sanhedrin and Pilate—is the way Jesus stands outside the structures and languages of power by which he is being judged, and how little leverage he has in that world. As Williams puts it,

    Jesus knows more than he can say; he is like a naturally gifted musician trying to explain to slow or even tone-deaf listeners how basic harmony works. And when the transforming power of his presence breaks through in healing, he hurries to forbid people to talk about it. It is as if he knows they will only find the wrong words, the wrong categories.7

    For Williams, Jesus knows that whatever he says or does will be interpreted from within the world’s narrow range of possibilities so that it becomes just one more bid for power or one more consumer choice in a vast marketplace of options. “Jesus, described in the words of this world, would be a competitor for space in it, part of its untruth.”8 If Williams is right, the sobering truth for preachers is that bearing faithful wit­ ness to Christ in a pluralistic context may mean that more often than not we are left with the unenviable challenge of how to communicate Christ’s silence. To be sure, the preacher has something to say. To agree with Williams that Jesus is not “a competitor for space” in the world is not to deny that Jesus poses problems for our existence, threatening customary ways of mapping kinships and social relations, inverting established hierarchies, and reversing longstanding patterns of demarcating who is in and who is out. But the preacher’s daunting task is to pronounce this threat, this inversion, this reversal, rather than arguing for Jesus as one, even the superior, option among many. As Williams puts it, Jesus “threatens because he does not compete . . . and because it is that whole world of rivalry and defense which is in question.”9 So it goes with Christian preaching in the context of pluralism. There is a way of proclaiming the truth of the gospel that, when carried out from within a competitive, market-driven social imagination, simultaneously constricts and negates that very truth. Thus, even when Jesus is proclaimed as Lord and his peaceable way offered as salvation, the meaning of Jesus has already been fitted into a competition for space in the world and, to use Williams’s words, “part of its untruth.” Belligerent, intolerant,


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    and “sheep-stealing” evangelists are an easy target here, but the competitive social imagination at issue is far more pervasive and seductive. It also shapes and informs trendier, less offensive preachers who busy themselves with commending Christianity to the world by attempting to show how “helpful” it can be for coping with stress, experiencing genuine community, or achieving a healthy personality, marital bliss, and economic stability. Here also the gospel is brokered as a utility or commodity from within a system of exchanges. To be a Christian is to be well adjusted, to fit in, to have it all together. As Williams says, quoting from Anita Mason’s novel The Illusionist: “There is a kind of truth which, when it is said, becomes untrue.”10 The truth of the matter is that the conversion to which Christ invites us and which we are called to proclaim may not necessarily help us better fit into prevailing eco­ nomic and social orders. In a pluralistic context, it is tempting to compete for a space for the good news by accepting the terms of the competition whether those terms are provided by the marketplace, the political order, or the academy. Christians want the good news to get a hearing and to be received positively. So we smooth off the rough edges of the gospel and reduce its strangeness, securing its validity by laying claim to structures of truth, power, and legitimacy that will shore up its credibility or attractiveness. But the good news is a gift and can only be offered in faith, just as it can only be received by faith. There are no shortcuts here. There is no path to faith through certainty. When we impose the gospel on others politically or culturally, or seek to defend it with intellectually air-tight arguments, or subject it to the logic of marketplace exchanges, the gift is no longer a gift. As Paul says in Romans 1, the Gospel is the power of God for salvation. Salvation does not lie in our power. There is even a sense in which, as Barth says, “God does not need us.” Of course, we play the role of bearing witness to God’s power. But as Barth reminds us,

    The activity of the community is related to the Gospel only in so far as it is no more than a crater formed by the explosion of a shell and seeks to be no more than a void in which the Gospel reveals itself. The people of Christ, His community know that no sacred word or work or thing exists in its own right: they know only those words and works and things which by their negation are sign-posts to the Holy One. If anything Christian(!) be unrelated to the Gospel, it is a human by-product, a dangerous religious survival, a regrettable misunderstanding. For in this case content would be substituted for a void, convex for concave, positive for negative, and the characteristic marks of Christianity would be possession and self-suf­ ficiency rather than deprivation and hope.11

    While Barth describes the message of the gospel as a “no” to this world, Williams reminds us that to stand outside the world in the way Jesus does is actually a way of saying “yes” to the world “by refusing the world’s own skewed and destructive account of itself’ and declining to “settle for the options set before us by the world’s manag­ ers as the only things possible.”12 Barth’s approach is largely negative, emphasizing the concave nature of the crater that is formed by the gospel’s explosion in human existence. But it is also quite possible (indeed, it is indispensable, for those of us who


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    stand within the Catholic-Angiican-Methodist-Holiness arc) to affirm Christian salva­ tion as a reception that is also always a participation in grace. If the good news is not simply a story about what happened in some historical past or a proclamation of what is happening on the plane of eternal decrees, then we may indeed speak of conversion not merely as leaving a crater but as creating “triumphs of God’s grace,” to employ a phrase used by Charles Wesley. The gospel does indeed set a question mark against all truths and is a “no” to the entire world of rivalry, defense, and competition; but that question mark is posed in the form of a material, social, political, and economic reality effected here and now by the Holy Spirit: a communion of saints. The gospel is more than a word of judgment hurled at the world; it is a material participation in a new social body that heralds, embodies, and is the first-fruits of the good news. All this is not to say that Barth was wrong in characterizing Christian witness as concave rather than convex, and in claiming that “no sacred word or work or thing exists in its own right.” There is also a sense in which Barth is quite right in affirming that “God does not need us,” insofar as the gospel does not need our help in selling, defending, securing, or helping it along. But the very nature of the salvation that God has given the world is people-shaped, which is to say, ecclesial. The gospel is not something that precedes its material embodiment and enactment so that it is a matter of getting the good news right to begin with and then dropping it into this or that situation appropriately “contextualized.” In a pluralistic context, the offer of the good news is not in the first instance the offer of an argument or a proof of Christ’s superiority. That would be to offer the world a recipe instead of a meal. Rather what we Christians have to offer the world is a graced enactment—in word and deed—of the forgiveness and inclusion extended by God in Christ to all. And in that sense, God does not merely need us; God’s creation of an “us” is the whole point. Religious diversity is not a “problem” for Christians—a threat we must fear or fight. Nor do we need to see the many religions of the world as representing a crowded marketplace into which we must try to position the good news or pry open a space for it. That does not mean we should disregard or shrug off religious differences as inconsequential. What is called for in our time is careful study, respectful dialogue, and a close and sympathetic attention to the rich particularity of the stories, practices, and way of life of those who adhere to other faiths. Then, and only then, can we begin to understand other religions in such a way as to make judgments about them or what the Christian gospel might mean in relation to any given tradition. We may eventually come to the conclusion that a religion is deficient or destructive in some way, as one could well argue in the case of US civil religion, which may actually boast the most adherents of any religion in the US context, even though it is not recognized widely as a religion at all. But the first thing to be said about other faith traditions is not that they are deficient, but that they are different. Christians have no reason to shrink from offering the gospel to others as good news even as we stand humbly in the presence of other faith traditions, encountering them on their own terms as much as possible and seeking forgiveness where wrongs have been committed. There is no contradiction between a willingness to bear faithful witness to Christ and a genuine openness to the non-Christian, even to the extent that, as Newbigin has suggested, “We are prepared to receive judgment and correction” and thus to put our own Christian faith at risk.13 The preaching of the good news,


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    however, must reject the temptation to compete for space in the world or to achieve victory over other faiths in a crowded marketplace of options. On one hand, the good news of Jesus Christ can never be at home and will always be a strange new word that risks distortion the moment it is spoken. On the other hand, Christ has already secured a place for the good news in the world —among the poor and cast out, among those who are tormented by demons, at weddings with friends and dinner in the houses of known sinners, at the foot of the cross and the door of the tomb.

    Notes

    1 Kathryn Tanner, “Respect for Other Religions: A Christian Antidote to Colonialist Discourse,” Modern Theology 9:1 (1993), 2-3. 2 Ibid., 2. 3 Lesslie Newbigin, The Gospel in a Pluralist Society (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989), 9-10. 4 Karl Barth, The Epistle to the Romans, trans. Edwyn C. Hoskyns (London: Oxford University Press, 1933), 35. 5 Barth, 35. 6 Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who borrows this outlook from Barth, could similarly endorse a “religionless Christianity” in his famous letter from prison on April 30, 1944; Letters and Papers from Prison, ed. Eberhard Bethge (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1953), 279-81. 7 Rowan Williams, Christ on Trial: How the Gospel Unsettles Our Judgement (Grand Rapids: Eerd­ mans, 2000), 2. 8 Ibid., 6. 9 Ibid., 69. 10 Ibid., 6. 11 Barth, The Epistle to the Romans, 36. 12 Ibid., 88. 13 Lesslie Newbigin, The Open Secret: An Introduction to the Theology of Mission. Rev. ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 182.

  • Dies Irae?: Some Theological Reflections on Plagues in the New Testament for Preachers in Advent

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    Page 8

    Dies Irae? Some Theological Reflections on Plagues

    in the New Testament for Preachers in Advent

    A. Katherine Grieb

    Virginia Theological Seminary, Alexandria, Virginia

    How is it possible to preach the gospel (good news) with integrity in Advent 2020? What should the Church be teaching about the Second Coming of Christ and the Day of Judgment? In this paperlhopeto (1) provide one preacher’s assessment of our current cultural situation and some of its pastoral challenges; (2) comment on the very few references to plagues in the New Testament; (3) show how the New Testament tradition in Revelation is dependent on its precursor text of Exodus; and (4) suggest some strategies for preaching this Advent that preachers may wish to adopt and/or avoid. Never has the need for thoughtful, truthful, and compassionate preaching been greater than it is right now. Where are the members of our congregations likely to be at the start of the Christian New Year? As I write this essay in August, looking ahead to Advent and the beginning of the Church’s liturgical year, coming, as it will, at the end of this admittedly difficult calendar year, I do not claim any special revelation or skills in prognostication. Nev­ ertheless, some things about our situation seem almost evident:

    :,:The Covid-19 virus will probably still be going strong in many parts of the world, including much of the United States. :,:Travel will become somewhat safer, but increased travel will probably work against efforts to contain and control the virus. :,:School systems will have had various different experiences with opening and sometimes closing again; parents, children, teachers, and school ad­ ministrators will all be under greater stress as they continually monitor re­ sults and second guess their strategies. :,:Until there is widespread fast and reliable testing and a vaccine for Covid19 that is widely recognized as effective and safe, all public and private institutions, businesses, and households will be trying to adapt to the latest information. :,:There will probably be continued high unemployment, though it may lessen as consumer confidence and spending gradually increase. * Because of long-term unemployment, many people will lose their homes because of their inability to pay their rents or mortgages. As I write, the temporary protections from eviction for renters is ending in most places, and the grace periods for delaying mortgage payments have expired. Utilities payments are also affected, so some people will lose their electricity, their water, and their communication systems. :,:There will probably be more un-natural natural disasters, as we continue to ignore climate change signals and fail to make wise policies to protect the earth. :,:There will almost certainly be continued and perhaps increased tension about race relations and differences of opinion about naming racism


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    in our history and reforming current injustices in almost all aspects of so­ ciety, but especially in education, employment and compensation, housing, imprisonment and capital punishment, representation, and racial profiling and stereotyping. *The nation will still be deeply divided post-presidential election, after what is expected to be a rough and mean-spirited campaign, with increasing difficulty of hearing opposing viewpoints. :,:People will be emotionally exhausted, afraid, defensive, grieving many kinds of losses, not having much fun or much joy. They will be hungry for good news that is based on reality and may well be skeptical about whether that combination still exists. Preachers, you have your work cut out for you!

    A Brief Study on the Few References to Plagues in the Earliest Christian Writings It only takes a few minutes with a concordance to realize that the English words plague , plagued, and plagues occur much more frequently in the Old Testament/He­ brew Bible than in either the deutero-canonical books or those of the Chr istian New Testament. A Greek concordance confirms that only a few words in Luke’s Gospel and the same word repeated several times in the Revelation to John convey the idea of “plague” which has less to do with sickness or disease than with the idea of violent punishment. Luke 7:21 reports that “He (Jesus) had just then cured many people of diseases, plagues, and evil spirits” (NRSV). The English word disease translates the Greek nosos (sickness or disease) while the English word plague is used to capture the Greek word which is a form of “mastigo” (to whip, to flog, or to scourge), which is also used for the prediction that the Son of Man will be scourged in Luke 18:33 and for the near scourging of Paul in Acts 22:24. When Luke’s Jesus describes the coming “pestilences and famines” or “plagues and famines” that will precede the end time, a different word is used, perhaps for literary effect (loimoi kai limoi makes a memorable alliteration) but, once again, the word is associated with an unpleasant event rather than sickness, as in Acts 24:5 when Paul is described as “a pestilent fellow” (loinion). The word plege (Latin plaga) from which we get the English word plague occurs consistently in the RevelationtoJohn (Revelation 9:18, 20; 11:6, 15:1,6,8; 16:9,21; 1 8:4,8; 21:9, 22:18). Once again, the root meaning ofthe word is not so much “sickness or disease” as it is “blow, stroke, wound, or shock.” Revelation 9:18 and 20 describe three plagues that follow the blowing of the sixth trumpet (horses that breathe fire, have the heads of lions and the tails of serpents) which kill a third of the earth’s hu­ man inhabitants. At 11:6, God’s two witnesses have authority “to strike the earth with every kind of plague” (NRSV). Chapter 15:1-8 introduces us to “seven angels with seven plagues” who re­ ceive “seven golden bowls full of the wrath of God” in the heavenly temple. Inl6:9the fourth angel pours his bowl on the sun, and it scorches people with intense fire. “They cursed the name of God, who had authority over these plagues,” but they did not repent and give God glory. At 16:20-21, both the islands and the mountains have fled the scene — so we know it is going to be very bad—when hundred-pound hailstones fall on the people, who curse God again.


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    At 17:1, although the word plague does not appear, one of the seven angels with the seven bowls carries the seer John in the power of the Spirit to see the judgment of the great whore of Babylon (Rome). Verses 18:4 and 8 warn that plagues are about to strike Babylon/Rome and call upon God’s people to “come out of her.” At 21:9, after all the destruction is over, it is “one of the seven angels who had the seven bowls full of the seven last plagues” who shows the seer John the holy city of Jeru­ salem, the bride of the Lamb. One of the most chilling verses of the book (22:18) warns that if anyone adds to the words of this book, God will add to that person the plagues described in it. The book of Revelation is filled with the number “seven” both explicitly and obliquely (as in seven candelabra or lampstands, each of which is a menorah with seven candlesticks in 1:12; or in the seven gifts bestowed upon the Lamb in 5:12), a number signaling the completeness of the seven days of creation and the hallowing of the seventh or sabbath day. The end of the series of the seven last plagues marks the opposite of creation: the destruction of the great city of the empire which has opposed God’s will for creation.

    Those Seven Angels with Seven Plagues Should Remind Us of Something: Exodus! There are many verbal clues in the key chapters (15 and 16) of Revelation dealing with the plagues that are coming upon Babylon/Rome. Eugene Boring (Revelation, John Knox Press, 1989, p. 172) calls them “an exodus scene—biblical memory transfigured” (this current situation is a replay of that ancient story). Chapter 15:2 references the sea of glass in the heavenly throne room which reminds us of the Red Sea in which the armies of the Pharaoh were drowned after Israel passed through safely. In 15:3, we are told that those who have conquered the beast(s) sing the song of Moses and the song of the Lamb. The song of Moses (which was first the song of Miriam) begins at Exodus 15:1: “I will sing to the LORD, for he has triumphed gloriously; horse and rider he has thrown into the sea.” It continues, and one of its most important lines (15:11) is still sung weekly in synagogues when the Torah scroll is taken out of the ark and carried around the room before being read aloud: “Who is like you, O LORD, among the gods? Who is like you, majestic in holiness, awesome in splendor, working wonders?” The name of the archangel Michael (Micha-El, “Who is like God?”), who plays such an important role in conquering the beast (Chapter 12), is a direct reference to this song of Moses at the Red Sea. It is God’s final victory over stubborn Pharaoh. Craig Koester (Revelation and the’End’ofAll Things, Eerdmans, 2001, P-142) points out that the song of the Lamb sung by the heavenly host in Revelation 15 differs from the song of Moses in Exodus 15 in one important aspect: it celebrates God’s position as King of all the nations, expecting the conversion of the world’s peoples to the reign of God. The singers ask, “Lord, who will not fear and glorify your name?” and they answer their own question by asserting, “All nations will come and worship before you “(15:4). But clearly the focus of these chapters is on Rome. Rome is the new Egypt; Caesar is the new Pharaoh. Many of the plagues match: sores in 16:2, sea and rivers turn to blood (16:3-4), the darkness in 16:10, dried up waters in 16:12, frogs in 16:13, thunder, fire, hail in 16:18 and 21, and more. God sends plagues upon the Rome of the Caesars who believe they are gods for the same reason God sent plagues to teach Pharaoh who is (and who is not) God (Ex 9:16). At 18:4, there is a clear reference to


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    the idea of exodus when a heavenly voice calls, “Come out of her, my people,” warning about the coming destruction of Babylon/Rome. The word exodus means “the way out,” so “do the exodus thing, my people” would be just as good a translation. The issue of slavery is specifically referenced in Revelation 18:11-13. It is the clearest critique of slavery in the New Testament. At the end of a long list of luxurious items imported by the merchants for the wealthy in Rome—“gold, silver, jewels, spices,” etc.,is “slaves,thatis,humansouls.” (The NRSV translates the Greek kai as “and” so “slaves and human souls,” but it is almost certainly what is called an epexegetical “kai” which equals “that is to say.” The writer is underlining that it is ensouled human beings that are being bought and sold at the market. What is missing in Revelation is the deliberate ambiguity in the text of the exo­ dus story about whether Pharaoh hardens his heart against God and the people of God or whether it is God who hardens Pharaoh’s heart. In Exodus 4:21, two major themes are introduced, the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart and the hist born son (Is­ rael is the hist born son of God). At hist Pharaoh hardens his own heart (8:15, 8:32, 9:34, etc.), but towards the end, God responds by hardening it for him (10:1, 11:10. 14:4, 14:8, etc.). The theme of the hist born son is carried to its terrible conclusion in the hnal plague, the death of the hist born sons of all the Egyptians, including the hist born son of Pharaoh. This event causes Pharaoh to relent, and he allows the Israelites to go, but later he changes his mind and sends a pursuing army. No such ambiguity exists in the Revelation to John. The whore (Babylon/Rome) never sees the end coming: the Roman empire assumes it will last forever. Rome has not reckoned with the wrath of God; it never expects the Day of Judgment that will finally call it to account for its many wrongs.

    The Wrath of God? The Day of Judgment? Plagues as Punishment? Advent? Covid19 today? Help! Advent is the season of the Church year when people are most likely to re­ member, read, and worry about the book of Revelation because of its focus on the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. Indeed the Apocalypse ends with the words of the risen Christ, “Surely, I am coming soon” and the Church’s response, “Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!” The word Advent (Latin, adventus) means “coming” or “arrival,” and the Church has traditionally prepared for the Incarnation of Jesus Christ at Christmas during the four weeks of Advent. The lessons chosen for Advent reinforce the threefold coming of Jesus Christ, in the past, as the Jesus of history; in the present, as God’s presence with us in Word and Sacrament through the power of the Holy Spirit; and in the future, when Christ, the Lord of time, will return to judge the living and the dead, as confessed in the ecumenical creeds. A shorthand way of saying this is to say that Jesus Christ comes to us in history, in mystery, and in majesty. It is this third way of thinking of the coming of Jesus Christ (in majesty and power, for judgment) that, rightly, worries the Church. This year, churches that follow the revised common lectionary will have been hearing parables of judgment from Matthew’s Gospel which is read in Year A. The Sunday that immediately precedes Advent, Christ the King Sunday, has for its Gospel passage Matthew 25:31-46, the parable that describes the separation of people on the day of judgment as a shepherd separates the sheep and the goats. Those who have cared for the least and the lost are welcomed to the right hand of the king, blessed, and given the kingdom prepared for


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    them from the foundation of the world. Those who ignored the poor and powerless now stand at the left hand of the King, who banishes them to an eternal punishment in the fire prepared for the devil and his angels. The Sunday following that lesson begins Advent Year B, which brings a Gospel reading from the little apocalypse of Mark 13. The Son of Man will come on the clouds with great power and glory and will send out the angels to gather his elect from the four corners of the earth. No one knows exactly when he will come, so “keep awake!” It would be surprising if the themes of judgment and the sudden return of Jesus Christ were not on the minds of many people in our congregations. Even though there are no lessons from the Apocalypse read on the four Sundays of Advent, the connection between sin and suffering made in the account of the plagues andelsewhere in the Bible is likely to be somewhere in the background of the season of Advent. It might be a good time for a forum hour or a church bulletin comment on what the Church teaches about the Second Coming of Chr ist. Or that topic might be addressed in an Advent sermon. It is quite common today to hear Covid-19 described as a “plague” and even as “a plague of biblical proportions.” But it does not necessarily follow that Covid19 should be either conflated with the return of Christ or interpreted as the divine punishment of a disobedient empire, as in Exodus and Revelation. The strategy a preacher chooses will probably depend on a number of factors and will vary from denomination to denomination. While I am not willing to say that it is un-biblical to preach this Advent on Covid-19 as a plague sent from God to punish our nation (for whatever sins the preacher has in mind), I will also insist that it is not necessary to preach that message in order to be preaching biblically. The preacher who wants to say that the suffering caused by death and separation from loved ones and loss of income and home and many other things from Covid-19 is God’s punishment for sin does not need much help. That sermon can be read simply off the pages of the plague stories in Exodus and Revelation. The rest of this article is meant to assist preachers who do not want to say that. In the hist place, you will remember that the several New Testament Greek words that English translators render with the word plague do not refer to sickness or disease, but to an act of violence, “a blow, strike, stroke, wound”; so to use the word plague to refer to a sickness or a calamity is already a metaphorical leap. The Bible has already made that move: frogs, hail, rivers of blood, darkness, etc. are not blows or wounds in the conventional sense of those words. To describe them as plagues is to say they were events deliberately caused by an agent, specifically God. But to identify plagues with diseases is yet another metaphorical leap, one not made by the Bible. With the possible exception of boils, the things described as plagues, both in Exodus and Revelation, are not diseases and not viruses. What might at hist glance look like an obvious connection, because the same word is used for both, turns out not to be the case. But, secondly, the preacher should not adopt one common strategy to get God off the hook. The seven plagues in the Revelation to John are not described in de­ tail as they are in Exodus. Preachers may want to look back to Exodus to describe the seriousness of the situation in Babylon/Rome. But wise preachers will resist the temptation to explain away the plagues in the Exodus story as quasi-historical memories and theological interpretations of perfectly natural disasters occurring in


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    thirteenth century BCE Egypt. For example, an unusually powerful flooding of the Nile could explain the river turning to “blood” as an intensification of the naturally red clay color; the dead frogs would have attracted gnats, then flies; the disease af­ fecting the livestock could cause the festering boils; the cyclical return of locusts just happened to coincide with the great flood; the thick darkness resulted from the hot wind blowing dust and sand in from the desert, etc. If modern minds resist the idea of miracles in general and are especially reluctantto attribute “bad miracles ”to God, the preacher can name those assumptions as part of what makes it hard for us to hear these texts, and invite the congregation to re-think “what we all know is true,”but the power of the story is completely undermined if unlucky Egypt just had a very bad agricultural year and, for apparently no reason at all, the ruling Pharaoh decided to end the slavery of the Israelites and allowed them to depart from the land. Thirdly, there are other important passages in both testaments that critique the idea of a tight connection between sin and suffering. Job’s friends are quick to insist that he must have sinned because of what he is suffering, and they urge him to confess his sin. But Job insists that he has not sinned, and at the end of the book, God says that it is Job who has told the truth about God, not his friends (42:7). God even warns them that they better get Job to intercede for them because God will listen to his prayers and nottotheirs (42:8). In the same way, Psalm44:22-23, after reciting a series of hardships and calamities that God has allowed Israel to experience, insists, “All this has come upon us, even though we have not forgotten you or been false to your covenant. Our heart has not turned back, nor have our steps departed from your way. ” The two most important passages in the New Testament which break the auto­ matic causal connection between sin and suffering are John 9: Iff (where the disciples ask Jesus, “Rabbi, who sinned, this manor his parents, that he was born blind?” and Jesus responds “No one sinned! ”) and Luke 13:1-9 (where Jesus says it was not because of their sin when some pilgrims to Jerusalem were cruelly murdered by Pilate or when 18 people died because the tower of Siloam fell on them). At the same time, he teaches that catastrophes can be useful; they often provoke reflection that can lead to repentance. So the clear and rather simple connection between national sin and human suffering proposed by the plague stories is not the Bible’s only word on the subject. Fourthly, the rabbis have much to teach Christian interpreters about how to read the Exodus traditions, whether they are found in Exodus or in Revelation. A wellknown midrash in the Talmud comments on the narrative in Exodus 15 where God causes the waters of the Red Sea, which had been separated to allow the Israelites to pass through on dry land, to return so that the Egyptian Pharaoh’s armies pursuing them were drowned. As the Egyptians began to drown in the Red Sea, the heavenly hosts began to sing praises, but God, weeping, silenced them. “Are not the Egyp­ tians my children, too? The works of my hands are drowning in the sea, and you want to sing praises?” Another place where the readers of Scripture are invited to think compassionately, even about the enemies of Israel, is found in Judges 6:28-30. The powerful Canaanite general Sisera, who has tormented Israel, has just been killed, and there is great rejoicing, but for just a moment the narrator invites us to think about his mother who waits for him to return from the battle, when we know that he never will. Finally, the preacher may want to consider the logic of two other theologi­


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    cal texts about God’s wrath and judgment: one liturgical, the other biblical. The Dies Irae (the day of wrath) is a mediaeval sequence hymn written byThomasofCelanoin the thirteenth century that contemplates thedayofjudgmentandthegreatfearof every person because “there is no one who is righteous, not even one” (Romans 3:10). The speaker imagines that day when the trumpet will sound, raising the dead from their tombs and compelling them to stand before the throne of judgment. The great book will be open containing all the misdeeds he has done, and he wonders what he could possibly say when even the righteous are scarcely secure. What he does plead is a reminder to Christ, “You came to earth to find me and save me; you died for me: let such a great work not be wasted!” It is the saving work of Christ that comforts us when we think about the Day of Judgment. The other text is Hosea 13:14. There the prophet has God speak in anger about his plan to punish sinful Israel: “I will destroy you, O Israel; who can help you?” (13:9). But then God has second thoughts. In the Hebrew Bible, Hosea 13:14 reads, “Shall I ransom them from the power of Sheol? Shall I redeem them from Death?” But the translators of the Septuagint, who turned the Hebrew into Greek shortly before the birth of Jesus, read the question as a promise: “I will ransom them from the power of Sheol; I will redeem them from Death!” And the taunt song that follows that promise mocks defeated Death and Sheol as powers punished by God instead of the people of Israel. This is the verse that lies behind 1 Corinthians 15:55. Death has lost its stinger somewhere, because of the death—and resurrection—of Jesus Christ. Paul concludes, “Thanks be to God who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!” For Christians, 1 Corinthians 15:57 shows how God treats both disobedient Israel and disobedient us!

  • The God-Shaped Hole

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    The God-Shaped Hole

    Gen. 2:15-7, 3:1-7; Matt. 4:1-11

    David J. Lose

    Mount Olivet Lutheran Church, Minneapolis, Minnesota

    “So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate. ”

    I want you to do me a favor. This week, I want you to look for this story. I want you to keep your eyes open and see if you can find it playing out right in front of you. Don’t worry, it shouldn’t be that hard to spot. With little effort you’ll most likely see it in the headlines of the paper or in the lead story of the evening news. But I want you to look a little harder, and more honestly, and see where it plays out at work or school, home, or church. To tell you the truth, that won’t be that hard either. Because this story of Adam, Eve, and the serpent? Turns out it’s our story, and though it’s hard to admit, we know it as well as any story we’ve ever heard. But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. It might help to listen more closely to the passage from Genesis we just heard. So, a couple of things right up front about what this story is not about: First, this story is not about Eve. Did you notice that Adam is with her all along? Who knows why he just stands there, silent. Contrary to popular belief, Adam and Eve go into this thing together. Second, the story isn’t about deception. Again, despite our popular memory of the events described, the serpent doesn’t deceive Adam and Eve; rather, it gives them additional information. Information, actually, that turns out to be true. When they eat, they do not die; they do know good, evil, and all manner of things in between; and they do become more like God. Third, and most importantly, this story isn’t about ambition or rebellion or a lust for power, not really. Adam and Eve are attracted mainly by the beauty of the fruit and by the prospect of being wise, of knowing all things. So what is this story about? It’s about mistrust. It’s about a broken relationship. It’s about the search for a meaningful identity. And perhaps more than anything, it’s about holes and how we fill them. The interesting thing about the Genesis story of creation is that while the Bible clearly says that God pronounced all things good, including humankind in the persons of Adam and Eve, it nowhere says that these humans were perfect or complete. Indeed, they are drawn into intimate relationship with each other, with creation, and with God precisely because they are incomplete. On their own, that is, they are blessed, holy, and good, yet also in need, even dependent, unable to meet all their needs on their own. Maybe that’s why God forbids them to eat that fruit. The Bible doesn’t specify God’s motive, and so we can only guess. But I wonder if God’s command was in­


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    tended to remind them that there are limits, even for those created as the pinnacle of God’s good creation. To remind them of their need, of their want. To remind them, that is, that while they are wonderful and beautiful and blessed, nevertheless they will always experience a gap, even carry around with them a hole. To describe human life as living with a sense of incompleteness, let alone having a hole deep, deep inside, can sound rather negative. But what if we put it this way: we were created for each other. We are social beings, created for relationship, and so that incompleteness is filled when we are connected meaningfully to others. That hole is what shapes each of us, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, so that we can be fit­ ted together with others to create something more beautiful than we could be on our own. So there it is: each of us has a gap, a deep-seated need, a hole that can only be filled thr ough relationship. Which is what this story is about. Adam and Eve are cre­ ated for relationship. Relationship with each other. Relationship with other species of the creation. And, most fully, relationship with God-God the one who created them, God the one who invites them to be co-creators in the naming and taming of all living things, God the one who offers them identity, purpose, and mission. Which brings us back to the serpent. As we’ve already noticed, the serpent doesn’t lie to Adam and Eve; rather, the serpent introduces uncertainty and mistrust. Has God told them all things? Has God spoken truly? Is there more to life than what God has offered? Do they really need God to fashion a meaningful identity or meet every need? Are there other ways, finally, to fill the ache of incompleteness that is part and parcel of being human? And in doing so the serpent draws attention to the hole-that sense of incomplete – ness-that each of them has carried around since the beginning but up to this point maybe didn’t even notice. That hole, previously filled by their relationship with and trust in each other and God, suddenly feels both large and poignant, and it demands to be filled. Except now merely relating and trusting doesn’t seem to do it; now they need to own, to possess, to have something for themselves. And so there it is-the fruit God forbade, just hanging there, waiting, suddenly so attractive and apparently just the right size to fill the distinct and painful gap they’d hardly noticed before. Goodness, they must say to themselves, but the hole I have is shaped just like that fruit, and. if I eat it, I’ll never ache with incompleteness again. But it doesn’t work out that way, not for them, not for us. The ache doesn’t go away, no matter how much we accomplish, earn, or buy. It only grows bigger, more insa­ tiable, persistent, and demanding. Which is, of course, why it will be so easy for us to spot this story this week, every week. There are so, so many things out there that offer themselves as perfectly shaped to fill the holes we carry, and we, like our great-grandparents Adam and Eve, will have a very hard time resisting. Now, of course there were two stories read this morning, and the other was about holes, too. For Jesus, because he was truly human as well as divine, also had a hole. He too was in need, meant for relationship, destined to be joined to others. But he doesn’t give in to the temptation to fill that need with the bread or the bravado or the power that the tempter offers, because he already knows the true measure of that hole. Just before this scene, you see, Jesus had been baptized, and he had heard words perfectly shaped to fill the hole and soothe the ache that every human heart bears:


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    “This is my son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased. ” What Jesus discovered at the River Jordan, you see, is what Adam and Eve some­ how missed: that the holes with which we are born are God-shaped, which is maybe why we have them in the hist place-to draw us away from confusing the creation with the Creator, and in this way bring us back into relationship with the God who has created, blessed, and baptized us. And so when tested in the wilderness, Jesus falls back on that relationship, refusing the dream that he might establish himself on his own, that he might secure or own his identity and destiny. He knows that to be human is to be incomplete, to be, that is, created for relationship, to find completeness as we are drawn together in the love and life God offers. And so when the Tempter seeks to undermine his identity and exploit his human need, Jesus seeks refuge in the mercy of God, affirming who he is by remembering whose he is. Now I’ll be honest, it’s tempting at this point to treat this story like one more piece of religious good advice, the spiritual equivalent of an Aesop’s fable. It’s tempt­ ing, that is, to urge you to be just like Jesus: to resist the fruit hanging all around and seek ye hist the kingdom of God. And that wouldn’t be bad advice, frankly, but for one thing: it won’t work. Oh, we’d try, and maybe do okay for a while, but sooner or later we’d relent, giving up and giving in, because truth be told, the kingdom of God seems so far away and that seemingly perfectly shaped iPhone, or car, or pair of shoes or laptop, or renovated bathroom or home in Arizona or whatever-it’s hanging right there in front us, enticing us to reach out and grab it, taking and tasting the sour apple that never satisfies but only magnifies our need. Urging you to be like Jesus doesn’t work, you see, because if we look in the mirror, we have to admit that we bear a closer family resemblance to Adam and Eve than we do to Jesus. So instead I’ll ask you to do me another favor. After you’ve looked for the story of Adam, Eve, and the serpent this week, come back to this place of worship, to your church, and follow this other story. At it turns out, the story read and preached and sung in your congregation is not about what we should do but instead about what God has done for us in Jesus. Matthew gives us a clue. Right near the end of this passage, Matthew tells us that the devil left Jesus. He was not defeated, that is, but left, biding his time for another opportunity. Matthew knows, you see, that this contest isn’t over. Jesus has won this round, has refused to give into the lie that we can fill our need on our own. And so defeated in his attempt to seduce Jesus, the Temper flees only to return, this time armed with swords and a company of soldiers, in order to kill the One he could not tempt. And so they grab Jesus, accuse him, try him, and hang him on a cross. And on the cross, do you know what you’ll hear if you watch and listen closely? The same thing you heard at your baptism: “You are my child, the beloved, and with you I am well pleased.” Jesus goes to the cross, you see, not to take our punishment or satisfy the wrath of an angry God, but to share with us, the confused and insecure children of Adam and Eve, the good news that God loves you, and forgives you, and accepts you just as you are. And that news, that surprising, scandalous, unexpected news of God’s unfailing love, fills the hole, closes the gap, and soothes the ache of our desperate and wayward hearts. This is what Lent is all about. Lent isn’t, finally, about giving up things or wearing sack cloth and ashes. Those things and all the other elements of Lent are to invite us to take notice, to make room to see what matters, to help us discern between good fruit


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    and sour. Lent, finally, is forty days set aside so that we can, if we choose, recognize just how much stuff in our lives we’ve been sold as good fruit and name them for what they are-sour apples, even fakes and frauds-and then to come running to the cross to receive the food of eternal life. Don’t get me wrong. In the end, it’s not the stuff. The stuff we buy can often help us get all manner of things done. But the stuff we buy can’t create meaning, can’t grant us purpose and identity, can’t fill the hole deep inside us. Only God can do that. And the good news is that in Jesus, God has done that. And the cross to which Jesus journeys shows us just how far God is willing to go to make sure we know that. “When they saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that it was to be desired, they took of its fruit and ate.” “In the night when he was betrayed, our Lord Jesus took bread, gave thanks, broke it and gave it to them saying, ‘This is my body, given for you.’” And so go and look, and then come back, and while you’re coming, bring a friend, because we’ve all got God-shaped holes, and Jesus has promised to fill them, all of them, each and every one.

  • Preaching Lent: Challenges and Opportunities

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    Page 10

    Preaching Lent: Challenges and Opportunities

    Rodney J. Hunter Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia

    Preaching Lent is something of a countercultural challenge. No other season of the church year stands in quite such marked contrast to the style and spirit of Ameri­ can life or presents Christians with more culturally problematic demands. American culture is deeply, pervasively materialistic, hedonistic, and optimistic, while Lent is about repentance, soul searching, sorrow for sin, and ascetical disciplines of selfdenial . To preach the values and disciplines of Lent in a nation obsessed with polar opposite values requires a bit of imagination and probably a fair dose of courage for challenging dominant cultural imperatives and assumptions. As they face into these headwinds, preachers might give some thought to how their congregations are likely to think and feel about Lent. The more pious folks in the pews are likely to make an effort, usually not easy even for the most religiously committed, to “give up something for Lent” or try to get into the somber frame of mind that Lent is presumed to require. But I suspect that many others are more or less bewildered by its themes of ascetical practice, sorrow for sin, and meditation on the sufferings of Christ that climax the long Lenten season on Good Priday. The joy of Easter is obviously easier to celebrate; Lent by contrast is a time for pondering the mystery of suffering (Christ’s and perhaps our own), a time of self-abasement if not a ritualized guilt trip that fits uneasily into the positive optimism of American society. Lent is a time for doing without, for purging and cleansing, for purification, for Christians to “lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely” (Heb. 12:1), in contrast to our society’s materialistic imperative to accumulate more things and have ever more sensual and gratifying experiences. Lenten themes of contrition and self-sacrifice also stand in a certain tension with the psychological and therapeutic values so meaningful and important to many Americans today, including many mainline church members whose lives, marriages, and relationships have been helped and healed by one kind of psychological therapy or another, within or more likely outside the church. We are taught by our therapists to understand, compassionately and empathically, the sources of our discontent, and to work through emotional and behavioral dynamics in relation to the significant others in our lives in order to achieve more constructive and healthy patterns and practices of feeling, thinking, and living. Repentance and sorrow for sin before God and disciplines of self-deprivation are not a part of this process. Lor many psycho­ logically cultured Americans, such practices are old fashioned themes rooted in an outdated, guilt-driven culture. Lor the psychologically sophisticated, the task is not to confess sin before God in or through the church, to repent, and to devote oneself to a new obedience of faith, but to come more pragmatically, psychologically, and individualistically to recognize and accept the many factors that cause our unhappi­ ness and failures in life, to face up realistically and compassionately to our own role as well as that of others in causing them, and to work emotionally, cognitively, and behaviorally toward more effective and satisfying ways of living, relating, and being human.


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    Indeed, our psychological culture offers important critiques of many aspects of traditional Christian piety and practice (especially its emphasis on guilt, self-denial, submission to authority, and moral and religious intolerance), in contrast to the prag­ matic processes of psychotherapy—to say nothing of secular psychology’s critique of the more extreme forms of Christian asceticism associated with self-denial, selfsacrihce , and self-punishment (e.g., flagellation and “mortihcation of the flesh”). Psychotherapy is a creation of modernity, and modern people often find it difficult to fully appreciate, much less give themselves to, the old religious therapies, once they have experienced the healing wisdom of modern psychological care or experienced it thr ough the ministries of their own clinically educated pastors or learned about it through popular culture. It would be a mistake, however, to draw too strong a contrast between the themes and values espoused by Lent and those of modern psychotherapy. There are indeed differences, not only in practical method but in worldview and to some extent in ethical outlook. But modern psychotherapy does not typically trivialize guilt, shame, anger, and hatred, or the behaviors that give rise to them, nor does it deny the role of personal responsibility or the importance of having moral values and even possibly spiritual sensitivities, beliefs, and devotion. From a psychotherapeutic perspective, Lent need not be a season for wallowing in guilt and punishing oneself by giving up things to atone for one’s badness. Psychologically owning up to one’s shortcomings and seeking to get one’s life on a better footing need not be forms of self-rejection or self-hatred; they may be mature, healthy, self-affirming, and life-affirming practices; and casting off sinful behaviors, if genuine and realistic to one’s true motives, may be a truly liberating, maturational experience. Nonetheless, the Lenten season, even understood in the most positive, life-en­ hancing ways, does confront Christians and their preachers with something more than psychotherapeutic wisdom. Lent speaks of a world of moral meanings and spiritual values that include, but reach well beyond, the secular vision of psychological cul­ ture. It concerns ultimate issues of life and death, God, sin, evil, the salvation of an estranged, distorted, and destructive human race, and of individual souls caught up in the great mysterious drama of human history before God. Popular culture, even psychologically sophisticated popular culture, scarcely knows what to do with such expansive, existential meanings at the heart of Lenten devotion and practice—which is all the more reason we need to preach Christian faith to a secular world, some of which is sitting in the very pews before us. So Lent offers a challenge, but also an opportunity for preachers to (1) distinguish the true meanings and values of Lent from its moralistic perversions and cultural counterfeits, those of the secular culture, but also those of our own religious tradition which has its own perversions and problems to critique and correct, and (2) invite our congregations into a set of practices and ways of thinking that offer a more truthful and profound universe of meanings and values than that which our secular, materialistic, technocratic culture has to offer. Of the many themes embedded in the season of Lent, I will focus on two of the most prominent that I believe are most in need of thoughtful interpretation from the pulpit today: contrition, or sorrow for sin, and sacrihce, or giving up things for Lent (ascetical practices). Both themes run deeply counter to much of contemporary Ameri­ can culture, and both themes are also problematic, pastorally, in our own religious


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    history. Together they each present a double challenge to the preacher.

    Contrition, or Sorrow for Sin The Lenten season is one of stock-taking, of acknowledging one’s shortcomings, earnestly repenting of them, and dedicating oneself to an amended way of living. There are, of course, secular versions of this idea in the popular culture of self-help in which people are encouraged to face their problems and shortcomings (such as overeating or overspending) and to make constructive changes, usually with the help of psychological techniques such as retraining one’s thought processes to think more positively, forming better habits, and learning more effective social relations skills. The Lenten version of this idea goes deeper. It calls us to examine our most fundamental values, beliefs, and individual as well as collective practices, and our most seriously distorted failings of character and social behavior in light of God’s will for our lives—the ultimate meaning of life given in the Gospel through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. This is a tall order, one that challenges us to a depth of honesty and soul-searching that even the greatest saints have found beyond their human powers. It contrasts with the popular culture of self-help, however, not only in its relatively greater profundity (versus the comparative triviality of the secular techniques, helpful as they may be as far as they go). The more significant contrast lies in the Christian tradition’s characterological claim that our problems are not limited to failures to practice this or that virtue or obey this or that commandment, but are rooted in a fundamental contrariness in our own souls that seems to resist and subvert all our good intentions in the long run and to ignore or defy God in their ultimate intentions. There is much theological dispute about how deep into the soul our sinfulness extends. But we need not go to the perverse extreme of claiming “total depravity” (which ultimately denies the created goodness, the imago dei, in every person) to recognize that our sacred identity as children of God is at the same time at least par­ tially distorted and “sinful.” Our existence in the image of God is ineradicable and constitutes a fundamentally important affirmation for grounding not only our own sense of value, but our respect and care for all human beings; it has deep moral sig­ nificance. But it is also sadly true that our imago dei is obscured and distorted; we are all, in some degree, given to anxious egocentricity, exploitation of others, complicity in social evils large and small, and much else, however much we may also continue to bear the signs of our divine likeness in our ability to care, to love, to seek justice, and to cooperate in the good works of human culture. Lent is a time for pondering and confessing this complex, even mysterious, certainly inescapable truth by both confessing and experiencing contrition for our distorted and failing lives, and for af­ firming the ineradicable stamp of divine likeness in our being. Secular self-help speaks only to the positive side of this assessment (which it attributes solely to ourselves, not to our relation to God), and therefore ultimately fails for being unrealistic to the full truth of our fallen natures that are nonetheless still rooted in a transcending, divine likeness to the Source and End of our identity in God. There is, however, also a religious perversion of contrition which is, to put it bluntly, a sort of pious cultivation of, and wallowing in, moral violence and guilt. This is an interpretation of Lent and of Christian theology and spirituality that is probably the one many churchgoers have been taught to believe and practice as the essence of Lent


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    and of Christian faith and life. It comes in many shades of theological interpretation, but one popular version today, deeply rooted in the Bible and Christian history, holds that we are sinful creatures who have incurred the wrath of a righteous God, and our salvation has only become possible because God’s Son endured unspeakable torment and death, suffering and dying for our sakes to satisfy divine honor or justice (the “satisfaction” theology of atonement). The suffering and death of Jesus should make us feel horribly guilty, for this sinless, loving, perfect human being, indeed God’s own Son, had to undergo such horrors all because of us. But fortunately God has forgiven our sin through Jesus’ atoning death, and we can now live deeply humbled, grateful, and obedient lives, never forgetting our sinful natures or the tragic neces­ sity of God’s sacrifice of his Son. Indeed, we too are now to live lives of sacrificial dedication, rejecting our own desires and needs, even denigrating ourselves, in the interest of the welfare and salvation of others. This is more or less the popular version of this tradition; it is the theological pic­ ture of what many of our churches have taught our people for centuries in one form or another, and it holds powerful sway with many Christians today not only in many Evangelical churches but in those of the so-called mainline historic denominations, despite the liberal alternatives that have been put forth since at least the 19th century.1 This “atonement theology” seeks to glorify God at the expense of human beings, and it both magnifies and seeks to suppress psychologically our aggressive, selfish, and hateful impulses. Its depiction of God as violent, salvation as a divine indulgence in violence, and human experience as saturated in guilt is morally problematic on many grounds, not least as a libel on God and an encouragement of hatred and violence toward the self. Unhappily, contrition, or sorrow for sin, has often been based on this kind of theology, thus encouraging an implicitly violent, guilt-driven, one-sidedly negative form of Lenten spirituality. This is only one stream of Christian piety and tradition, but it is a powerful one still influential in mainline churches, and one that many mainline preachers prob­ ably need to address in some fashion. In light of this problematic religious history, it may be tempting for the preacher to avoid the theme of contrition and sorrow for sin altogether. But the challenge, and the opportunity, for the preacher is not to steer around these troubled waters, but to engage in a search for a better interpretation of this Lenten theme of contrition which, despite its potential secular and religious dis­ tortions, remains an important, even essential part of the Christian story. So the task for the preacher is to become, in a modest way perhaps, something of a constructive practical theologian of Lent, searching for a theological interpretation of this vital Lenten theme that is more biblically, theologically, and psychologically true to the meaning of the Gospel and true to human moral and psychological experience than the negatively distorted versions that have dominated so much of its history and homiletical interpretation. What would such a constructive practical theology of Lenten contrition look like? I will suggest just a few possibilities. Lirst, a good theology of contrition ought indeed to search out the truth of our lives including our failures and the distorted moral core of our being, but drawing not only on individualistic self-examination but also on candid encounters with the critiques of others. We are simply not able to make a true confession for ourselves, so great is our sinful self-deception; others must play a role in our coming to know and


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    make confession for ourselves, as limited as that approach inevitably also is. More specifically, we have come to realize in recent years that it is particularly important, even essential, that our self-understanding and our moral and spiritual stock-taking require encounter with other persons and groups that are not our familiar associates, not members of our own tribe, but rather those who differ from us in socially sig­ nificant ways: those of other cultures and races, other genders and sexualities, other politics, other economic classes and circumstances, other religions and no religion, and other historical generations and eras. Much has been said in recent theology about the moral and theological significance of encounters with “otherness, ” in part precisely because, in our own self-justifying, psychologically defensive ways, we are in fact not fully capable of critiquing ourselves truthfully. Lent today needs to be conceived as a ritually structured opportunity to seek out and practice such encoun­ ters, to open ourselves to a wider world, and to experience the liberation that comes from discovering truthfully how we are participating in various orders of injustice and dehumanization of ourselves and others. This kind of contrition is not easy and it is not comfortable, but it is, arguably, ethically and theologically fundamental to the wider meaning of contrition today. It therefore deserves not only homiletical atten­ tion, but creative ministries of significant social encounter in the life of the church. Second, it is also important in today’s interconnected, global community to empha­ size that sinfulness entails our inevitable participation in vast, collective social evils, not simply our own individual failings, though they are serious enough. Individually, we are complicit in these immensely complex systems of evil and injustice even if we are not willfully choosing to be, and even if we are making efforts to extricate ourselves from them and work for their elimination. Our whole way of life in America, our standard of living, our economic and political security, such as it is, rests on a national and global system of economic and political relations shot through with injustice and exploitation of whole classes and communities of people, at home and abroad. We are willy-nilly the beneficiaries of these systemic injustices in countless ways, nearly all of which we cannot directly control or influence even when we make conscientious efforts to do so. Modifying our consumption of fossil fuels and energy, for instance, is no doubt a worthy thing to do; but the reality is that individual efforts of this kind will not significantly change humanity’s looming climate disaster and the immense evils it will inflict on the entire human race, and disproportionately on the poor and people of color. One can cite countless other examples of such individual complicity in vast networks of social evils—racism, class privilege, environmental predation, and so on. It is easy to feel despair when contemplating the immensity of these evils and our own “caughtness” in them. But the social reality, and the theological truth, is that evil is not simply individual in nature; it is systemic, vast, all-encompassing, and dominating of our individual lives whatever our social status. This idea is biblical in scope; the Bible is very clear that sin and evil permeate the cosmos in some strange way, and that we are caught up in them (Rom. 8:20-23; Eph. 6:12). Contrition and sorrow for sin must therefore somehow acknowledge and articulate this formidable fact of our existence and point us beyond ourselves to the grace and redeeming pres­ ence of God in Christ, even as we seek to do what we can to resist evil and embody the reign of God in our world.2 Third, true contrition is never simply a matter of subjective resolve—heartfelt remorse and a promise to do better, important and essential as these are. Contrition


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    also involves follow-up action of some sort that embodies and expresses, and thus commits, the individual (or group) to what is being lamented from the past and promised for the future. Protestants in particular have always approached this aspect of contrition, which in the medieval church and subsequent Catholicism has been known as “doing penance,” fearing that “doing something” can easily morph into an attempt to earn one’s forgiveness and divine favor— “works righteousness. ” But this possibility, which is very real and tempting, cannot be the whole story. For without taking some concrete action, it is equally possible to deceive oneself into believing that one’s word can substitute for one’s deed, that one has made a true act of contri­ tion when the fundamental act of behavioral commitment is lacking. “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my father in heaven” (Mt. 7:21). Psychoanalysts have identified a phenomenon called “primary process promising” in which an individual makes a promise with all due emotional fervor and resolve, but without a true, realistic, intention of fulfilling it through specific actions in the future. This psychological trick is seen often among children. A young child’s immature devel­ opment is such that a promise is often little more than a desperate attempt to appease an authority figure and avoid punishment in the present moment (“I’ll be good! I’ll be good! ”), with little realistic intention of carrying out the corresponding behavior in the future. Sadly, primary process promising, as this phenomenon is called, is all too common among supposedly mature adults as well. How many promises do we make with all good intentions, yet in many instances fail to keep? This kind of promising is usually partly unconscious, a psychological deception we play on ourselves; our conscious intentions may feel sincere, but the deeper motive may simply be to rid ourselves of a troublesome person or problem in the moment, with no realistic inten­ tion of actually carrying through on what we promise. Psychologically, mature adult contrition and sorrow for sin must reach beyond this sort of immature promising to a behavioral confirmation in actual deeds. This is, I suppose, the wisdom at the core of the ancient practice of doing penance. Rightly understood, such deeds should not be understood as punishments, ways of paying off a debt, or preconditions qualifying one for forgiveness, though the Church itself has typically misrepresented penance in such terms. Properly understood, penitential deeds are the behavioral confirmations, the follow-through, of the spiritual integrity of an act of contrition. They need to be “done” not as self-punishment, not as a paying off of debt, and not as a condition of forgiveness, but as an integral expression of contrition. “Faith apart from works is dead” (Jas. 2:26); more fully, salvation is by grace through faith active in love.3 Good intentions need to be embodied in behavior. More on this below. Fourth, a good theology of Lenten contrition should also affirm, not deny or denigrate, the truth of our lives and lives of others as children of God, created in the indestructible image of God, thus beloved of God and worthy of respect, honor, just treatment, and loving care however sinful, destructive, and downright evil our deeds and intentions may be. This positive, affirmative note is crucially important in the practice of contrition and sorrow for sin to prevent it from becoming preoccupied with our own sinfulness and thus with ourselves, ironically excluding God and our own imago dei from the picture. To focus totally and exclusively on our own sinfulness, on how bad we are, is to deny or disbelieve not only our creaturely imago dei, but the grace and mercy and kindness of God. Contrition in the best sense is a practice of


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    reaffirming who we truly are in God’s eyes, all of our sinfulness and distorted living notwithstanding. It is like saying, “This sin in me is indeed mine, I own it, but it is not truly me, not the person I wish to be, not the child of God I most truly am, and it’s not how I wish to be or to live.” Indeed, coming to such truth about ourselves is liberating, ennobling in its own paradoxical sort of way; it is an act of faith and trust in the goodness and love of God and God’s creation of us as in the divine image more than an attempt to see ourselves, in all of our limited and distorted being, exclusively as sinful.

    Giving Up Things During Lent—Ascetical Practices as Spiritual Disciplines The most popular meaning attached to Lent for most people is the idea of giving up something—usually some hedonistic indulgence like comfort foods, alcohol, sex, or other pleasurable activities. The underlying idea in this game of self-deprivation is often a mixture of self-punishment (paying the price for guilty pleasures) and a hope that, by depriving oneself of pleasures for a time, one will grow spiritually strong (at least for a while). Ascetical practices in general have the character of sloughing off indulgences, setting high goals and priorities, requiring and encouraging a sense of self-control and self-discipline, and giving one a sense of taking the high road toward worthy ends. And they are typically empowering of the person (a sort of Samson syndrome). This is certainly evident in secular versions of asceticism as well—in diets, exercise routines, and in all forms of strenuous goal-striving. Such practices are psychologically similar to religious asceticism, though historically monastics and other saints have taken this idea to extremes by making such practices unduly harsh and painful (if not death-defying) and unconditionally binding over a lifetime. For ordinary folks ascetical spiritual practices, ritually encouraged during Lent, provide a lower voltage version of the same dynamic. Small but meaningful sacrifices are thought to be good for the soul from time to time, often rationalized as a bit of self­ punishment to atone for sin and to offset sinful indulgences enjoyed the rest of the year, or simply as a way of tuning up spiritually. Surely, there must be some value in any ascetical practices in our culture, given its materialistic, sensual, self-indulgent character (driven by an economic system built on the exploitation of human greed). There is clearly a need to put the brakes on excessive self-indulgence, short-sighted materialism, and compulsive greed. However, all ascetical practices, while serving many good purposes, can also become self-destructive (as in eating disorders and self-punitive deprivations and mutilations). They can also become socially dangerous, as when strenuous self-discipline, self-denial, and competitive goal striving support a drive to dominate, defeat, and destroy others conceived as obstacles, threats, or enemies. Such asceticism is frequently used to intensify loyalty to one’s tribe, gender, race, or nation, reaching well beyond healthy or morally justifiable limits, as in our recent tragic histories of nationalism and rac­ ism. The extent to which this points applies equally to the institutional church and Christian history is worth some reflection. In any case, what we see in these apparent perversions of a good thing is, I think, the underlying power of aggression in all ascetical practice, though the two are often closely intertwined. Aggression is not necessarily a bad thing. As I will use the term here, it is the life force, the power, the strength of the person to organize, discipline, and shape one’s life toward desired ends. It is in fact not possible to achieve anything


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    worthwhile in life without making one’s goal a priority of some kind, a task that re­ quires organizing and directing one’s energies in a focused and intentional way, and saying “no” to competing interests by either ignoring or defeating them. That is the constructive use of aggressive energy (assuming the goals themselves are good). There are, of course, countless ways in which aggressive energy can subvert constructive aims, run wild, and become an end in itself. And in many instances, the blending of constructive and destructive purposes becomes highly ambiguous, as in competitive sports or competition in the business world that can turn excessively hostile or com­ bative, beyond the constructive bounds of normal competitiveness. Such ambiguity occurs often in military or police actions that may be necessary to preserve order and defeat evil, but may also get out of hand and become more destructive and deadly than can be morally justified. The management of aggressive energy toward constructive ends is one of the most fundamental tasks of human civilization, and perhaps the most difficult. But, theologically, we must not make the error of assuming that aggressive energy is inherently evil. Quite the opposite. Life and civilization itself would be impossible and morally chaotic without the power of aggressive energy because it is the means by which goals are sought, organizations, relationships, and institutions formed and maintained, and moral order achieved. Theologically, aggressive energy can be considered as among “the Powers” of God’s good creation which, however “fallen,” are also a good and necessary part of life for both individuals and society. How does this reflection apply to Lenten ascetical practices, and how can it be used to assist the preaching of the spiritual wisdom of Lent? I will suggest but a few possibilities. First, given the highly materialistic nature of our culture, driven by a relentless economic system that promotes, requires, and thrives on the stimulation of human greed, it seems necessary that Christian preaching push back aggressively in certain ways, even as we also enjoy and benefit from its achievements. It is important that we not simply condemn or moralize against the importance of material goods and all the values and life experiences that material prosperity makes possible. In that respect, our capitalist system is, at least in principle, an immensely powerful contributor to human welfare, as it has, in fact, done more to reduce the curse of global poverty than any other economic system devised by human beings in history. The theological issue here is not the inherent value of material wellbeing, which is in principle a given of God’s good creation and a potential blessing to humankind. The problem is how to order and discipline material welfare toward other moral and spiritual ends, such as the cultivating of loving and just human relationships, the fair distribution of wealth between social classes, races, and nations, protection and care for the natural world, and the flourishing of intangible cultural values like freedom, justice, love, beauty, and truth. Material welfare, a good in itself, should not be allowed to dominate and dictate idolatrously to all other values and meanings. This in fact has happened in secular capitalism. It has also happened in its religious spin-offs like the economically comfortable, self-righteous “culture Protestantism” of the upper middle classes for whom Christianity can be little more than an ideological justification for class privilege and for the “prosperity gospel” of those who aspire to gain similar economic status and power. The whole culture of materialism must be prophetically questioned and challenged, even as material wellbeing is sought and appreciated as a human good, whatever its limitations and ambiguities.


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    Lenten asceticism thus has an opportunity to raise deeper questions about not only our materialistic, economically driven indulgence and greed and the injustice of our economic relations, but also about the value and importance of material wellbeing for all persons and communities. The pastoral challenge—and opportunity—is to work at creative ways of doing so. And preaching is one such opportunity. Are there ways that preachers can help congregations not only reflect on the perverted economic conditions of our common lives, but also devise exercises—ascetical practices—that will help raise consciousness and re-envision what is truly important and meaningful in life beyond our creature comforts and anxieties, opening our eyes to economic injustice and empowering us to seek the economic and ecological welfare of all? What ascetical practices can we devise to help us become more aware of the larger ends and purposes of life than material satisfactions provide, while also advocating for the economic and material wellbeing of those deprived even of life’s basic material goods and necessities? Are there ways that “giving up something for Lent” can be an exercise in social as well as personal transformation—a repentance, a metanoia, of heart and soul? For example, what if giving up certain comfort foods were linked to engagement with the local food bank and the ministry of food to the poverty stricken? Or, what if it were joined to political action with local politicians and governments or to private business enterprises that pertain to food availability, like the need for grocery stores to provide nourishing food in urban “food deserts”? What if Lenten asceticism were tied to environmental and ecological concerns related to how food is produced—to animal rights, to chemical pollution in agribusiness, or to the produc­ tion of unhealthy food products? Or what if foregoing expense travel were directly coupled with political action on the climate crisis? Such linkages would put real teeth into Lenten ascetical practices, lifting them beyond individual and perhaps trivial or sentimental levels of spirituality to more morally meaningful and challenging forms of spiritual growth and social witness. Second, given the inherently aggressive nature of ascetical practices of all kinds, I think it important to include in sermons some theological help with interpreting their spiritual value, but also their spiritual limitations. The important point here is to emphasize that ascetical practice is not to be confused with self-flagellation or punishment— “suffering for one’s sins.” Jesus did all the suffering for sin that is needed. The Gospel of Jesus Christ is not the good news of self-denial in the sense of self-punishment, self-rejection, or self-hatred; it is the good news of divine love, compassion, and care for the right ordering of our lives in God. “Gospel” and “Law” go together with faith, hope, and love as the ultimate, indestructible spiritual reali­ ties rooted in God that give life and redemption to all of our efforts at the moral and practical ordering of our lives. The point of ascetical practices is not to put the ordering process hi st or to make it the supreme value. It is rather to lift our eyes unto the hills from whence comes our help—that is, to remind us that we do not live by bread alone but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God, and that that Word is loving, just, true, and beautiful. We seek to bring our lives into good order in many ways, including the periodic practice of ascetical disciplines. Such practices are inherently a good gift of the creator, given as necessary aids in living well. It is a perversion of the good gift of ascetical discipline, however, to make it anything less than a practice that enables us to experience and celebrate, or at least glimpse, the wonderful, life-giving truth of


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    the Gospel. This includes, but reaches far beyond, our daily material existence and the necessary but not sufficient systems of economic productivity and distribution that our society provides. Ascetical practice is ultimately not simply about our doing something for our own benefit or that of others but about helping us perceive and receive the good gift of God’s grace, thus enabling us to live more fully and with more life-giving order and purpose into the reality of the divine life freely given to us in and through the material, social, and cosmic reality of God’s good creation.

    A Concluding Note on Preparing Sermons (or Teaching Events) in Lent, or Anytime I am not an experienced pulpiteer, and I hesitate to offer advice to those who practice this ancient and most challenging of liturgical arts. But as one who has done some preaching and much church-based teaching that has had a strong homiletical cast, I wish to offer, from a pastoral theological perspective, a few ideas about prepar­ ing sermons and teaching events that have emerged through my own experience that may be helpful to those who practice this challenging art week by week. For I am at least convinced that preparing to teach or preach is truly a kind of spiritual discipline in itself, one not unrelated to the themes of Lent we have been considering. For there is entailed in homiletical practice, whatever the text or occasion, both a discipline of contrition and a discipline of ascetical practice. It seems to me that both preaching and theological teaching, when done well, entail attending to three fundamental concerns: (1) the biblical and theological content or “message” to be proclaimed or taught, including its internal questions and issues; (2) the social context of those who gather to hear it with its many ongoing conflicts and concerns; and (3) the personal needs and spirituality of the preacher her- or himself. These points may be obvious to those who preach regularly, but not necessarily so. In any case it is deceptively easy to ignore or shortchange the focused attention that each of these considerations rightly requires. A large part of the spiritual discipline of sermon preparation seems to me to he in the difficulty in shifting from one of these areas of concern to another and back again, taking each one seriously but not getting stuck in any of them, then allowing the three to merge creatively into a whole that transcends its parts. I do not, however, think of these concerns as an ordered sequence, as if “content” precedes “context” precedes “person.” The order in which they are taken up (and often revisited) is entirely up to the intuitive insight of the preacher and the flow of the Spirit. Such flexibility in ordering them and moving back and forth among them is essential to the creative process. Nonetheless it is important to touch each of these bases in some serious, intentional way if a sermon or teaching event is to be theologically sound and responsible, creative, in touch with its hearers and their world, and true to the heart and soul of the preacher. (1) Focusing on the content or “message” means giving concentrated attention to both scriptural exegesis and theological reflection of a sustained and serious kind, including its various questions and complexities, without the distraction of worry­ ing in the hist instance about “how it will preach” or how it may be “relevant” or any other external consideration. And it may be that the preacher will hist attend to contextual or personal considerations—the circumstances of the congregation or the situation, or to the preacher’s own feelings, insights, needs, and fears, before turning to the exegetical and theological issues. But serious, focused, critical biblical and


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    theological thinking requires concentrated, undistracted attention at some point. It is, in fact, an act of contrition and ascetical discipline to set aside other concerns and distractions and humbly focus on the themes at hand, difficult and uninteresting or frustrating though they may be. For example, in Lenten preaching, it really is impor­ tant that the preacher think through the sorts of issues I have discussed in this article (and others), such as the question of what defines true contrition and what it means that “Jesus died for our sins.” We cannot adequately resolve these immense, historic questions, certainly, but we do need to recognize how they are embedded in the more obvious, perhaps practical aspects of our sermon and teaching topics, and give them serious attention in their own right as a spiritual discipline of sermon preparation. (2) Context here refers both to the immediate congregational situation and the wider community, including possibly the national and global situation. What is going on here? is the key question, referring not only to the public events and circumstances of the day, but to the way people are feeling and thinking about them. This includes, during Lent, the more specific question, What is the congregation feeling about Lent itself? Does it have any meaning at all? Is it just one more religious obligation to cope with? Does this season put people in touch with their accumulated concerns, fears, and sense of guilt? What else is going on in their minds and hearts, and in their personal and public lives? What issues are animating and dividing the congregation and its wider community at this time? Or the nation’s? But the greater challenge of contextual reflection is how to do so fairly, objectively, and truthfully, rather than simply indulging in our own prejudices and preconceptions. A certain humility is required, and a certain discipline in serving the interests of truth. Perhaps the hardest form of this discipline is therefore trying to see the situation as we imagine God may see it and not simply as we wish to see it. Whether this is even possible is a legitimate question, but I believe it is an ideal toward which our efforts should aim, with all due contrition and self-discipline. (3) Then there is the much more personal issue of what the preacher her- or him­ self is experiencing—feelings, attitudes, problems, tensions, hopes, fears, including how one is feeling about preparing the sermon at hand and how one is feeling about the larger context. It can be an uncomfortable experience to reckon with one’s own moods and musings, and strongly tempting to try to set them aside in order to get on with the task of preparing the sermon. But feelings and ideas unacknowledged and undealt with do not evaporate; they continue to haunt the preaching task and can easily distort a sermon or teaching event. Thus a certain contrition is called for in the Lenten preacher, an honest reckoning with oneself and with God, a kind of discipline of the soul, and an attempt, however faltering, to engage the meaning of Lent in personal terms as well as theologically and contextually. What does all of this Lenten tradition mean to me, now, in my own spiritual and personal life? But by the same token, it also becomes necessary to set self-reflection aside, to not get swallowed up in it. This too requires spiritual discipline, an exercise of contrition, and sacrificial discipline. Finally, there is also a discipline required in allowing all three areas of reflec­ tion— exegetical and theological, contextual, and personal—to interact in the creative process of bringing the sermon together. Allowing this process to happen unimpeded is in itself a sort of contrition insofar as it requires stepping back, letting go of self-as­ sertion and control, perhaps confessing one’s unworthiness or sense of insufficiency, and recognizing that the sermon is not entirely a process one can steer or determine,


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    but must take its own course in a spirit of grace and faith—a blending of unconscious creativity and deliberate, conscious craftsmanship. Any creative process including preaching requires this cooperative relationship between conscious and unconscious psychological forces; it is a participation in a movement of Spirit larger and more mysterious than one’s own ego-centered control. Letting go of forced efforts at control and allowing the fundamental components of sermon preparation to come together in their own deeply creative way also requires a willingness to act concretely, putting one’s intuitions and creative insights into actual words and paragraphs. The task and discipline of actual writing, however, can be un­ derstood as a way of following through in word and deed on the preacher’s intention of listening to text, context, and self in a humble, open, contrite spirit; in essence, it is a sort of penance, a deed or deeds done to concretize, even “incarnate,” what is spiritually perceived in the preceding preparation, a way of embodying the authenticity of the preacher’s intentions and insights. Often such attempts to put things into actual words open new insights and redirect the whole in unexpected, creative ways. In any event, writing the sermon and actually preaching it thus have a peculiar pertinence to the themes of Lent, where we are called to let go of our usual, ego-centered striving for control, to open ourselves to the numinous work of the Spirit, and to proceed, as best can, to take concrete steps in words and phrases to embody the spiritual truths our preparations have glimpsed, all the while recognizing and affirming that we live, preach, and teach by grace through faith alone made active through love in works and words.

    Notes 1 Frances Fitzgerald, The Evangelicals: The Struggle to Shape America (New York: Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2017), 57-69. 2 Walter Wink, Engagingthe Powers, 25th anniversary edition (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2017). 3 George Wollfgang Forell, Faith Active in Love: An Investigation of the Principles Underlying Luther’s Social Ethics (Minneapolis: Augsburg Press, 1959).

  • The Resurrection of Christ and the Creation of Community

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    The Resurrection of Christ and the Creation

    of Community

    Mary Hinkle Shore Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary, Hickory, North Carolina

    Eight days into my new job as a seminary administrator, I joined the other six people who hold a similar office in my denomination and a few bishops for the continuation of work the others had started a few months earlier. We gathered to explore how our institutions—and our church body as a whole—could better represent the diversity present in the geography we inhabit. As a denomination, we are older and we include more Caucasian members and native speakers of English than the neighborhoods that surround our churches. In Revelation 7, all nations and tribes and peoples are praising the Lamb. In anticipation of the Last Day’s activities, might we Evangelical Lutheran Church in America Lutherans get a more robust start on embodying that beloved community and its praise? How could our seminaries and our bishops who are themselves part of underrepresented communities lead toward that goal? That was the topic of our meeting. At intervals in the two-day conversation, one of my colleagues kept saying, “I don’t want us to ‘Easter over’ the difficulties here.” I think she meant something like, “I don’t want us to minimize—to paper over—how hard this work will be by using the religious jargon of new life.” She was reminding us that “Christ is risen!” is not a slogan for avoiding the spiritual practices of confession, repentance, imagining something new, and taking risks to get there. I was sympathetic to my colleague’s concern, but I remember thinking, “Wouldn ’t a little ‘Eastering’ actually help here?” The testimony that Christ is risen should be brought into conversation with a problem as vexing as how we embody Christian fellowship beyond our understandings of tribe. In this essay, I seek to do that. First, I notice three features in the testimony of the gospels to the resurrection: 1) the risen Jesus appears in mostly mundane surroundings and stays with his puzzled follow­ ers as they take in the news of his new life, 2) his suffering and his victory remain intertwined after he is risen, and 3) when he appears, he draws the attention of his conversation partners beyond him and beyond themselves to others. After exploring these three features of the resurrection stories, I offer preliminary comments on their implications for the Spirit’s work of gathering and sanctifying the church in our own time and place as a community across differences.

    Life-Sized and Local In the resurrection, Jesus’ destinations and audiences are small-scale. This is like him, of course. Except for the last day or two when he was dragged before a governor and king (cf. Matthew 10:18), nearly all of Jesus’ ministry was spent with people whose lives played out in apparently inconsequential places and events. On the other side of the cross and resurrection, readers of the gospels might expect a higher level of interaction with the powerful, yet the evangelists tell a different story. For the risen Lord, there is no first century equivalent of a parade through Manhattan, a trip


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    to Disney World, or a photo opportunity at the White House. Mary Magdalene, lingering in the garden after Peter and the Beloved Disciple have returned home, fails to recognize Jesus for far longer than readers are sure it would have taken us.1 Finally, Jesus speaks Mary’s name, and she knows him. His sheep hear his voice, and one sheep at a time, Jesus begins to reconstitute the flock. In Luke, Jesus walks along a stretch of country road with a couple of disciples while “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” Jesus uses the time well. He teaches the others from the Scriptures about the necessity of his suffering. When the time comes for the travelers to part ways, the two invite Jesus to stay with them. He agrees. At the table, as the guest takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them, they see him. They recognize him in actions they have likely seen him do dozens of times, most recently at the last supper he shared with them. Jesus enters a room where some of his followers have locked themselves away. Having missed the experience of seeing Jesus alive,Thomas refuses to take his friends’ report at face value. He knows that Jesus died, and he knows how. Like the seminary president who does not want her colleagues in church leadership to “Easter over” the hard stuff, Thomas says as clearly as possible that he is unconvinced. “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe” (John 20:25). Several days later, Jesus arrives again in the upper room and invites Thomas to touch his wounds and believe. Again, another witness to the resurrection gets particular help recognizing Jesus and coming to trust in him. In the resurrection, Jesus also returns to the backwater where he lived and worked. In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, women at the tomb are directed to tell his disciples that Jesus is on his way to Galilee. We have two accounts of Jesus appearing in Galilee. In John 21, Jesus interacts with some fishermen, turned disciples, turned fisherman who have been skunked through the night. They eventually do catch some fish and catch on to who is addressing them, and they join Jesus on the beach for a meal and more teaching. In Matthew 28:16-20, Jesus meets his disciples on a mountaintop. They offer him a combination of worship and doubt, and true to form, he pledges to keep working with them. He describes his authority to them, gives them further work to do, and he promises to be with them “to the close of the age.” The apostle Paul knows a tradition that the risen Jesus appeared “to more than five hundred brothers and sisters at one time” (1 Cor 15:6), but the gospel writers include no such large-scale appearances. In the gospels, the risen Jesus appears in out-of-the-way places to one person at a time or to very small groups. Even though he is supposed to be ascending to the Father (cf. John 20:17), Jesus keeps appearing, first in Jerusalem, then Emmaus, then back to Jerusalem, then in Galilee. He takes the time that his friends need to be able to trust that he is alive and that his life makes a difference for their lives and those of others.

    Wounded Lord2 Luke and John offer resurrection stories in which the suffering of Christ is a primary concern. Luke tells the story of Cleopas and a companion walking to Em­ maus and “talking with each other about all these things that had happened” (Luke 24:14). Jesus, unrecognized, inserts himself into their conversation and brings it to


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    a standstill. The verbs for discussing and talking in Luke 24:15 and 17 have a lot of energy connected to them. The New English Translation gets at this sense of a lively, maybe even loud, conversation by using the English words debating and discussing so intently. Yet when Cleopas and his companion are faced with getting the stranger up to speed, they stall out. “They stood still, looking sad” (24:17). Where does one start? For someone to understand the loss they have experienced, one would have to understand the past they experienced. There is so much to explain. When Cleopas speaks again, one can hear the sense of frustration he feels. Is this stranger on the road the only person in Jerusalem not to know what happened? They tell the story of their hopes and the hopelessness they are feeling now. They also relate the testimony of some women among them, who say the tomb is empty. The two on the road are amazed and puzzled by the testimony of the women, which is not to say that they believe it, just that they do not know what to do with it. After all this, it is their new companion’s turn to talk. He asks, “Was it not nec­ essary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” To explain the necessity, Jesus walks the two back through Moses and the prophets. Luke says nothing here about the specific texts the risen Jesus might have found to explain the necessity of his suffering. In Acts 8, the Ethiopian eunuch happens to be reading a Suffering Servant passage from Isaiah 53 when Philip happens to be found alongside his chariot. The two talk, and “starting with this scripture, [Philip] proclaimed to him the good news about Jesus” (Acts 8:35). Perhaps Jesus interpreted Isaiah 53 for Cleopas and his companion? For what it is worth, however, the Isaiah 53 reading has more to do with the fact of suffering than the necessity for it. To explain the necessity of suffering, one might look back at Luke 4 for the Scripture Jesus reads aloud in the synagogue at Nazareth and interprets at the start of his ministry. Borrowing from Moses and the prophets, Jesus combines a text from Leviticus with a quotation from Isaiah to describe his work:

    The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. (Luke 4:18-19)

    What Jesus needed to do—the necessity laid upon him that he would not aban­ don—was to bring good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind. That fiery Pentecost Spirit that would be poured out on the disciples a few weeks after Easter was upon him. The Spirit of the Lord made it necessary for Jesus to free the oppressed. He needed to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor, that jubilee when slaves go free and debts are forgiven and even the land gets a break from non-stop production. Jesus needed to love the way God loves. Loving the way God loves necessarily meets with resistance (and leads to suffering) because the world is so thoroughly organized around opposing values. In Luke, the risen Jesus spends time working through the “why” of suffering with his disciples. In John, the risen Jesus displays the marks of suffering to them. In


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    John’s gospel (and only John’s gospel), Jesus says, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father” (14:9) and “the Father and I are one” (10:30). He says, “Very truly I tell you, before Abraham was, ‘I am’” (8:58). Jesus identifies with God so completely and in ways that are so much more explicit than in the other gospels that many readers think believers from a later generation put these words in his mouth. This gospel, known for its elevated picture of Christ, is the one in which Thomas says, “I want to see the wounds.” He is steadfast in his unbelieving and clear about the conditions under which that might change. Thomas could have put any condition at all on his believing, and the condition he chooses is seeing and touching the marks of crucifixion on the body of the Lord. A week later, Jesus appears. He offers Thomas physical evidence of his crucified and risen life as well as a window on the character of his lordship: “Put your finger here,” Jesus says, “and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Robert Smith concludes, “When the Fourth Gospel declares the oneness of Father and Son, it is proclaiming that the wounds of Jesus are integral to the identity of the mystery we call ‘God.’ What the pages of this gospel proclaim is not so much that ‘Jesus is like God’ but rather, ‘God is like this Jesus with his wounds.’”3

    Expanding Circles of Communion No contact with the risen Jesus has as its goal communion only with the people to whom he has made himself known. The circle always expands. Each scene includes an event or directive that propels the participants to engage people outside the scene. Appearances consistently move those to whom they are given beyond themselves. Jesus meets women at the tomb and directs them to the disciples where he also ap­ pears. Jesus meets the disciples and directs them to all people where, it follows, he will also appear. Jesus does not understand the beloved community to be defined by its current boundaries. We often worry that references to making disciples of all nations, or witnessing to the ends of the earth, or to forgiving the sins of any are inhospitable starting places for engaging those of other faiths or no faith. Indeed, throughout history, Christians have often misused these commands toward imperialistic ends. Yet that is not the only way they function. We could hear them instead as the risen Jesus saying, “Don’t make the mistake of walling yourselves off and withholding the life you have in me from others. The risen life you see that I have—indeed, the risen life you also now have in me—is always for others too, just as the life I have with the Father and the Spirit has always also been for you.”

    The Community of the Resurrection It would surprise everyone who is not a bishop in my denomination to hear how our bishops routinely talk of being powerless. “We really have no constitutional authority at the churchwide level.” Or, “Given our church’s congregational structure, bishops can do very little but practice the art of persuasion.” Hidden behind these statements is frustration at bureaucracy. Perhaps the statement also betrays envy at the perceived power of others (Methodist bishops? Catholic bishops?) who themselves probably talk about their powerlessness vis-a-vis the systems of which they are a part! Also hidden here is a powerful sense of disappointment that can morph into an excuse not


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    to hope. Human beings have a powerful capacity to look into an empty tomb and see nothing of significance. Bishops do this. So do seminary administrators, seminary faculty, senior pastors, associate pastors, church councils, and church staff. Middle-class Americans look at a political process fueled by huge amounts of money and conclude we cannot change anything. “Go big or go home” comes to mean “Go home and binge-watch Netflix.” The stories of the resurrection encourage us instead to regard oursel ves as worthy of the company of the risen Lord and to get ourselves to Galilee. Jesus appears to the littlest of little people: he appears to women whose closest companions do not even take them seriously when they report the resurrection (cf. Luke 24:11). He appears to a couple of grieving, hopeless travelers on the road to Emmaus, to followers cowering behind locked doors, and to someone who remains steadfast in his unbelief. Nothing in these stories suggests that you or I have to be more important or powerful than we are to witness and bear witness to the resurrection. In fact, the less “at the center” we are, the more chance we may have for such witness. Jesus directs his disciples to Galilee. That is, he directs them to their home, to a place that is unimportant to all except those who live there. As seminary leaders and bishops, we have a responsibility to ask how our church structures are working against the fullest expression of the beloved community here and now. Yet we cannot somehow attend to structural work without ever having an actual life-sized, local relationship with someone different from us. No one can. Years ago, I complained to a therapist that I was lonely, and he replied, “You must get out of your house.” (Oh, wow! Why hadn’t I thought of that?) I was willing to do anything except put myself in the path of other people. To our fears of difference as we work to create community across difference, Jesus says, “I am going ahead of you to your neighborhood. I know the place looks inconsequential, maybe even hopelessly so. I know you think you’re powerless over most everything. Even so, that’s where I’ll be: ahead of you, in your neighborhood.” Once in our neighborhood, we may hear him say something like, “Children, you don’t have any fish, do you?” (cf. John 21:5). On Easter Sunday we sing “The strife is o’er, the battle done,” testifying to the risen Christ’s reality and our destination. Still the Risen One rises with wounds. “To believe in this, Jesus means to take him, wounds and all, into our own lives. To be­ lieve means to participate in Christ’s own suffering on behalf of the true life of the world.”4 White people working on race relations in America often sound to others as if we are asking, “Can’t we just let bygones be bygones?” White seminary leaders working on reshaping a largely white denomination sometimes act as if activism can fix this. We will reconfigure our boards, rewrite our workplace policies, update our curriculum and reading lists. Congregations can put “All are welcome! ” on their sign. Church wide executives can write statements on diversity that churchwide assemblies can endorse. We know how to do these things. Diabolically, we know how to do these things and have them result in no changes to the demographics of our denomination! Given that white activism has had limited success decentering white folks, might we instead cultivate the curiosity and courage to notice the wounds of our siblings in Christ? We could start by listening, looking, and not looking away when we are


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    invited to “put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side” (John 20:27). Suffering love is the truth and beauty of God and Christ. Suffering love is at the center of our mystical union with the Divine and each other. Curiosity and courage aren’t everything we will need. Wounds aren’t all we will be called to witness. Still, with Thomas, we could start there. Testimony to the resurrection of Christ is persistently local, characterized as much by scar tissue as more conventional signs of victory, and always drawing its witnesses into expanding circles of communion. The new life Christ has and shares with his followers propels those who experience it to share it more widely. The women tell the disciples. The disciples tell Thomas (with no luck). Jesus circles back to include Thomas. Jesus appears to those on the road to Emmaus. In response, they run back to Jerusalem to report it, only to have those they have run to blurt out before they can speak: “The Lord has appeared to Simon!” And then Jesus appears again! There is a certain level of chaos here. An always expanding abundance of life gets messy. Categories of “us” and “others” are being redefined so often that they eventually cease to be meaningful —not because we are “all the same,” but because who “we” are is always coming to include others, and still others, and again more others. This is the risen life of Christ and the destination of witnesses to the resurrec­ tion. We will live in something of a mess. We shall also be numbered among “a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands. They cried out in a loud voice, saying, ‘Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!”’ (Rev. 7:9-10). Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

    Notes 1 Paul Duke, Irony in the Fourth Gospel (Nashville: John Knox Press, 1985), 105. 2 I have borrowed the title of this section from Robert H. Smith, Wounded Lord: Reading John through the Eyes of Thomas (Eugene Oregon: Cascade Books, 2009), ed. Donna Duensing. 3 Smith, Wounded Lord, p. 6. 4 Smith, Wounded Lord, 6.

  • Hearing John in the Season of Lent

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    Hearing John in the Season of Lent

    David J. Schlafer

    Bethesda, Maryland

    The Second through Fifth Sundays in Lent, Year A, provide a brief, unusual, yet seminal opportunity for preachers and congregations to focus on the unfolding narrative trajectory in the Gospel of John. The lectionary grants expansive space for exploring signature features and styles in the writings of Matthew, Mark, and Luke—the full half-year Season of Pentecost in the liturgical years devoted to each, respectively.1 Apart from appearing during these four Year A weeks in Lent, however, Johannine passages are sprinkled—while liberally, yet largely intermittently—across a wide sweep of Sundays in the three-year lectionary cycle. All those other appointed Gospel lessons, however, are without regard to John’s own story-telling sequence, and usually in service of a theological theme connected to the liturgical season into which they have been individually inserted.2 In the four encounter stories of Jesus—with Nicodemus (3:1-17), the Samaritan woman (4:5-42), the man born blind (9:1-41), and with Mary and Martha at the grave of Lazarus (11:1-45)—preachers have a chance to “let John be John” as a narrative artist, better put: to learn from and work with John in seeking to share a sense of the gospel through the shape of a sermon. At hist glance, these four dialogue-driven dramas might appear easier for preach­ ers to engage than the Socrates-sounding monologues of Jesus in John’s Gospel (long speeches more abstractly designated as “discourses”). It is a challenge to wend one’s way (to say nothing of to lead one’s listeners) through the circuitous language of John’s Jesus as He holds forth on The Bread of Life, The Good Shepherd, or The New Commandment. Yet just because the encounter stories vividly recount spirited conversations and high-stakes confrontations, it does not follow that sermons on these texts will practically “write themselves.” Except for the hist (in John 3),3 each requires a lengthy read-aloud in worship settings and is proclaimed (in most orders of service) just before the sermon. Attention spans are often limited (particularly in listeners who stand to hear the Gospel). Extended spoken words can “go in one ear and out the other.” The narrative threads of these stories, if not lost altogether, may well at least be frayed in the short-term memories of many. A Catch-22 for preachers could well be that reprising a long story which has just been heard is, while needed, yet i 11-advised. Narrative recapitulations can lead to wandering attentions, even though a measure of story recall may be crucial for tracking the sermon. Evoking the kind of recollection that fosters understanding and insight requires preachers to find ways with each of these accounts (in poet Emily Dickenson’s fine phrase) to “tell it slant.” How can we give John a hearing that brings his distinctive ear and eye to the spiri­ tual journeys of those who (as in the hymn) are “walking once more the Pilgrim way of Lent”? A simple-sounding but serviceable strategy may be to compare and contrast five paired sets of stories about confrontations Jesus has with different individuals and groups—sets of stories John unfolds in sequence over the hist twelve chapters in his Gospel.4 Some of these are the ones constituting the four Gospel Lessons ap­ pointed for Lent A, Sundays 2-5. Each of these stories appears as a “stand alone” in


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    the liturgies on those days. (It would never do to extend the reading by including the story with which it can be paired!) But rich reflections can be generated by seeing each in the setting of the stories that precede and follow. It can be helpful as well to consider the four lectionary-designated stories in the wider narrative progression of the hist half of the Fourth Gospel.5 The five pairs of stories are:

    1) The Wedding Feast of Cana (2:1-12) and The “Cleansing” of the Temple (2:13-22) 2) The Visit with Nicodemus (3:1-17) and The Visit with a Woman of Samaria (4:4-42) 3) The Healing of an Official’s Son (4:46-54) and The Healing of a Para­ lytic (5:1-18) 4) The Woman Caught in Adultery (8:1-11) and The Man Born Blind (9:1-41) 5) The Raising of Lazarus (11:1 -44) and The Pre-burial Anointing of Jesus (12:1-11)

    We will shortly reflect on how John employs similarities and differences within each story pairing as a means of unfolding his larger narrative. First, however, this question: how might these stories serve as helpful Lenten guides? Spoiler alert: They ring the changes on the idea of judgment. Some years ago, Robert Farrar Capon wrote a book not widely circulated, The Youngest Day: Shelter Island’s Seasons in the Light of Grace ,6 He compares “The Four Last Things”—Death, Judgment, Hell, and Heaven—to the four seasons—Winter, Spring, Summer, and Autumn. Two of the metaphorical connections—Winter with Death and Summer with Hell—are obvious. LIpon reflection, Autumn and Heaven evoke a certain sense of fit: in Heaven, as in Autumn “all is safely gathered in” (as we sing at Thanksgiving). At hist appearance, however, Judgment and Spring seem a total disconnect. (What do black robed magistrates have to do with green shoots rising?) We fail to see the connection, says Capon, because we are predisposed to equate “judgment” with “condemnation.” Yet judgment, Capon asserts, is not so much about condemnation as about discernment. Spring is the season of discernment, when, after the dead of winter, that which is alive and growing is revealed. Spring is also when, through budding and flowering, differences are disclosed between one kind of life and another—differences not easily evident in Winter. In John’s Gospel, by word and deed, Jesus keeps saying: “Listen again—more closely! Take another look—more deeply! Things are more—and other—than they sound like or appear to be. There is birth and New Birth, water and Living Water, bread and The Bread of Life’, there are shepherds and a Good Shepherd, vines and a True Vine.” Surface-level hearing can be limited and limiting. Getting stuck at the level of sensory perception (and conventional wisdom) can foster spiritual percep­ tion that is seriously misfocused and misdirected. The “second looks and listens” that Jesus proposes invite “double takes” on the part of those whom he engages. He challenges his conversation partners to shift their attention from a fixation on physical phenomena to an insightful beholding of the deeper spiritual source toward which those phenomena gesture. (Though his challenges tend to trigger defensive, resistive “second guessing” instead.)


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    Lent (coinciding with the season of Spring for those who live in the northern hemisphere) is not a season for breast-beating, self-condemning, sackcloth and ashes. Confession of sin, fasting from various kinds of consumption, almsgiving acts of mercy and justice—all these are both derived from and evocative of a commitment to the fundamental spiritual practice of judgment as discernment—a continual process of discovery regarding what truly is, can be, and should be—seen in light of/heard in conjunction with our growing awareness of how God engages us. How does this discernment play out across the unfolding narrative sweep of the hist half of John’s Gospel? Following the progression may generate fresh sound­ ings and illuminations that emerge as the four Lenten Gospel pericopes are allowed to enter into a more extended story conversation—one through which we may hear Jesus say: Signs and Ceremonies, Birthing and. Worshiping, Curing and. Healing, Mercy and Justice, Death and. Resurrection—Listen to/Look at These Another Way!

    1) What concern is that to you and. me? / Take these things out of here! Signs and Ceremonies After the Prologue, the Testimony of John the Baptist, and the Calling of the First Disciples, John the Evangelist begins his account of the narrative trajectory in Jesus’s ministry with back-to-back stories about how Jesus intervenes in two social settings where signs and ceremonies have high significance. Animal sacrifices are essential in temple worship, and a wedding without wine would be a total disaster. At the wedding, Jesus hist declines his mother’s urge to get involved. His retort can be read as rhetorical (“Not my time, so not my problem! ”). The question might, however, also be heard as an impetus to discernment (if not for himself or his mother, then an invitation to discernment for John’s audience). When what is understood to be a clear sign of God’s abundant blessing on an important communal celebration is lacking, that sign should be provided. So, without public self-disclosure (and truth be told, much helped by the heft of servants who also operate unrecognized), Jesus supplies what is wanting—thus validating both sign and ceremony—and becoming thereby a sign to his disciples. The scene suddenly shifts; the contrasts are stark: Jesus stands not in the more intimate space of a family or village, but in national sacred assembly space, the litur­ gical meeting place of God’s Covenant Community. Here, Jesus is anything but shy about attracting attention. Rather than validating the structural web of temple signs and ceremonies, he assails what seems to be integral to the former and thus critical to the latter. Sign, ceremony, and liturgical logistics, alas, have become intertwined over extended unreflective practice by the wedding of concerns economic, political, and religious. Jesus proclaims A Great Divorce: “Take these things out of here! ” They don’t help the community pray; they make prayer far more difficult. This appropria­ tion of the sign of sacrifice is not just distracting, but totally mistaken; it renders the ensuing ceremony a kind of blasphemy. From the outset of his ministry, Jesus sends a clear signal: things are more and other than they seem—listen/look again—discernment is essential.

    2) The wind, blows where it chooses. / If you knew the gift of God. . . Birthing and Worshiping Gender, ethnicity, social status, formal education, moral standing in their com­


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    munities—Nicodemus and the Samaritan woman could hardly be less alike. They are, therefore, curiously, different in yet one more respect. It’s not just that Nicodemus is respectful and taciturn while the woman is loquacious—indeed, she is all but “in your face” assertive. For all his training and experience, Nicodemus seems theologically clueless, while the Samaritan woman is theologically street savvy. From the perspective of the Johannine Jesus, however, each needs serious reori­ entation in terms of spiritual geography and spiritual biology. What does it mean to be born from above? Which mountain is the “right” mountain on which to worship? Adjusting his images to the readily understandable incomprehension of both, Jesus tries to meet each where he finds it, while seeking at the same time to disengage them from their respective constricting theological preconceptions. By virtue of their reli­ gious backgrounds (withless good reason for Nicodemus thanforthe woman), neither is able to perceive the operation of God’s Spirit, which “blows where it chooses,” and which can show up and be worshipped appropriately on anyone’s mountain (or anywhere else, for that matter). Each of these two people—so different, yet so similar—based on their own frames of reference, has a religious system of belief and practice that is well worked out and that works well for each. Each is an adult, in the everyday sense of that word. Yet Jesus suggests that, spiritually, each is still in utero. Both require radical openness to a Gift from a deeper Reality Dimension—one that can neither be earned or inherited, but only received with gratitude. Not entertained and accepted as a helpful “add on” to “business as usual,” rather, embraced, not even as “a game changer,” but as the utter loss of a prior way of living and a total disorienting/reorienting transposition into a Life that is Eternal. Discernment regarding Signs and Ceremonies fosters further, deeper discernment about what is entailed in “From Above” birthing and “Living Water” gifting—each of which has profound implications for what it means to worship God “in spirit and truth.”

    3) Go, your son will live! / Stand up, take your bed and. walk! Curing and Healing Once again, back-to-back stories of two individuals—both of whom, this time, are ill, but under circumstances strikingly different. The malady of one is acute; he is “at the point of death.” The other may well have wished he could die, having suffered a chronic illness for thirty-eight years. One may be a foreigner (His father is named as “a royal official.”); the other seems likely “a local boy” who has long lain just beyond reach of occasionally “stirred” waters at a pool by the Sheep Gate in Jerusalem. A request comes to Jesus from the sick son’s father—a request Jesus grants with a long-distance cure. With the paralyzed invalid, on the other hand, Jesus himself does the asking: “Do you want to be made well?” (Silly-sounding question! But maybe not so much.) This curing is done “on the spot.” In both encounters the curing is effected through a verbal order from Jesus—to the entreating father, “Go!”—to the paralytic, as he describes his hopeless situation: “Stand up! Take your mat! Walk!” Perhaps the most significant similarity is that the royal official and the man on the mat both do just as they are told, and these “doings” play a role in what ensues for each. Gospel Story Teller John makes a point of saying more than once that the “signs” Jesus does are intended to evoke belief—not in the “signs and wonders” for their own sake, or in Jesus as a wonder worker, but in Jesus as God’s Word Made


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    Flesh—God’s embodied sacramental presence tent-pitched in the world so that those who believe in him are empowered to become “children of God. ” Viewed in that light, the question of Jesus to the paralytic “Do you want to be made well?” is not simply “Do you want to get better, or don’t you?” It is an initial bridge to cross for one who is set upon an extended pathway toward belief (a journey that the next story episode about the man born blind will depict in far greater detail). John makes the point explicitly with regard to the response of the royal official whose participating trust in the healing power of Jesus has been decisively validated: “So he himself believed, along with his whole household” (4:53b). To state the obvious, these are not so much stories of people being cured as stories of people who are in the process of being healed. Curing of a physical malady is a sign and an occasion for discerning God’s full healing power manifested in Jesus—a power that does not preclude, prevent, or forestall death, but rather conquers death’s impact here and now, now and forever. But that is getting, is it not, just a bit ahead of John’s own developing story line—a narrative technique that employs building a trajectory of anticipation—a rhetorical strategy that preachers like John are able to deploy with consummate skill. Returning to where we are at this point in the narrative flow, John presents Je­ sus as performing two different cures as a means of fostering for Gospel listeners a dawning realization that physical curing can be, to the eye of faith, a discerning sign of spiritual healing. And so, to us the question is, “Do we want not just to be cured, but ‘to be made well’”?

    4) Neither do I condemn you. /1 came into the world, for judgment. Mercy and Jus­ tice Like the paralytic, the man born blind does not ask for curing, let alone for heal­ ing. Each man has curing “imposed” on him (as it were) as an important sign in a necessary journey of discerning judgment through a process that leads toward healing. The woman taken in adultery is similarly “intervened upon” by Jesus with curt, blunt orders: hist, “Let him who is without sin cast the hist stone!” then, “Go and sin no more!” The man born blind is analogously commanded, “Go wash in the Pool of Siloam. ” Note further that after his encounters with the religious authorities, the now newly physically sighted blind man evidences emerging spiritual in-sight by “believing,” not unlike the royal official does after the cure of his son and the former paralytic does who obeys the imperative of Jesus to stand and walk. As with Nicodemus and the Samaritan woman, this new set of stories pairs persons of different genders. Both are presumed guilty by their fellow citizens and deserving of punishment. Execution is imminent for the woman caught in adultery; a life sentence without parole is being served by the man born blind. Jesus shows “mercy” on each, and in so doing calls into sharp question the culturally operative understanding of “justice” in both cases. This mercy of Jesus is not so much a set­ ting aside of the claims of justice as it is a challenge to short-sighted understandings of justice itself—understandings that precipitate condemnation which brings deadly consequences in its wake. The mercy of Jesus is a sign pointing toward a deeper, richer, more multidimensional understanding of justice—justice as God sees it, and as we are beckoned to embody it.


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    The everyday views of “justice” that Jesus calls into question can turn out in practice to be all but indistinguishable from expressions of mob rule. Would-be stone throwers, disciples with seriously mistaken moral preconceptions, neighbors with severely short-sighted perceptions, parents who are fearful and self-protecting, religious leaders who already “know it all”—all these are sharply required to confront the prospect that mercy at the hands of Jesus (who gets his hands dirty on behalf of both the woman and the man)—is a sign of God’s own judgment about the nature of true justice into which all of us need to journey, a journey that has “life and death” ramifications.

    5) Unbind him and. let him go! / Let her alone! Death and Resurrection Gospel Story Teller John seems at hist to trip over his own authorial feet in his recounting of the final story pairing. At the beginning of his “Raising of Lazarus” episode, having told us that this “certain man” was ill, he refers to Mary, a sister of Lazarus, by noting that she “was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair” (11:2). John then returns to his opening line: “Lazarus was ill. ” It’s just that John appears to have gotten ahead of himself. He will not actu­ ally tell the story about Mary anointing the feet of Jesus until the following chapter, after Jesus has brought Lazarus back to life from “having been dead four days.” This is no slip up, of course; as a storyteller, John is no slouch. He intends these two stories to be interwoven—but in a fashion counterintuitive to conventional un­ derstanding of how narratives should unfold: from conflict and complication toward resolution—from “Once LIponaTime” to “Happily Ever After.” Rather than moving “from death to life,” this story pairing moves in the opposite direction—from the raising of Lazarus to the impending death of Jesus—the latter precipitated by the former. The resuscitation of Lazarus may be a sign which points toward the Resurrection, not just that of Jesus but of who Jesus is. But while Resurrection ultimately entails the death of Death, it is not—he does not make—a supernatural end run around or a soaring pole vault over death, either the physical fact of death or the spiritual forces that are bent on soul destruction. When Thomas says of the journey of Jesus to the tomb of Lazarus, “Let us also go that we may die with him” (11:16), the brave disciple, though he may have an intimation of what lies ahead, speaks far more truly than he has any possibility of knowing. In his command “Come forth” to Lazarus (issued through his own tears), Jesus may be prefiguring emergence from his own tomb, but not before his own Deathdefeating death. The upshot of his conversation with Mary, conducted before the still occupied grave of Lazarus, is that, slowly and partially but not inaccurately, Mary begins to “get” what Thomas has only an intimation of—that death and resurrection are connected at their core. So Mary comes to the meal she and Martha have laid for Jesus and his disciples—comes prepared with a sign of her own, a sign everyone but Jesus completely misunderstands, yet a sign that Jesus validates in still another terse command: “Let her alone.” It is, for him, as Mary knows, a pre-burial anointment of the One who is Resurrection and Life. To summarize the trajectory of John’s narrative flow, various dimensions of spiritual discernment ultimately lead to the necessity of coming to grips with the countercultural realization that “the way of life and peace” is “the way of the cross”—that the way,


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    the only way to our incorporation into the life of Jesus is to die with and be raised by him. Such discernment discovery cannot be contained in a set of statements (or in the shaping of statements that constitute a sermon). But preaching that engages John as a senior preaching colleague, through this seasonally appointed set of story pairings, can be instrumental in illuminating and motivating the practice of spiritual discernment—the practice of spiritual judgment—a practice that the faithful seek to foster in the season of Lent.

    Notes 1 One notable exception. Midway through the Season of Pentecost, Year B, when The Feeding of the Five Thousand is the next episode in Mark’s narrative sequence, the Gospel lectionary takes a sudden six-week sidetrack into John’s account, followed by the extended Bread of Life Discourse in John 6. The impact on listeners is akin to that of injecting pages from a musical score of Mahler into the per­ formance of a symphony by Mozart. 2 Sometimes annually: e.g. John’s Prologue on the First Sunday After Christmas (1:1-14), his Passion Narrative on Good Friday (18-19), and the resurrection appearances of Jesus to sequestered disciples (Thomas first absent, then present) on Easter 2 (21:19-29). Sometimes different portions of more ex­ tended Johannine passages appear on the same Sundays in each liturgical year: e.g. portions of John 10 on Easter 4, and from John 14-17 on Easter 5-7. There are several other occasional Johannine “drop-ins,” such as The Wedding at Cana (2:1-11) on Epiphany 2C and Mary’s anointing of Jesus’s feet (12:1-8) on Lent 5C. There is a four-day succession of Gospel Lessons from John 12-13, but not on Sundays; they are the lessons appointed for Monday through Thursday in Holy Week each year. 3 The briefer John 3 account of the night-time meeting between Jesus and Nicodemus poses its own preaching challenge. Its narrative tensions are often treated as little more than a lead in to the supposed “point” of the story, John 3:16-17. 4 The strategy goes beyond an exercise in Freshman Writing. Relationships with others are formed, framed, and fostered through the mutual sharing of personal stories wherein points of identification are discovered by comparing similarities and differences in the experiences of all involved. Similarly, we learn a great deal about someone by hearing how she or he interacts with a range of different associates in a variety of settings. One of John’s ways of introducing his listeners to Jesus, I think, is by inviting them to overhear conversations Jesus has with different people in different conditions—conversation partners who, nonetheless, manifest an interesting interplay of factors held in common. And John shows us a Jesus who engages all of these with salvation strategies that are “similar and different” as well. 5 I explore this broad approach in The Shattering Sound of Amazing Grace: Disquieting Tales from St. John’s Gospel (Cambridge, MA: Cowley Publications, 2006); framing several of these Johannine encounter story pairings through the verses of John Newton’s familiar hymn, and aline from C. S. Lewis, “Every idea of God we form, God must, in mercy, shatter.” 6 It is now republished (Charlottesville, VA: Mockingbird Ministries, 2019).

  • The Communion of the Saints, the Forgiveness of Sins, the Resurrection of the Body: A Couple of Easter Stories

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    The Communion of the Saints, the Forgiveness

    of Sins, the Resurrection of the Body:

    A Couple of Easter Stories

    Thomas W. Currie

    Georgetown, Texas

    The business of the artist is to be attentive—or, as Flannery O’Connor put it in one of her essays, to be stupid. “There’s a certain grain of stupidity that the writer of fiction can hardly do without, and this is the quality of having to stare, of not getting the point at once.” Alan Jacobs, Shaming the Devil1

    “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” Luke 15:2

    In an essay honoring his mentor and friend Robert Jenson, David Yeago recounts listening as a first-year student to the great Lutheran theologian as he gave an in­ troductory lecture on theology at Gettysburg Theological Seminary. In that lecture Jenson shocked these new candidates for ministry by affirming his belief that the New Testament’s claim concerning Jesus’ resurrection from the dead was true, and true “in the dumb sense,” that is “in the ordinary-language meaning of the term.”2 These students had been taught up to that point to believe something more sophisticated about Easter’s truth, and indeed something less startling than the notion that the crucified Israelite, Jesus of Nazareth, had triumphed over death and was now alive and ruling over this world. Such a claim, if true, might impinge on and even conflict with the firmly held convictions that modernity had taught all but the most backward of Fundamentalists to accept. Easter might be possible in a “spiritual” sense, maybe even pointing to certain moral principles or metaphorical realities, but its meaning was best kept safely within the confines of a disembodied faith at considerable remove from the external world. It is that “dumb sense” of Easter’s truth that has embarrassed gnostics of old and of more recent years, just as it unfolds so simply, almost one might say stupidly, from the gospel accounts themselves. Ancient gnostics found the story of God becoming human flesh implausible. Their dualistic view of the world could not comprehend the Divine mucking about in a deeply flawed creation. The whole point of being saved, which was the whole point of achieving gnosis, was to escape the confines of one’s own embodiment. Gnostics of more recent vintage are not so easy to describe, and yet their convictions, to the extent they are articulated, are just as “spiritual” and even more preoccupied with “self.” They share with gnostics of old a conviction that one’s own salvation is the only gnosis that matters. And like the gnostics of old, they are suspicious of external mediators of the faith, particularly something as mundane and ordinary as the church with its common worship, creedal statements, and historic faith. Of more interest to them is that “self’ that is free of time, history, locatedness, and to be blunt, “others.” Our culture’s embrace of technology and the gifts of a disembodied virtuality have only exacerbated this tendency. And given the difficulties that liberal Protestantism


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    has had in interpreting its own theological convictions to itself and to a culture that is obsessed with its own salvation, a kind of Protestant gnosticism is, in some ways, more representative of the contemporary church’s witness than its own creedal state­ ments.3 Gnostics are not “over there” somewhere; they exist close to every believer’s heart and represent an impulse the church has always had to struggle against. Though not always articulated, this impulse to dismiss the fleshliness of the gospel in favor of some exploration of self is in fact a deep form of despair, a way of writing off the world as the scene of God’s redemptive activity. Which is why scripture, both in the substance of its narratives and perhaps even more in its sheer externality, presents such a problem to those whose faith consists in constructing a more private spirituality. In this regard, it is striking how little at­ tention the New Testament gives to the self-reflection of its witnesses. Here there is a remarkable reticence, just as there is a pointing away from self toward the Lord whose salvation is not a fleeing of the earthly but an embrace of it. Scripture is almost crude in its insistence on the bodily presence of the risen Lord. It was not a vapor that Luke reports walking alongside those two discouraged disciples on the road to Emmaus, opening the scriptures and revealing himself to them in the breaking of bread. The women fleeing from the tomb on Easter morning in Mark’s gospel were not terrified by a rumor of transcendence but by the stupidly impossible promise that Jesus not only was alive but would meet his disciples in Galilee “just as he told you.” A dispenser of esoteric wisdom would not have shared the secrets of his spiritual insight by inviting doubters to see and touch his wounded body, much less by offer­ ing forgiveness to his own failed disciples, enjoining them to “feed my sheep” and to “follow me.” Or As Luke summarizes: “While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, ‘Have you anything here to eat?”’ What kind of teacher of self-exploring gnosis would have asked such a question? Or insist that his risen presence meant the “forgiveness of sins” to be proclaimed “to all nations” (Lk. 24:41 and 47). The creed, in attempting to bear witness to the gospel, speaks of the specifics of Easter’s message in two places. The one who was “crucified, dead, and buried,” the one who “descended into hell,” is the one who “rose again on the third day….” The resurrected body is first of all this body, Christ’s body. But the creed does not stop there or even imply that this event exhausts the meaning of Easter. Just as this event has a past, rooted in Israel’s story, so it has a promise that extends not just to eternity (“life everlasting”), but more surprisingly still, into a present life together that Christ’s resurrected body forms and creates. Resurrection from the dead is what makes the church. Indeed, as Calvin insisted, the church lives only as it is continually raised from the dead.4 Which is why the creed links so carefully “resurrection of the body” with “the forgiveness of sins” and “communion of the saints.” They are of a piece.

    Novelists have sometimes discerned the unsentimental ligaments and the life-giving character of Easter’s story better than many of those whose calling it is to interpret this message. These artists have learned “to stare” rather than hurrying to explain. They possess the kind of reticence that the New Testament accounts also evidence. And they describe, or better, they map the struggle of those who, like the disciples of old, seek to come to terms with Easter’s “dumb” witness. As works of art, they


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    do not preach directly, but through the gift of their story-telling, they amplify and illuminate the scandalous depth of Easter’s truth. In this essay, I would like to draw attention to brief portions of two novels, hoping to show how Easter’s message of resurrection leads not away from the church but precisely into the communion of the saints; not toward the lonely purity of religious virtuosity but rather into the discovery of one’s place in that very mixed company formed by the forgiveness of sins; not to a deeper exploration into self but rather into a joyfully confident trust in the One whose resurrection life renews our own. One of the greatest novels ever written, if not the greatest, is Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov.5 Its many characters are far too numerous and complex to rehearse here and its plot not easily unfolded. It requires a good deal of “staring.” Still, few works of art are more evangelically perceptive or more accurate in their diagnosis of the kind of gnosticism that afflicts the modern spirit. Of the three brothers, Dmitri, Ivan, and Alyosha, it is Ivan who has drunk most deeply from the wells of enlightened reason and who is the most intellectually adroit. For those who have never engaged with the novel and yet are called upon to preach, Ivan’s critique of religion is must reading. His complaint is not atheistic. That would be to trivialize his argument. His complaint is that the suffering that afflicts this world, especially the suffering that afflicts the innocent and impoverished and vulnerable in this world, can never be justified or redeemed. If there were no gospel, then this third-rate world could at least be understood and dismissively accepted for what it is: a botched job. But what is unbearable is the notion that God created this mess and that somehow we are expected to be grateful. “It’s not God that I don’t accept, Alyosha,” Ivan tells his brother, “only I most respectfully return the ticket to Him.”6 Of course, Ivan is right. His appraisal of the way things are misses almost nothing of the depths of human depravity and the quite unequal distribution of suffering. His disgust with this world and with its Creator is not new but voices an ancient unhap­ piness whose bitter wisdom seems to want to pick at its own entrails. When Alyosha rebukes Ivan for his failure to note the forgiving grace of Jesus Christ that promises redemption precisely for this world, Ivan just laughs at him. He then tells Alyosha his own story, a parable of “The Grand Inquisitor,” the gist of which is that Jesus has been imprisoned by the very church that pretends to worship him, a figure whose promises are dangerous illusions best gotten rid of for the sake of piously manag­ ing human misery. In the parable, the church is the great enemy of Christ, and its representative is the Grand Inquisitor of Seville, who has put Christ in prison. As the Inquisitor waits in silence for Christ to respond to the indictment against him, there is only silence before the prisoner eventually approaches and kisses the old man on the forehead. The Inquisitor shudders at this physical gesture of love and forgiveness and quickly releases Jesus from the prison, telling him to go from the city and never come back. Alyosha listens to this parable and its merciless wisdom and sees that if taken seriously, it would lead not to some consoling vision of a more just world, but rather to a kind of suicidal loneliness, a heart completely turned in on itself. So he slowly approaches his brother and kisses him on the forehead. “That’s plagiarism,” cries Ivan.7 And indeed it is a plagiaristic attempt to follow Jesus Christ into the depths of human suffering and misery. Just so it is also the only “answer” the gospel promises to those who would risk discipleship, even as it is the one answer that is not a theory


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    or idea or exploration of self, but rather a gift that is mercifully and terribly embodied. It is an answer that embraces the earth and insists on its goodness, not because it is a lovely place but because it is the place Jesus loves. It is an answer that overcomes the loneliness of a gnostic disgust with the world, an answer that draws one into the quite mundane “communion of the saints,” discovering there the dignity of life together among forgiven sinners. Thus the “resurrection of the body,” rather than leading into a more spiritual realm, causes Alyosha to embrace this world as Christ’s own. The novel ends with a meal. Alyosha has befriended a group of boys (12 of them!), and has effected a reconciliation between their leader, a boy named Kolya, and a schoolmate, Ilusha, the son of a poor soldier. Ilusha has fallen ill and when he dies, Alyosha takes all the boys to the funeral. Along the way (and on the last page of the novel), Kolya asks him, “Can it be true as they teach us in church, that we shall all rise again from the dead and shall live and see each other again, all, Ilusha too?” Alyosha responds in language that can only be called stupidly wise and evangelically lucid: “Certainly we shall all rise again, certainly we shall see each other and shall tell each other with joy and gladness all that has happened!” The excited boys follow Alyosha, and he tells them, “Well, now we will finish talking and go to his funeral dinner. Do not be disturbed at our eating pancakes—it is a very old custom, and there’s something nice in that…. Well, let us go! And now we go hand in hand.”8 Hand in hand. That is the way the novel ends, hand in hand going to a breakfast meal and sharing in a common witness to the resurrection in the face of death. Here is life together in the company of forgiven sinners. Here one sees the creed fleshed out: the communion of the saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body—Easter’s gift to a world weary with its own loneliness and disgusted with its own smarts.

    Easter’s story of resurrection disconcerts because it is not a story of self-improve­ ment. It’s not even a story about “me.” As Simone Weil has noted, the one indispens­ able requirement for resurrection is death.9 One of the remarkable things about the post-resurrection appearances of Jesus is the consistent manner in which his followers are displaced by his presence. The women, armed with spices, think they are going to anoint a dead body. The two disciples on their way to Emmaus think they have to explain to a stranger something of the tragic sense of life. Peter and the other disciples think that “going fishing” is all that is left for them to do. In every case there is a kind of shock that whatever defined their previous existence no longer obtains. And what is beckoning is a strange new world in which their liberation consists in their not being the center of their own lives. This is why the “Confession of Sin” is so difficult for comfortable, middle-class, well-educated, therapeutically-minded gnostics today and why our “Confession of Sin” so often resembles a “confession of things we think we ought to be worried about,” or worse, a plea for various schemes of self-improvement. Those who ask why we engage in such formalities, especially since they do not feel particularly guilty, much less penitent, are right to ask. They do not see it as an affirmation of the life that is ours in the risen Lord Jesus Christ, a life that renders impossible our unbelief, mak­ ing our daily return to such impossibility something like a dog’s return to its own vomit. Our confession is a kind of mortification but a dying rooted not in our sense


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    of repentance but in Christ’s relentless mercy, the only light strong enough to reveal our darkness. Our problem is not our “sins,” much less what we have determined our “sins” to be. In fact, determining what our “sins” are is one of the ways we attempt to render them harmless. But the confession reminds us that we have to be taught by the mercy of Christ what it means to be a sinner, even what it means to be given the dignity of being named a sinner. Such knowledge is not self-generated but comes as a gift from Another. It is mortifying, but then how else will we be raised if not from the dead? Or to put it in more catechetical language, how can one die to sin and live to righteousness? That is an Easter story too, and one that Dostoyevsky tells in another novel.

    Fourteen years before he completed The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoyevsky penned another novel, Crime and Punishment, in which the main character is an intel­ lectual first-cousin to Ivan. He is Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, an impoverished sometime student in Saint Petersburg, who is convinced of his own heroic nature which has gone unrecognized by his otherwise distracted peers who are preoccupied with their own mundane concerns. Raskolnikov finds embodied life insupportable. A student of philosophy, he goes hungry in part because he is poor but also in part because eating embarrasses him, as it only serves to reveal his own neediness. He is convinced of his own superiority above others, especially those who lead what he regards as worthless lives. He decides to kill a pawnbroker to whom he is constantly in debt. She too is a bother because her very presence reminds him again of his lack of self-sufficiency and more particularly of what he owes to another. Doing away with her, he thinks, would be an act “beyond good and evil” and establish him as a kind of hero, proving him to be a man of action, not just ideas. And such an act, he concludes, would also be benevolent, because the money he would take from the old lady he would spend for good causes, worthy causes. He commits the murder, but in killing the pawnbroker, he also has to murder her half-sister Lizaveta, who has, unfortunately, blundered into the scene of the crime. As gruesome as the murder is and as morally reprehensible, the “crime” is not really the murder. It is instead Raskolnikov’s conviction that he exists unto himself, apart from the human ties that connect him to others, apart from any sort of life together or theological claim that might place him in some dreaded position of gratitude. The presence of his mother and sister embarrasses him, and he flees from their concern about him. His effort to live as an entirely “buffered self’10 borders on the solipsistic, leaving him in an almost solitary confinement, a status he prefers to the pain of any sort of shared human contact. Except for one. For reasons that are not clear to him, perhaps having to do at the beginning with some residual sense of pity, he finds himself burdened with the love of another person, an impoverished prostitute named Sonia. She plies her trade to support her family, hoping that the few rubles she earns will protect her younger sisters from further degradation. Incapable of deception or deceit, she unaccountably cares for the poor, confusedly self-centered Raskolnikov. And he, rather than finding liberation or heroism in his terrible deeds, grows increasingly anxious and depressed with his own guilt. One night he decides to visit Sonia in her room, unannounced. He plans to tell her what he has done. But first he asks her to read the story in John 11 of the raising of Lazarus. She is taken aback because up to this point he has shown


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    little interest in scripture, God, or the church. The New Testament from which Sonia reads to him was a gift to her from Lizaveta, whom Raskolnikov murdered. “She was good,” she tells Raskolnikov. “We used to read together… and talk. She will see God.”11 Slowly, Sonia reads the story of Lazarus, and at the end, she reads, “I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live.” A strange story to read to such a troubled soul, even a murderous soul? Except that Raskolnikov knows that whatever redemption might be extended to him can only come through being raised from the dead. His dying will involve a great deal of suffering which will only be made intelligible through the love that Sonia bears to him. Raskolnikov will prove to be a slow learner. After confessing his crime to her, he expects rejection, perhaps even hopes for it:

    They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had been cast up by the tempest alone on some deserted shore. He looked at Sonia and felt how great was her love for him, and strange to say he felt it suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a strange and awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he had felt that all his hopes rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part of his suffering, and now, when all her heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he was immeasurably unhappier than before.12

    Sonia attempts to give him a wooden cross to hang around his neck, but Ras­ kolnikov refuses, and Sonia relents telling him that the cross will be there for him to wear when his suffering begins. Later, on the way to the police station to confess, Raskolnikov wears the cross and heeds Sonia’s words to go

    to the crossroads, bow down to the people, kiss the earth, for you have sinned against it too, and say aloud to the whole world, “I am a murderer.”…. He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth, and kissed that filthy earth with bliss and rapture… .”13

    Sonia accompanies Raskolnikov to Siberia to share in his sentence of punish­ ment. There he falls ill and remains so for a long time. It was not the weather or hard work or the food, all of which he rather enjoyed, but rather it was his wounded pride that made him ill. Some hero! A wretched little prisoner exiled among the dregs of the earth in a Siberian forest. He would have enjoyed even being able to repent. That might be a certain heroism in that. But he felt no remorse, and he did not repent of his crime. Still, he noticed some strange things about life in prison. “He looked at his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and prized it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than in freedom.”14 The other prisoners did not care for him and sometimes even laughed at him. But they were all fond of Sonia. They admired her for coming to share his imprisonment. Raskolnikov was ill in the prison hospital from the middle of Lent until after Easter. Upon his release, he was sent to work in the forest, and early one morning he found himself sitting on


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    some logs by a river bank, when Sonia suddenly appeared and sat down beside him. Reluctant to be touched, almost dismissive of her visits, Raskolnikov on this day lit up by an Easter sun holds her hand and then throws himself at her feet.

    They wanted to speak but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other. They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to wait, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before them! But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his being, while she —she only lived in his life.15

    Later that night, on his prison bunk, Raskolnikov takes from under his pillow the New Testament from which he had asked Sonia to read to him the story of Lazarus, and which he had asked to keep. It was the same New Testament that Lizaveta, whom he had killed, had given to Sonia. Though he still has a long journey ahead of him and struggles to see how Sonia’s convictions can become his own, her gift and indeed the gift of the one whom he murdered now minister to him, drawing him into that communion of the saints and forgiveness of sins that the resurrection of the body creates and sustains.

    Beyond irony, beyond our enlightened certainties, even beyond our wise despair or private spiritualities, these two stories witness in their different ways to Easter’s “dumb” truth embodied in the risen Lord who remains blithely indifferent to our proofs, explanations, theories, and schemes of salvation. His gifts to those who follow are not deeper explorations into some imagined self anymore than they represent a superior wisdom that insulates from others. Rather, they are the quite fleshly means of grace found in scripture, sacrament, church, and common witness. As such, these otherwise unspectacular gifts do enable a kind of self-knowledge, but not as an end in itself. Rather, it is a kind of penitent self-knowledge almost indistinguishable from joy that opens those who follow to that life together that the communion of saints and forgiveness of sins make possible through the risen Lord. This is the Easter story that is not about “me,” but about the One who is not ashamed to gather “me,” along with so many others into his body, the church. As the scribes and Pharisees knew only too well, “this fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

    Notes 1 Alan Jacobs, Shaming the Devil: Essays in Truthtelling (Grand Rapids, Mich: William B. Eerdmans, 2004), 17. 2 David Yeago, “Getting the Gospel Uttered: Robert W. Jenson as Seminary Teacher,” The Pro Ecclesia Conference, June 4-6, 2018. 3 Cf. Philip J. Lee, Against the Protestant Gnostics (New York, New York, Oxford University Press, 1987). 4 John Calvin, Commentaries on the Twelve Minor Prophets, translated by John Owen (Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 2003), 275. The text from his commentary on Micah 4:6 reads: “For the Lord sometimes raises up his people, as though he raised the dead from the grave: and this fact ought to be carefully no­ ticed, for as soon as the Church of God does not shine forth, we think it is wholly extinct and destroyed. But the Church is so preserved in the world, that it sometimes rises again from death….”


    Page 16

    5 Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, translated by Constance Garnett, (New York, New York Classic, New American Library, 1957). 6 Ibid., 226. 7 Ibid., 243. 8 Ibid., 700. 9. Simone Weil,Gravity and Grace (London and New York: Ark Paperbacks, 1987), 32. The exact quote reads: “Death. An instantaneous state, without past or future. Indispensable for entering eternity.” 10. The term “buffered self’ comes from Charles Taylor’s description of secularity and indicates a move from a pre-modern self-understanding toward a more bounded sense in which one disengages from everything outside the mind. Cf. Charles Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,2007), 37,38. 11. Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment (New York, New York: Bantam Books, 1987; trans. Constance Garnett), 303. 12. Ibid., 390. 13. Ibid., 390. 14. Ibid., 500. 15. Ibid., 504.

  • Anger, Church, and the Gospel

    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.

    Page 22

    Anger, Church, and the Gospel

    Mark Ramsey

    The Ministry Collaborative, Atlanta, Georgia

    “There is a deep, pervasive anger in my congregation. It is just under the surface, but often it feels like it is ready at any moment to break the surface and spew every­ where like lava.” “I so want my congregation to feel like a safe space, but that is proving to be a thin veil, and the tiniest thing these days pierces it.” “Look, I know that anger sometimes accompanies the beginning of change, and if we can manage it, that anger can just be part of the mix. But it seems that it is becoming harder and harder to manage. It grows out of control too easily.” “Anger too quickly turns into ‘offense’ in my ministry setting.” “Folks seem to be bringing so much anger from their lives—I mean look at what’s going on in our world these days—and just letting it overflow into church. It is confusing and it is hurtful.” “Reflective spaces to work on the anger in church seem to be rare. How do we create and maintain those spaces?” “I feel alone as a pastor dealing with everyone’s anger.” “It does seem to be a ‘ mean season’ out there in ministry, especially for women who are leading congregations.” “Do you have to absorb a lot of anger to live in mystery?” “Well, I guess no anger, no fire!” “It’s grief. It’s anxiety. It’s fear. But it’s presenting itself as anger most days.” “Anger in my congregation seems to be a layer over an experience of sadness and fear.”

    In my current ministry role, I travel widely to large cities and small towns and spend a lot of time talking with individual pastors and cohorts of clergy representing diverse settings, outlooks, backgrounds, and theological perspectives. One of the most prominent impressions left by all these encounters: anger is everywhere in our culture and in our churches. While by no means a scientific poll, many pastors are sharing with me that anger from “out there in society” is spilling into congregations in notable ways. Every pastor is familiar with navigating strong passions and opinions in the congregation. What is being reported now is different. People who come into church are coming from a society fraught with conflict, division, stress, and language that is often weaponized by our political environment. One pastor said to me, “Folks can’t take that to work—their jobs are already tenuous. They can’t take it home with them—their homelife, like­ wise, is stressed to the max. Where can they take their pent-up frustration, anxiety, and yes, anger? They take it to church.” (It should be noted that I have also heard school principals say similar things about how parents and community members are “bringing it” into schools.) There is an often-displaced anger at—what? The world as it is, society in its failings, the politics of the moment, the economic squeeze that continues among all but the “top of the class,” all these seem to breed anger, resent­ ment, and fear that spills over into “soft-targets” like churches. After the weekend of


    Page 23

    gun violence in both El Paso, Texas, and Dayton, Ohio, that claimed at least 31 lives in August of 2019, a Canadian report on these shootings focused on the epidemic of gun violence in the United States. In response to the claim that it was media-driven or because of mental illness, the report noted:

    Every country has the same video games, media, and social media. In terms of mental illness, research has shown that mental illness is not neces­ sarily a predictor of future violence. In fact, most mentally ill people have violence perpetrated on them. What it is really about is access to guns. We have also found that anger plays much more of a role in these kinds of shootings. It is a deadly mix of access to guns and anger. Even in shootings of less magnitude, a lot of the people who were being shot every day were people who would probably get into a scuffle or a fist fight, but they had a gun in a glove compartment or on their person, so it became a shooting instead. But it all starts in anger.1

    Of course, not all anger gets expressed in the horrific acts of violence we experi­ ence regularly in our society. But there is a pervasive anger that is at work among us that is fraying community, family, and congregational relationships. Often the pastor is on the receiving end of the initial “anger blast.” And before we begin searching for “the cause,” this anger seems stubbornly non-partisan. A recent national poll2 reported:

    The political and cultural upheaval of the last four years has divided the country on ever-hardening partisan and generational lines, but one feeling unites Americans as much as it did before the 2016 election. They’re still angry. And still unsettled about the future. The latest NBC News/Wall Street Journal poll finds that—despite Americans’ overall satisfaction with the state of the U.S. economy and their own personal finances—a major­ ity say they are angry at the nation’s political and financial establishment, anxious about its economic future, and pessimistic about the country they’re leaving for the next generation. “Four years ago, we uncovered a deep and boiling anger across the country engulfing our political system. Four years later, with a very different political leader in place, that anger remains at the same level.”

    C.S. Lewis once described hell as a vast, gray city, inhabited only at its edges, with rows of empty houses in the middle of the city. These houses are empty because everyone who once lived in them has gotten into an argument with neighbors and moved, then gotten into an argument with new neighbors and moved again. As they fight and move, they flee farther from the center of the city, leaving empty streets full of empty houses. Lewis says that is how hell got so large-it’s empty at the center and inhabited only on the fringes.3 Likewise, it seems societal anger is pulling apart the fabric by which we maintain community and connection. Deep, boiling anger. Division. Pessimism. Despair. Anxiety. Communities di­ vided. Trust fraying. This seems like the most appropriate setting for deep, grounded, imaginative, and bold preaching in Lent. That churches and pastors are on the front


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    lines of absorbing societal anger is both regrettable and reason for pause, but also an opportunity for reflection and action. This present day is the urgent moment when the word of hope and deep love needs to be spoken to confront the anger and to ac­ company our anxiety and grief. In 1975, Walker Percy published a collection of essays, The Message in the Bottle, in which he posed, among many challenging thoughts, this question: “Here near the end of the twentieth century, with all the startling progress and achieve­ ments all around us, why are (human beings) so sad?”4 If the church-in its witness and preaching-cannot address this fundamental, despairing question along with its attendant anger and alienation, what exactly are we doing as stewards of God’s grace and love and hope? The aforementioned weekend, when the news of shootings in El Paso was fol­ lowed quickly by equally horrible accounts of shootings in Dayton, meant that once again preachers were faced with the late Saturday decision: How do I modify the worship service in the morning to acknowledge this? And do I change my sermon? On a social media site that weekend, pastors debated this and shared their way for­ ward. Among the posts were ones that were not the majority sentiment but also far from outliers. One post said: “I’m punting my sermon on Jeremiah and we’re going to have a conversation in worship about guns instead.” Another said: “Well, there goes my sermon on the Sermon on the Mount. That seems hardly adequate to ad­ dressing these tragedies.” Really? If we reach the point where the truth of Jeremiah and the holy imagination of the Sermon on the Mount do not meet the challenge of the day—whatever it is on this particular day—then we have permanently lost our voice and our place in this angry and divided society. If church feels like the rest of our lives, why go to church? If worship is a rote repurposing of the latest opinions of the day (from whichever side of things we favor), what word from beyond the known, the tired, the predictable can break in and breathe new life and offer us living water? Breathing new life can come in many forms. And in scripture, as well as life, not all anger is destructive or hope denying. Several years ago, Cecilia Munoz used the platform of NPR’s This I Believe series to press this point. “I believe that a little outrage can take you a long way,” is her arresting hist sentence.5 Munoz recalls a moment in her childhood when a family friend said something to her and her parents that was so ugly, so dismissive, and so offensive, that she became deeply angry. “My outrage that day became the propellant of my life, driving me straight to the civil rights movement where I’ve worked ever since,” she continues. “I guess outrage got me pretty far. I found jobs in the immigrant rights movement. I moved to Washington to work as an advocate. I found plenty more to be angry about along the way and built something of a reputation for being strident. Someone once sent my mom an article about my work. She was proud and everything but wanted to know why her baby was described as ‘ferocious.’” Munoz is honest about many of the costs of her anger. She notes:

    Anger has a way, though, of hollowing out your insides. In my hist job, if we helped 50 immigrant families in a day, the faces of the five who didn’t qualify haunted my dreams at night. When I helped pass a bill in Congress to help Americans reunite with their immigrant families, I could


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    only think of my cousin who didn’t qualify and who had to wait another decade to get her immigration papers. It’s like that every day. You have victories but your defeats outnumber them by far, and you remember the names and faces of those who lost. I still have the article about the farm worker who took his life after we lost a political fight. I have not forgotten his name—and not just because his last name was the same as mine. His story reminds me of why I do this work and how little I can really do.

    Munoz helps us identify the fragile ecosystem where even justifiable, justice-seek­ ing anger is risky. “I am deeply familiar with that hollow place that outrage carves in your soul,” she concludes. “I’ve fed off of it to sustain my work for many years. But it hasn’t eaten me away completely, maybe because the hollow place gets filled with other, more powerful things like compassion, faith, family, music, the goodness of people around me. These things fill me up and temper my outrage with a deep sense of gratitude that I have the privilege of doing my small part to make things better.” While grateful to Munoz for giving us a vision of anger as a propellant in the quest for justice, I wonder if she does not treat the “hollowed out place” that outrage carves with too little attention. I don’t believe that anger-carved hollow spaces get filled automatically or casually. In fact, anger can be so pervasive and so over-powering that there needs to be intention in how any of us—and especially how the church of Jesus Christ—deal with the anger of our present age. It also seems that while anger can be confronted and it can be opposed, what is really needed is for anger-carved hollowness to be filled. Anger is an absence. It is an emptiness. It is a void. This is the role of faith—and of preaching, especially in Lent. We tell the truth about the world that is teetering on the edge of destruction, and into that carved-out-by-anger hollow space, we offer the fullness of the gospel. Lenten texts model this for us. Jesus’ temptation in Matthew for the First Sunday in Lent concludes after the devil’s three invitations with an “angry” word from Jesus: “Away with you, Satan! for it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only God’ ” (Matthew 4:10). Often, with the escalation of vitriol today, the church has been better at the hist part of that verse than the second. We need both: a rejection of evil in all its intentions and a redirection to worship the God of our salvation and to serve God on God’s terms. Passive-aggressive anger threads its way through the gospel text for the Fourth Sunday in Lent (John 9:1-41). The dispute between the religious establishment and Jesus seeks to snare both a person healed from blindness and that man’s parents. The one who was blind from birth, who now can see because of Jesus, keeps offering the refrain: “All I know is I was blind and now I can see.” The passage reaches its conclu­ sion as John (v. 39-41) records: “Jesus said, ‘I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind. ’ Some of the Pharisees near him heard this and said to him, ‘Surely we are not blind, are we?’ Jesus said to them, ‘If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, “We see,” your sin remains.’” Anger in all its forms blinds us to essential truths about our life and how we are to live in God’s world. Anger, even in service of righteousness, needs “sight.” Jesus’ vision of a world of truth, love, justice, peace, fullness, and hope is the gift of sight


    Page 26

    he seeks to give. John 11:1-45 (Fifth Sunday in Lent) describes Jesus calling Lazarus out of the tomb in preparation for Jesus to enter it. The anger here is to the side: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Notice that Jesus does not engage Martha or Mary at the level of their anger at his absence. Jesus goes to the heart of the gaping chasm of their loss and focuses his power and presence there. Anger has a way of reducing our held of vision and our measurement of what is truly important. Jesus never let a smaller world shrink his sense of the larger world in which God has called us to live. Anger can never be the sole measure of our commitment and passion. The whole sweep of Holy Week texts—from Palms through Passion to Resurrec­ tion— bears witness that anger, strife, division, anxiety, and violence are as real in the First Century as they are today, but they are not the hnal word. Jesus is passive in his arrest and trial (hence, Passion week). There is a power and presence at work larger than all the conflict that infuses these narratives. The anger, strife, division, anxiety, and violence are not ignored. But they are not only opposed. They are replaced. God’s larger world of grace is offered to displace and replace an anger-produced shrunken world. This is hard work in the heat of the moment and in the face of persistent in­ justice. It takes trust, dependence, and a radical faith in God. In the song Everybody’s Cryin’ Mercy, Mose Allison wrote and Bonnie Raitt sings:

    I don’t believe the things I’m seein’. I’ve been wonderin’ ‘bout some things I’ve heard. Everybody’s crying mercy When they don’t know the meaning of the word.6

    Churches and the pastors who serve them faithfully might wonder if anyone knows the meaning of the word mercy today. Or grace. Or joy. Or hope, life, love, or wholeness. The choice to trust this gospel often has to be made in the heat of some confrontation. Do we trust that love really is stronger than hate? Do we believe that hope truly does triumph over despair? Do we know the meaning of the word mercy in a world of such anger? We forget it at our peril. The anger of this age certainly needs to be opposed. But opposition is not nearly enough. A recent sermon7 by Craig Barnes centered on the text of two of the Beatitudes (Matthew 5:6-7): “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be hlled, and blessed are the merciful for they will receive mercy.” These two verses address perhaps as well as anything in scripture the challenge of anger and its response. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness” is followed immediately by “Blessed are the merciful.” Whether anger in our culture is righteous, fueled by opposition to injustice, or whether that anger is self-righteous—a bullying fear that devours us and lays waste to those around us—anger cannot be addressed apart from mercy. We all need mercy. If we are Cecilia Munoz and our outrage fuels our good works but hollows us out, we need the mercy of the grace of God to fill that which has been carved out in our souls. If we ourselves are the angry bullies who are frustrated by our lives and the petty tyrannies of our world, we need mercy to calm our sin-sick souls. And if we are on the receiving end of that anger, that fear


    Page 27

    and despair, we need mercy to heal. We need God’s grace to heal us, and we need grace to offer mercy to the very ones who play the role of bullies in life. Barnes continues that sermon with a story. “In a Christian community outside of Edinburgh, there is a statue of two figures kneeling, facing each other in a tender embrace. Their heads are resting on each other’s shoulders. One of these is Adam— representing all our humanity. The other is the Christ. The stone is so woven together that it is difficult to distinguish the two figures, except that one of them has nail scars on his hands. This is the embrace we are all hungering and thirsting to find.” And it is only given to us by the grace of God. We don’t find Christ; Christ finds us. Christ will even find us in our anger—or being the target of anger— and Christ will fill each hollowed out place that anger leaves in its wake. Barnes concludes:

    That statue of Adam and Christ embraced to the point where they are in­ termingled is found at the House of the Transfiguration, which for many years was led by Father Roland Walls. Father Roland’s own turning point in his life came during a retreat at another spiritual community. It was a three-day retreat and the Abbott gave him three statements to meditate on—one for each day. On the hist day, he was told to meditate solely on the statement “God loves you.” Nothing else, just focus your life on those three words. The second day, it was time to focus on a second statement: “You can love God.” And then, after spending those hist two days on those two statements, the hnal day, and the Abbott cautioned that this was the hardest one of all. “You can love others.”8

    The progression of these three statements is crucial. We comprehend, in all the ways we can, the depth of God’s love for us. We are touched by that love so deeply that we are led to respond. Then we see that love as the heart of all we do. Centering on God’s gift of love leads us to identify caverns hollowed-out by anger and places parched by the absence of love. The Season of Fent knows so fully about all of this. Technique or process or strategy or political change or social revolution will not alone confront the anger of our age. The fullness of the love of God in Jesus Chr ist—crucified and risen—does. The love, mercy, and grace of God fills the hollow left by the wreckage of our age. This world desperately needs messengers of this love and hope.

    Notes 1 CBC News, “Front Burner” podcast, aired on August 6, 2019. 2 https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/meet-the-press/deep-boiling-anger-nbc-wsj-poll-finds-pessimisticamerica -despite-nl045916, accessed on September 12, 2019. 3 C. S. Lewis, The Great Divorce (Harper San Francisco, 1979), 102. 4 Walker Percy, The Message in the Bottle (Picador Press Edition, 2000), 79. 5 https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyld=4859208, accessed August 28, 2019. 6 Thank you to Scott Black Johnston for bringing this song back to mind (along with Ken Burns’s documentary on Country Music) in a church newsletter, September 27, 2019. 7 Sermon preached at Princeton Seminary Chapel on September 27, 2019, by Craig Barnes. 8 Ibid.

    Fent 2020